Mr. Mortimer returned to London an altered man. He believed he had been "humbugged;" and so it proved. He tried to find "the solicitor," but no such person was to be found at the house he had pencilleddown on his tablets. "Ah!" thought Mr. Mortimer, as he returned towards the West end,—"how lucky it was that I bethought me not to let the fellow place the types and the press in his 'office,' as he called it!" Mr. Mortimer resolved to sell the materials, get back his hundred pounds, and give up the scheme. He sent for an appraiser. The press was only fit to burn, and the types had to be sold for old metal!!—
Mr. Mortimer isnotin parliament yet.
WHO COULD NOT UNDERSTAND WHY, BUT WHO KNEW "IT WAS SO."
Dullness was well nigh at the meridian of her reign in old Lincoln. In the solemn "precincts" of the cathedral the humble bees seemed almost afraid to disturb the solitude by a hum; and venerable maiden ladies had no vicissitude of existence, save an occasional scold at their servants, or a grumbling complaint of "short measure" to the coalman as he made his weekly call. And, indeed, the rest of the city was most autumnally tame and uninteresting. The fashionables were at the watering-places,—the throng of the working population was in the fields,—and while one tradesman complained, with a yawn, to his neighbour, that there was "nothing doing, and no money stirring," the other invariably rejoined, "No, nor won't be, till after harvest!"—and then imitated his neighbour in stretching his mouth from ear to ear.
In fact, the only interesting people you met werethose who endeavoured to keep you awake by collecting and pouring out several dull, disagreeable, or doleful subjects in a breath; such as the relation of the robbery of such a tradesman's shop at noon-day,—the thieves having taken advantage of the extreme dullness of the time to effect their villainous scheme;—or, the accident of the poor-fellow, the bricklayer's assistant, falling from the top of his ladder, with the hod on his head, and being taken up to the hospital;—coupled with the "remarkable fact" that he was the second husband of a poor woman whose first fell from a pear-tree, and was killed, leaving her with a large family;—with an additional half-score of disasters, if your nerves or inclination would permit you to stay and learn the sum-total of the catalogue.
Nicholas Nixon, "gentleman," had dwelt threescore years in the venerable city; that is to say, the whole of his life, and had kept decent state as a householder among the genteel people of the Minster-yard, for at least half of the term. Living "retired," on a yearly income, and passing each successive day of his existence in an almost unvaried routine of eating, washing, dressing, walking, and sleeping, one would have thought that all seasons of the year would have become equally agreeable or indifferent to him. But Mr. Nixon was too true a Minster-yard cit either to feel or to affect indifference in a matter that, he knew, drew forth so much dull comment among his fellow-citizens, as did the dullness of the autumn season.
"Really, Mr. Subdean," said he to that cathedral dignitary, as he overtook him, by the County Hospital, at the top of the "Steep Hill," in the forenoon of one of these drowsy days, "I think our autumns grow duller and duller every year: I'm sure you must feel it to be a bore that you are in residence this latter end."
"I feel it to be a little dull to be among you, at this time of the year, Mr. Nixon," replied the subdean, "but still it is an agreeable change."
"I am glad you can think so, sir," rejoined Gentleman Nixon;—for that was the mode by which he was usually distinguished from the several tradesmen Nixons who inhabited the city,—"I am glad you can bring yourself to think so: for my own part, I feel it to be very dull, very dull, indeed!—Are you for a walk to the Bar, sir?"
"I am, Mr. Nixon: shall I have the pleasure of your company?" was the rejoinder of the courteous and kind-natured clergyman.
"I shall be most happy, Mr. Subdean: I feel very highly honoured, sir: I——"
"And what is the best news, stirring, Mr. Nixon?" asked the subdean, desirous of cutting short the retired gentleman's flourish of politeness.
"Well, sir," answered Mr. Nicholas, very quickly, "I think the best news is that the poor freemen have had the spirit to stop this mushroom scheme of the town council to turn the West Common into abotanical garden. They are a mischievous set, these Below-hill Whig-radicals, depend upon it, Mr. Subdean: we shall have need to look sharp after 'em."
The churchman was full well acquainted with Gentleman Nixon's undeviating adherence to the "Pink" partisanship,—that is to say, Sibthorpian, or "House-of-Canwick" side of politics, which was most prevalent "Above-hill"—the division of old Lincoln comprising the habitations situate around the ancient castle and magnificent cathedral, and beyond which the Roman city did not extend. The subdean, I say, knew well that Mr. Nixon was among the most unchanging of the well-nigh changeless denizens in this elevated region: he knew that Mr. Nicholas professed the highest, the most exclusive toryism; and therefore he showed no signs of surprise at the uncharitable manner in which Mr. Nicholas chose to express himself upon the question of the political morality displayed by the citizens dwelling in the lower region; and yet the clergyman, by one gentle word, excited great surprise in Mr. Nicholas Nixon.
