GOOD-NATURE,ORPARISH MATTERS.
GOOD-NATURE,ORPARISH MATTERS.
Mr. Stanley had just reached the last stile in the footpath leading to Inglewood parsonage, when his progress was for a moment interrupted by two persons, who were talking so earnestly, that they did not see him.
One of them was a short fat man, in the dress of a farmer. His round and rosy face seemed to be full of good cheer and good humour; but bore no great signs of intelligence. He was speaking to an untidy looking woman, whose manner was expressive of a sort of low familiarity, not however unmixed with symptoms of servility and cringing.
"Never mind, Nanny," said the farmer, "never mind—neighbour Oldacre is, I mustneeds say, a little hard upon the poor—but never mind; I shall take to the books in a fortnight's time, and then things will be better." "But you know, master," said the woman, "if you could but manage that little job for us, we should hardly trouble the parish at all." "Well, I'll do what I can," answered the farmer; "my being a parish-officer, will help." The woman was going to reply, but happening to see Mr. Stanley, she drew back from the stile, and allowed him to pass on.
Trifling as the occurrence was, Mr. Stanley happened to mention it to his friend at the parsonage, as they were sitting together after dinner. Upon his describing the figure and face of the farmer, "Yes," said Mr. Hooker, with a smile, "that must have been my parishioner, Farmer Barton. He is, as you describe him, a good-humoured looking fellow, and it has always been the height of his ambition to be reckoned agood-naturedman."
"I cannot much blame him for that," replied Stanley; "good-natureis a most amiable quality, and I heartily wish there was more of it in the world than there is."
"In that wish I cordially agree withyou," said Mr. Hooker; "if bygood-natureyou mean a genuine spirit of kindness or Christian benevolence, which prompts a man to do whatever good he can to the bodies and souls of all within his reach. Thegood-nature, however, of Farmer Barton is not exactly of this description. It springs from a love of low popularity, from a wish to gain by whatever means the good will and good word of all descriptions of people. This wish leads him to assent to whatever is said, and to accede to almost every request, unless it immediately touches his pocket. To that indeed hisgood-naturedoes not always extend. In his fear of being thoughtill-natured, he very often loses sight of duty, and his dread of offending or of contradicting those who happen to bepresent, makes him not unfrequently forget what is due to those who areabsent."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who came to tell his master that Farmer Barton wished to speak with him. "Pray shew him in," said Mr. Hooker; "but I am unable to guess what his business can be."
The farmer came in, and, upon Mr.Hooker's asking him what he wanted, replied, "Why, it is only to get you to put your hand to this bit of paper." "Let us look at it," said Mr. Hooker; and then casting his eye over it, added, "This I see is an application to the magistrates, to set up a new public house in the village, and a recommendation of Robert Fowler as a fit man to keep it." "Yes, Sir," replied the farmer; "poor Bob since he got the hurt in his arm has never been able to do the work of another man, and he and Nanny have begged me and some of the neighbours to help him to set up a public house, as a means of keeping him off the parish."
"And do you, Farmer Barton, honestly think," said Mr. Hooker, "that wewanta public house here? You know that there is hardly any thoroughfare through the village; and even if there was, we are but two miles from a market town, where there are inns and ale-houses in abundance."
"Why I can't say there is any particular want of it," said Barton. "But Fowler's family is likely to be a heavy burden to the parish."
"The parish, I am satisfied," rejoinedMr. Hooker, "would be no gainer in the end. Don't you suppose that many of the labouring men would often, after their day's work, go to the ale-house, instead of going home; and spend there, some part of the money which ought to find food and clothes for their wives and families? A country ale-house is too often found to be attended with raggedness and hunger in the women and children; and I know that this is the opinion of the poor women themselves. Besides, don't you remember, what drunkenness and quarrelling we used to have before Tomkins's house was put down?"
"Why, I must say, that the men have been more quiet and sober of late."
"As clergyman of this parish," said Mr. Hooker, "I shall never assist in setting forward a measure, which I think would be hurtful to my parishioners: and I must own, that I am surprised to see that so many sensible and respectable men have signed their names to this recommendation."
"Why a man don't like to seemill-natured," said the farmer.
"We must not," replied Mr. Hooker,"for the sake of assisting one man or one family, do that which would be prejudicial to the whole parish. And besides, I thought that Fowler was one of the most drunken, idle fellows in the village."
"Why to be sure," said the farmer, "he does like drink better than work."
"And yet you and your brother farmers are here ready to certify that he is of good fame, sober life and conversation, and a fit and proper person to be intrusted with a licence! Do you not see that you have all set your hands to a direct falsehood?"
Barton looked foolish, but added, "Why one don't like to refuse such a thing—and when others do it, it would look soill-natured."
"And so, for fear of being thoughtill-natured, you can not only set your name to a lie, but give a helping hand to a measure, which by your own acknowledgment would be likely to increase the poverty as well as the immorality of many of your poor neighbours. Indeed, indeed, Mr. Barton, an English farmer ought to have had more manliness of character than this comes to."
"But then poor Bob is such agood-temperedfellow; and besides, you know, he is half disabled for work!"
"Yes, he received his hurt in the very act of breaking the laws of the land by poaching, and I do not thinkthata reason for putting him in a situation in some respects above that of the generality of cottagers."
Farmer Barton found that he was not likely to succeed in the object of his visit; and saying with a smile, "Well, Sir, I did not think you had been so hard-hearted," quitted the room.
"There! Stanley," said Mr. Hooker, "that's the way of the world. Most of the men who have signed that certificate are, as times go, decent and respectable men, and would, I doubt not, pretty much agree with me as to the probability that both poverty and immorality would be increased by the establishment of an ale-house in the village; but yet for the sake of beinggood-naturedto an individual, they set forward a measure, which they think will be generally pernicious; and set their hands to a lie, rather than refuse an unreasonable request. Theirgood-nature, to be sure, is not confined toFowler as its only object. Some of them, probably, wish to begood-naturedto a brother farmer, who is the owner of the house; and some think that they shall do a kindness to the brewer, who will supply it with beer."
"But what," replied Stanley, "shall you do in this business?"
"Why, I don't very well know," said Mr. Hooker. "You have been acquainted with me long enough to be assured, that I would suffer my hand to be cut off, rather than set it to a palpable falsehood;—and that I would never take anyactivestep in assisting a measure which in my opinion will be hurtful to my parishioners.—But perhaps something of the same sort of weakness which I blame in others, may prevent me from taking anyactivemeasuresagainstit. I am not fond of going into public, or of encountering the bustle of the justice-room.—Perhaps I shall bepassive, and try to quiet my own conscience by saying, that things must take their course: that it is not for me to come forward in opposition to the declared wish of most of the respectable part of my parishioners."
"But surely the magistrates will not setup a new public house without the signature of the clergyman to the certificate?"
"The new Act requires the signatureeitherof the clergyman,orthat of the majority of the parish officers, together with four reputable and substantial householders;—or that of eight respectable and substantial householders. Fowler's certificate has all the parish officers but one, and other names in abundance, andgood-naturewill prevent any one from saying that some of those names are neither respectable nor substantial. The magistrates will see that the requirements of the Act are complied with, and they will perhaps feel like me;—they will be unwilling to incur the odium of opposing the wishes of all thoserespectableandsubstantialpersonages, and thusgood-naturemay induce them to sign the licence."
"At all events," said Stanley, "you will be able to keep Fowler in order by the penalties of the new Act. The old system of absolutely forfeiting the recognizance was too severe to be acted on."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Hooker, "now and then, in some flagrant case, by which some individual ispersonallyinjured, these provisionsmay be called into play. But how seldom do you hear—in the country at least—of penalties being enforced from a sense of public duty?Good-natureis always against it; and the man who from the purest motives endeavoured to enforce them, would be sure to have all the host of thegood-naturedarrayed against him."
Two days after was the licensing day: thegood-naturedBarton having undertaken the patronage of Fowler's application, set out in good time to advocate it at the justice-meeting. He had got about three quarters of a mile from the village, in his way to Chippingden the market town, when he was overtaken by Mr. Bentley, one of the magistrates.
"You have a dreadful road here, Farmer Barton," said Mr. Bentley. "Who is your surveyor?"
"Why, I am at present," replied Barton, "and as we are a little behind hand with the duty, I am afraid that I shall have to go on for another year."
"Then why do you suffer the road to continue in this state? The ruts are so deep, that it really is hardly safe."
"It is all occasioned by that high hedge," answered the farmer, "which keeps off both sun and wind.—And besides, from there being no trunk or tunnel in that gate-way, the water of the ditch is thrown into the road. To be sure itwaspretty dirty in the winter, for all we buried so many stones in it." "Then why was not the hedge cut, and a tunnel made in the gateway to carry off the water?" said Mr. Bentley.
"I did once give Farmer Dobson a hint about it," answered Barton, "but he says, that the hedge is not above nine years' growth, and that he shall have better poles by leaving it a few years longer."
"But you know very well," replied the magistrate, "that your warrant empowers you to require him to cut it, and if he refuses, to do it yourself at his expence."
"I know that well enough," said Barton, "but that would be soill-naturedand unneighbourly-neighbourly, that I could not bear to think of it."
"And so," rejoined Mr. Bentley, "the necks and limbs of his Majesty's subjects are to be endangered, and the whole neighbourhood put to inconvenience, for the credit ofyourgood-nature? A man in a public office, Mr. Barton, should always execute the duties of that office with as much civility and kindness as possible; but he must never neglect his public duty, for the sake of gratifying any private individual whatever.—And look! what business has this dunghill here? your warrant tells you that nothing should be laid within fifteen feet of the middle of the road—and this dunghill is so close, that the road is ruined by the moisture proceeding from it. And see how the farmer has cut the road to pieces by drawing out his dung in the wet weather."
"To be sure, what you say is true, but the field won't be ready for the dung till the spring."
"Another sacrifice of the interests of the public to private convenience!—And here again—you'll think and call me a troublesome fellow, Mr. Barton—but why do you suffer these heaps of stones to be so forward in the road? They are absolutely dangerous."
"Why the men who work on the road like to have themhandy."
"As they are paid by the day it can make no difference to them, and even if it did, you must not endanger the safety of travellersfrom agood-naturedwish to humour your workmen—I suppose the same reason induces you to allow them to put in the stones without breaking them?"
Barton acknowledged that it was. Mr. Bentley charged him again not to let hisgood-naturemake him forget his duty to the public—"But," added he laughing, "perhaps I must confess that it is some feeling of the same sort, which keeps me from fining you five pounds, as I might and ought to do, for these neglects of your duty as surveyor."
They now reached the town, and happening to use the same inn, rode into the yard together. Fowler and his wife, who were already there, augured well from this circumstance—and Mr. Bentley was hardly off his horse, when Nanny accosted him in a wheedling tone, with, "I hope, Sir, you'll be so kind as tostand our friendabout this licence."
"We shall see about that presently," said Mr. Bentley, as he walked off, wishing to cut short applications of this nature till he got into the justice-room. He found his way stopped, however, by two or three poor women from the village near which he resided."Well!" said he, "and what brings you all to Chippingden?"
"Why, Sir, we want a little of your kindness."
"Mykindness! why can you find none of mykindnessat home?"
"O yes, Sir, you are always ready to assist a poor person yourself, but we want you tostand our friend, and order us a little more relief from the farmers."
"That, my good woman, is quite a different story. As a magistrate I must not be afriendto any one person more than to another; but must endeavour to act without favour or affection either to rich or poor. With respect to parochial relief, our business is to consider, as well as we are able, what the laws require and allow, and to act accordingly. Poor people often apply to us in great distress, and the relief which we can order seems but very little. If we listened to our own feelings, our owngood-natureas you would call it, we should often be glad to order much more, but we must not indulge such feelings at another man's expense—we must not begood-naturedwith other people's money."
"But, Sir," said Betty Horseman, "I only wanted about a shilling a week more, and I'm sure that can't hurt the farmers."
"Whether it is much or little," said Mr. Bentley, "we cannot order more, than the law, in our opinion, appears to require. Knowingly to order more than that, is to rob those out of whose pockets the poor rates are paid. You would not wish me, Betty, to help you in picking a man's pocket."
"But it is so little that I ask for," said Betty, still harping upon the same string.
"We may not pick a man's pocket of sixpence, any more than of a hundred pounds. Your application shall be heard presently, Betty, and we will give it the best attention we can. If we think that you ought to have more, we will order it.—But you must remember, that if you have a shilling a week more, every family in the like circumstances will expect the same, which will make your shilling a week a pretty round sum. In short, I am always glad as far as I can to help a poor person out of my own pocket, but must consider well before I help him out of the pockets of other people."
Mr. Bentley now joined his brother magistrates in the justice-room. The licensing business came on first; and the licences to the old established houses having been renewed, the applications fornewhouses were taken into consideration. Fowler produced his certificate.
"This certificate," said Mr. Hale the chairman, "has not the clergyman's name; how happens that?"
Farmer Barton was at Fowler's elbow, and immediately answered, "Mr. Hooker has laid down a rule not to set his hand to an application of this sort, and could not break through it—but I'm sure he has no objection."
"And besides," said one of the justices, "if my memory does not deceive me, there was a man of that name in your parish who was a noted poacher."
"Why, I must confess," said the farmer, "that some time back the poor man was led by distress to go out once or twice; but he has, long ago, given it up, and is now quite an altered character.—When a man has seen his fault, and turned over a new leaf, I am sure, gentlemen, that you are toogood-naturedto bring it up against him."
The justices still hesitated; but Barton and two or three of the farmers of the village represented to them that there always used to be a public house; that it was in many respects inconvenient to be without one; and that in this instance, it would give occupation and maintenance to a poor family. At length the magistrates said, that in general they were not disposed to increase the number of ale-houses, but that they would give way to the declared wish of almost all the leading men in the parish. In a case of doubt, they naturally leant to the side ofgood-nature. Accordingly the licence was granted.
Fowler was overjoyed at his success, and after making his acknowledgments, set off, first to the carpenter, and then to the painter, to give directions for a sign and its appendages. After these matters of business, he could not think of returning without drinking the health of the magistrates at the Red Lion.
Several friends dropped in to congratulate him; and when he thought about going home, he was not quite able to walk straight. The butcher's boy, who had made one ofthe party at the Red Lion, offered to give him a lift in his cart. They set off in high glee, and the exalted state of their spirits induced them to urge on the horse. Though the night was dark and the horse sometimes swerved to one side of the road and sometimes to the other, yet the light colour of the road served for a guide, and they felt that as long as they kept to that they were safe. They were mistaken, however. They were within a mile of Inglewood, and had got the horse almost into a gallop, when all at once the wheel came upon one of the heaps of stones, which had been shot down in thequartering, and the cart was overturned. Peter, the butcher's boy, called out that he was killed; but having got up and shaken himself, and found that he had received no sort of injury, he burst into a loud fit of laughter.
Poor Fowler, however, lay groaning in the road, unable to stir. He was severely bruised, and both the bones of his right leg were broken. Peter scratched his head, and was quite at a loss what to do, when luckily Farmer Barton and one of his neighbours came to the spot, in their way back from market.They extricated the horse, which, having put his foot in the deep rut, had fallen with the cart, and then raised the cart without difficulty. It was not, however, so easy a matter to get Fowler into it. He cried out from pain every time that they took hold of him, and sometimes begged that they would leave him to die where he was. At last, however, they succeeded, and at a slow pace he was conveyed to his humble cottage, which was soon to assume the dignity and importance of a public house.
His wife helped to get him to bed, though not without reproaching him with some asperity for staying so long at the Red Lion after he had sent her home. Having taken as much care of him, as in her opinion he deserved, she hastened down stairs to comfort herself with some tea, of which two or three of her neighbours, who had been brought to the house by the tidings of the accident, were invited to partake. The condolences and lamentations were soon over, and they fell into the usual train of village gossip. The hardness of the times, of course, was one of the topics of conversation. "Well, Hannah,"said one of the party, "and what did you get from the justices?"
"Oh! there's no use in a poor person's going to them," said Hannah, "they're all for the farmers?"
"I wonder to hear you say that," said Nanny, who was naturally disposed to be in good humour with the magistrates, who had just granted a licence to her husband; "I wonder to hear you say that, for as I was going out of the room, I fell in with two or three overseers, who were saying just the contrary. They were complaining that the justices were ready to hear all the idle stories of the poor about wanting relief, and that they were much too apt to order some little addition. In fact, they said, that they were all in favour of the poor; and the farmers could not stand it."
"If the poor complain that they were in favour of the farmers, and the farmers that they favoured the poor," said an old man sitting in the chimney corner, "I dare say they pretty nearly did the thing that was right between both parties."
"Well," said Hannah, "if I was a justice,I could'nt bear that the poor should think meill-natured. Be it how it would, I'd take care to havetheirgood word, even if I did now and then order a trifle more than was quite right."
"What should you say, Hannah," said the same old man, "of a justice who acted contrary to law for the sake of a sum of money?"
"What! a bribe! Why I'd have him turned out before he was a day older."
"And is not acting contrary to law for the sake of any one's good will, or good word, pretty much the same as doing so for a bribe? A magistrate is sworn to do justice, according to law, to the best of his knowledge."
All the women, however, consoled themselves with the near approach of the time, when the poor would have to apply for their weekly allowances to Farmer Barton instead of Farmer Oldacre; it being the custom of the parish that the overseers should divide the year between them, each taking the trouble of the office for six months.
"Yes, indeed," said Hannah Bolt, "it will be a happy day for us poor creatures, whenMr. Barton takes the books;—Farmer Oldacre was always a hard man to the poor."
"Farmer Oldacre a hard man to the poor!" said old John Truman, who came in at the moment from the sick man's room—"Farmer Oldacre a hard man to the poor! I'm sure you're an ungrateful woman for saying so; as I should be an ungrateful man, if I allowed you to say it without taking you to task.—I've worked for him now these seventeen years, and a better or a kinder master cannot be. Did'nt I see you, Hannah, day after day, when your little boy was ill, going to his house, sometimes for a little milk, sometimes for a little made wine, and did he ever refuse you? did he ever refuseanypoor person, who was really in want, any thing that he was able to give?"
"I can't say but that he's ready enough to help a poor body with any thing he has himself; but then if one asks him for a little more parish relief, he's so terrible particular, and asks so many questions, that it's quite unpleasant, and perhaps we can get nothing after all."
"In short," said John, "you mean to say that he is liberal and kind in giving fromhis own pocket, but careful and cautious how he makes free with the pockets of other people. And then again—who employs so many men as Farmer Oldacre? I'm sure I have often known him in the winter try to find out jobs for the sake of keeping the men at work; and after all I believe, that he feels the change of times as much as any man, and that he and his family allow themselves little beyond bare necessaries. And even with respect to parish relief, I believe that theoldmen and women, who are really past work, are better off when Farmer Oldacre has the books, than at any other time."
"But then," answered Hannah, "Farmer Barton is sogood-naturedwhen we go to him. He says that a shilling or two cannot signify to the farmers, and is not worth thinking about."
"I believe it would be better for all parties," replied Truman, "if the able-bodied poor thought less of running to the parish, and more of depending, under God's blessing, on themselves. When I was young, a man would have been ashamed of begging for parish relief. Indeed, the law was, that those who were relieved were to be marked by abadge. I know that I contrived to bring up a family of seven children without being beholden to any body. For a few years it was certainly hard work, but God helped us on."
"But wages," said Nanny Fowler, "were better in those days."
"Compared with what they would buy, perhaps they were, but their being low now is, I take it, partly owing to the poor rates."
"Why how can you make that out?" cried the whole party.
"In the first place, can you tell me, why wheat is so cheap just at present? It was, you know, ten shillings the bushel, and indeed sometimes a great deal more—it is now less than five."
"Why it's cheap to be sure, because there is such plenty of it."
"And is it not the over-plenty of labourers, that makes labour cheap? I remember this village when there were not more than fifty labourers' families, each with a cottage to itself; now there are upwards of eighty families, and sometimes two crammed together in one house. I have read in the newspapers, that the people throughout England have increased in the last twenty years thirty-twoin every hundred—that is, where there were but ten, there are now more than thirteen."
"But what has that to do with the poor rates?"
"Why do not you think that the poor rates are an encouragement to early marriages?"
"And what then," said Hannah; "did not the Almighty say,Increase and multiply?"
"The command toincrease and multiply and replenish the earth, was given—first, when there were upon the face of the whole earth no men and women at all, excepting the first pair: andagain, when all mankind had been destroyed, with the exception of the family of Noah. The world was pretty well empty of inhabitants then, and wantedreplenishing. But the case is different in an old inhabited country, which is already soreplenished—so full and over-full—that the people stand in each other's way."
"But surely, John, you are not for preventing marriages?"
"Heaven forbid!" said the old man, wiping a tear of thankfulness from his eye; "Heaven forbid! It is to marriage that I owe thegreater part of the happiness that I have enjoyed in this life; and marriage, I trust, has assisted in preparing me, through divine grace and the merits of my Redeemer, for happiness in the life to come. I know too who it is that has said,Marriage is honourable in all.—No, no, I am no enemy to marriage, I am its warmest friend. But then, as the Prayer-Book tells us, there aretwoways of engaging in marriage. Men may either enter upon itreverently,discreetly,advisedly, andin the fear of God; or else they may engage in itinadvisedly,lightly, andwantonly, 'like brute beasts that have no understanding.' I am afraid that now-a-days young people are more apt to engage in marriage after the latter manner, than after the former. When I was young, men generally did not like to marry—I'm sure I did not—till they had secured a bit of a cottage to put a wife in, and a few articles of furniture, and perhaps a few pounds to begin the world with. Now boys and girls marry without thought and reflection, without sixpence beforehand, and trust to the parish for every thing—house, goods, clothes, and the maintenance of their children. As for the parish finding housesfor all that wish to marry, it's what can't be done.—No, no, I don't want to prevent their marrying, I only want them to wait a very few years, that they may have a better chance of happiness when they marry. We all know, thatwhen want comes in at the door, love is very apt to fly out at the window; and parish pay is but a poor dependence after all.
"And why should they not wait? Those, who are better off in the world, are for the most part forced to wait a good number of years. The sons of the farmers, of the tradesmen, and of the gentlemen, generally wait, I think, till they are nearer thirty than five and twenty. Look at Squire Bentley's family: there's his eldest son that is the counsellor, who, as they say, has been for some years engaged to one of Mr. Hale's daughters; he is now, I take it, upwards of thirty, but he waits till they have a better chance of maintaining a family. There's his second son, who is to be a physician; and the third in the army; both I dare say would be glad enough to marry, if they could marry with any sort of prudence.—It is because the poor think that the parish must find every thing, that they marry without thought or care; and then the numbers ofthe people increase till there are more hands than work; and that makes wages so low.
"There's another way in which the poor rates keep down the price of labour. A man is out of work. He goes round to the farmers; but they all say that they don't want him: they have hands more than enough already. He then goes to the overseer for employment.—Now the parish—if bound by law to find work for him at all, about which there seems to be some doubt—is only bound to pay him enough to keep him from starving, and for that may require a full day's work. The farmers of course know this; and as in these times it is natural for them to wish to get hands at as low a rate as possible, one of them tells this man that he will give him a trifle more than the parish, though still amere trifle, and turns off one of his regular workmen to make way for him; and so it may go on, till all are brought down to the same low key.—Or perhaps the farmers will pay all the labourers, either in whole, or in part, out of the poor rates. This I take to be a very bad plan for the farmers in the end; for as men will seldom do more work than they are paid for, the work willnot be done so well or so cheerfully; and besides, it sadly breaks the spirit of the labourers. In short, I wish, as I said before, that the poor depended less upon parish pay, and more upon themselves."
"But, John," said Hannah, "you are not for knocking up the poor laws altogether?"
"By no means," answered John: "I am in one sense a poor man myself; and I am glad that there is such a provision for those, who can do nothing for themselves, and for those who are thrown back by a severe sickness, or by some accident. For myself, I hope that, by the blessing of God, I shall never be forced to stoop to ask for parish relief. As my wife and I contrived to bring up a family without any help from an overseer, so when our children were old enough to get out, and take care of themselves, we began to think of putting by a trifle against old age. The savings bank notion has given us a lift, and I think that I have that there, which will keep me from being a burden to any one. As times are now, a man with a large family can't help going to the parish, and no one can blame him for it—I only wish that times were suchas to enable him, with industry and prudence, to look for maintenance to no one but himself and God Almighty."
By the time that old Truman had finished thisdissertationon the poor laws, the surgeon had arrived. He examined Fowler's leg, and found the fracture to be as bad a one as well could be. It was attended too with a considerable degree of fever, which was increased by the heated state of the blood, occasioned by excessive drinking.
The next day he was delirious, and the fever had increased so much, that but slight hopes were entertained of his recovery. He remained for some days in this state, hanging between life and death, till at length the fever abated. The delirium too was at an end; but it left him in a state of the most deplorable weakness.
Nanny Fowler never had bestowed one serious thought upon a future life; but some of her neighbours told her, that with her husband in such a dangerous condition, she ought to desire the parson to come and see him. This she accordingly did.
Mr. Hooker, at his two or three first visits, found both body and mind so weakened,that he did little more than pray by him. Neither Fowler nor his wife entered much into the meaning or spirit of his prayers, but still they were flattered and pleased by the attention of their pastor.
For many years Fowler had hardly set foot in church, excepting once to attend the funeral of a relation, and twice as godfather to the children of two of his friends. Though he had not shewn any positive disrespect to Mr. Hooker to his face, yet he was in the habit of laughing at him behind his back, and of trying to turn whatever he did or said in the execution of his sacred office—and indeed his office itself—into ridicule. In this, according to the opinion of his thoughtless and profligate companions, he succeeded tolerably well; for he had a turn for low humour; and it is sometimes found, the more sacred any thing is, the greater is the effect of representing it in a ludicrous point of view, to those who are unrestrained by any sense of decency or of religion. From Mr. Hooker he had never received any thing but tokens of kindness, but he disliked him, because he knew that he disapproved of his manner of going on, and still more, for oneor two admonitions which he had received from him. He now felt ashamed of his former disrespectful behaviour towards his worthy minister.
The fever having entirely left him, Mr. Hooker determined to take advantage of the opportunity which this accident afforded, for the purpose of endeavouring to bring Fowler to some proper sense of religion. He accordingly often talked to him in the most serious manner, trying both to inform his understanding, and to affect his heart.
One day when he called, he found Barton sitting by the bed side. The farmer immediately got up to go away; Fowler, however, begged him to stay; and Mr. Hooker was not without hopes, that what he said might not be entirely lost upon Barton, of whose religious sentiments he had but an unfavourable opinion.
After making use of the prayers in the Visitation Office, he represented to Fowler the folly of living without God in the world; the hateful nature of sin; and the awful consequences of continuing in sin without repentance. He spoke of the great atonement, but told him that the benefits even of thatwould be lost to those who continued hardened and impenitent. He added a few words upon the particular vice of drunkenness, upon its tendency to lead on to almost all other sins without exception, and upon its dreadful punishment in the world to come, sincedrunkards can not inherit the kingdom of God.
Fowler appeared to be attentive, and to feel what was said, and Barton looked every now and then a little uneasy. His uneasiness was occasioned, not by the slightest degree of apprehension for his own religious interests, but by the wound which hisgood-naturereceived, at hearing such strong things said. The farmer accompanied Mr. Hooker down stairs; but the moment he had quitted the house, exclaimed, "I wish, Nanny, you would not let the parson come to your husband any more. I'm sure it's enough to make a man ill to hear him talk." "Why, what's the matter?" said Nanny, "what's the matter?"
"Why, he has been talking about his soul, and getting drunk, and heaven, and hell, and I know not what besides; I'msure, I thought it veryill-naturedof him. It's bad enough for poor Bob to have broken his leg, without being troubled with such melancholy thoughts. And what's the use of it? There's no chance of his dying this bout, and there can be no occasion for his making himself uneasy with these church-yard thoughts yet."
"Surely you are not in earnest, neighbour," said Farmer Oldacre, who had called in to enquire how the broken leg was going on; "you cannot really mean what you say."
"Yes, but I do though," replied Barton, "and I say again, it was veryill-naturedof Mr. Hooker."
"I always thought," said Oldacre, "that you professed and called yourself a Christian."
"As good a Christian as yourself," rejoined Barton, with some quickness; "aye, or as Mr. Hookereither, though, perhaps, I mayn't talk so much about it as some people."
"Well, don't be angry," said Oldacre calmly, "but just listen to me for twominutes. If a Christian, you of course acknowledge the Scriptures to be the word of God?"
"To be sure I do."
"Well—you know—the whole parish knows—that poor Bob Fowler was leading a most ungodly and wicked life."
"No, I donotknow it; poor Bob was nobody's enemy but his own; and if he did get drunk now and then, what was that to any body else? I don't call that being wicked."
"And whatdoyou call beingwicked?"
"Why, I call a man wicked, when he robs and steals, or commits murder, or—let me see—let me see—when he takes a false oath before a justice—or—when he slanders his neighbours."
"These, certainly," answered Oldacre, "are instances of great wickedness; but you seem to confine the wordwickednessalmost entirely to offences, by whichmenare injured; now I call a manwicked, when he lives in the wilful and habitual neglect of any part of his duty; and since the Scriptures tell us, that the first and chief part of our duty is our duty towards God, I particularly call a man wicked when he lives in the open neglect of that duty—when he leads, in short, an ungodly life."
Barton made no answer, but seemed to be waiting to hear what was to come next.
"Now as for poor Bob Fowler, you know very well that he never went to church, never thought of keeping holy the Lord's day, that he was in the constant habit of profane swearing, that he never spoke of religion but to laugh at it, and that instead of having God in all his thoughts, he lived in a total forgetfulness both of him and of his laws. Now the Scriptures tell us, over and over again, thatthe wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the people that forget God. If these words of Scripture be true—and you acknowledge yourself that they are so—Fowler was certainly in a dangerous state. Now, neighbour, suppose you were to see a blind man walking right on to the brink of a pit, and ready to fall into it, should you think itill-naturedto tell him of his danger? And is itill-naturedof Mr. Hooker, to try to save a man from falling into the pit of destruction?"
"But why should he do it at such atime—when Bob has a broken leg to vex him?"
"I know," replied Oldacre, "that Mr. Hooker did sometimes speak to him when he was in health; but Fowler was either sulky, or turned it into joke: he was one of those, whosit in the seat of the scornful; it was likecasting pearls before swine, which turn again and rend you. His present confinement offers an opportunity for giving him some notions of religion; and our good minister, who is always on the watch for opportunities of being of use, most likely felt, that if this opportunity was not taken advantage of, he might never have another."
"But is it not enough to drive a man to despair," said Barton, "to talk to him about death and judgment, and future punishment?"
"It is rather the best way to save a man from despair. Mr. Hooker speaks to him of future misery, in order that he may escape it. I dare say that he tells him, as he tells us in church, that if he will but repent of and forsake his sins, full forgiveness is offered, through the mediation of the Redeemer. A man who wilfully goes on in aworldly, ungodly course of life, has certainly nothing before him but afearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. Surely it is notill-natured, but rather the kindest thing that can be done for such a man, to try to persuade him to flee from the wrath to come, by changing his course of life by the aid of God's grace, and by seeking for God's mercy through Christ, before the gates of mercy are closed for ever."
There was a pause of some minutes. Barton, however, did not like to give up his notions ofill-nature, and returned to the charge. "Still, I must say, neighbour Oldacre, that the parson speaks of these things much too plainly and too strongly; and, to tell you the truth, that is the reason why I so seldom go to hear him in church. It would not look well, you know, for a man like meneverto go to church at all, so I drop in sometimes when there is no sermon. I like to begood-humouredand pleasant, and don't like to think of these melancholy subjects until I've occasion."
Oldacre found that he was impenetrable by any thing thathecould say, and was not inclined to resume the conversation, andwent up stairs to Fowler to ask him how he was.
Barton quitted the house, but the door was hardly closed, when hisgood-naturewas put to a fresh trial of a different description. He was met by a stranger, who, having asked him whether his name was Barton, and received his answer that it was, put into his hands a paper, which he found was a notice to him as surveyor, that a certain part of the road in the parish had been indicted at the Quarter Sessions which were just over, and a true bill found.
The fact was this.—A gentleman, who was going to the Sessions on business, had occasion to travel along the road, the bad state of which Mr. Bentley had pointed out to Farmer Barton. One of his coach-horses shyed at a heap of dung lying close to the road side, the coachman whipped him, the horses sprang forward, but in crossing the deep ruts, one of the fore springs of the carriage snapped, and the near horse was thrown down, and cut both his knees. The gentleman proceeded slowly to Chippingden; and while his servants were getting the spring made safe for the remainder of his journey, had theworst part of the road measured, and then travelling on to Sessions in the full heat of his anger and vexation, preferred a bill of indictment against the parish of Inglewood.
This Farmer Barton thought the mostill-naturedproceeding that ever was known; and in the first warmth of his indignation said, that there should be noputting off, but that the parish should try it out at the following Sessions. He was still surveyor, for he had so entirely neglected calling out the statute-duty, and indeed every part of his office, that he was ashamed to attend the justice meeting, which was held for the purpose of appointing new surveyors; and felt pretty sure, that his non-attendance would not be taken notice of. The magistrates, every now and then, threatenedstoutly, and talked of fining the absentees, but they would not be soill-naturedas to carry their threats into execution; and the comfort and convenience of the public, and the real interests of the several parishes themselves, were sacrificed for the credit of theirgood-nature.
Fowler's leg, meanwhile, continued tomend, and he was able to get down stairs, and attend to his new business. What Mr. Hooker had said to him, produced considerable effect upon his mind and conduct. But though he left off drinking himself, yet from his former habits and character he could not be expected to possess much authority over those who resorted to his house. Many of the poor never entered the public house at all; many went to it now and then for a pot of beer to drink in a quiet family way at home; but a few of the married men, and several of the young ones, spent there many of their evenings, and most of their money.
Many little disturbances consequently took place in the village. One evening in particular, Tim Nesbit came from the public house so drunk, and was so noisy and troublesome, that some of the neighbours talked of having him fined, or set in the stocks. "Surely you wou'dn't be soill-naturedas that comes to," said Barton. "When a man robs and steals, punish him to the utmost; but drunkenness is agood-naturedfault, and the drunken man is nobody's enemy but his own."
"Nobody's enemy but his own!" said old Truman, who happened to be standingby, "I think a drunken man the enemy of every body. He is ready to quarrel with every body that comes in his way, and to do all sorts of mischief."
"Yes," replied Barton, "but when a man don't know what he is doing, he has a right to be excused."
"Now I say just the contrary," answered Truman. "When a man chooses to throw away his reason, and to bring himself down to a level with a beast, he must take the consequences. Drunkenness, instead of being an excuse for any fault, is an aggravation, and the law of the land says the same. I heartily wish that the laws against tippling and drunkenness[j]were more frequently put in execution."