"I really don't think the new corporation are intentionally mischievous," said he; "I have no doubt they mean well: 'tis reckoned to be an age of improvements, you know, Mr. Nixon, and they must be in the fashion."
"'Pon my honour, sir, I don't understand the rule by which you distinguish between mischievous deeds and intentions," sharply observed Mr. Nicholas: "Ialways think that when a number of men deliberately attempt mischief they mean it."
"I think their scheme would have been less objectionable had they proposed that each of the poor freemen should have cultivated a little plot of garden ground for himself on the common," observed the churchman, by way of parrying the citizen's strong remark.
"But the law would not permit that, in my opinion, any more than the other," said the retired gentleman: "besides, the fact is just this, sir: once permit these reforming gentry to begin their schemes of improvement, and one acre after another would disappear from the corporate tenure of the freemen,—until, the property becoming individual, it would quickly be bought for a dog's price, by one or other of these liberals who have longer purses and more knavish heads than the rest of their neighbours."
"I hope none of the new corporation are such men as you are speaking of," said the subdean: "you know, Mr. Nixon, I neither go along with them nor their party; but I do not like to be uncharitable."
"Uncharitable! nonsense, sir!" exclaimed the exclusive cit, forgetting his courtesy, through bigoted partisanship: "I do not hold these fellows to be at all deserving of a charitable opinion, for I believe them capable of any wickedness. Why, sir, as Mr. Christopher shrewdly observed on the hustings in the castle-yard at the last county contest, while he pointedto the venerable Minster, 'These fellows would turn that sacred and time-hallowed building into a cotton-mill to-morrow if they had the power.' I believe he hit the mark there, sir, for he made the liberals very sore, I assure you," and Mr. Nicholas Nixon chuckled with a vindictive pleasure as he ended.
"If I did not excuse Mr. Christopher from a knowledge of the rash speeches which excitement and opposition impel country gentlemen to deliver on the hustings," rejoined the clergyman, looking somewhat grave, "I could not hesitate to censure him for making so offensive a remark. I do not see any good to be done by this fierce spirit of quarrel—but much evil."
"Pardon me, Mr. Subdean," persisted Gentleman Nixon, "but I really must say that I think if all of us were as tamely disposed as yourself, the church would soon tumble over your ears."
"I think nothing can tend to build it up so securely, Mr. Nixon," returned the dignitary, with a smile, "as showing the world that we, as ministers of the church, are the truest friends of mankind,—the readiest and most cheerful toilers for human happiness. You know I never like to talk politics, in any shape; I would much rather hear you and other gentlemen propose some plan for making the poor more comfortable in their circumstances,—or join you in any little scheme for amusing them. Do you attendthe concerts of these young working-men in St. Peter's church, Mr. Nixon?"
"Sir, I take the liberty to tell you plainly," persevered the heated "Pink" partisan, "that the easy good-nature of such kind-hearted people as yourself, and the indolence of our most respectable citizens Above-hill, go far to make it nearly impossible, already, to recover any degree of influence in city affairs. We are almost a lost party: the Blues have it all their own way,—and although you must be aware they are bent on ruining the poor entirely, under the mask of helping them, yet you will not lend a hand to oppose them——"
"But am I not telling you, my dear sir," interrupted the subdean, "that I think all the quarrels in the world can never convince mankind—the poor as well as the rest—that the quarrellers are the friends of mankind? If the Blue party be so bitterly bent on ruining the poor, as you say they are—let us carry relief into the houses of the poor always in the spirit of benevolence, and never as an act to oppose a party. If we look at the very persons we have to relieve, I think we may learn to do this,—for indeed, Mr. Nixon, there is no denying but that the poor are much more skilful in discerning the motives of those who visit them with charitable professions, than they were some years ago."
"Why, sir, what with Methodist cant on the one hand, and demagoguism on the other, the poor arespoilt," replied Mr. Nicholas, in the same tart spirit: "they have the impudence, now-a-days, to pry into the conduct of all ranks and conditions: your cloth does not screen you from their envious inquisitiveness; and they make all kinds of offensive and sneering remarks on respectable people. And then, their pride! Why now, Mr. Subdean, here we are, nearly at St. Botolph's bar, and not a single poor man has paid you a mark of respect, all the way we have walked! Take my word for it, sir,—forty years ago if I had been honoured to walk down the street with a cathedral dignitary, I should have seen every poor man that we met touch his hat to him! I ask you, sir, what is to come of such a state of things?" concluded Mr. Nicholas, in a very earnest and emphatic tone.
The churchman fairly burst into laughter; and had it been any other than a Minster grandee, Gentleman Nixon would have been highly irritated by his mirth. As it was, he began to suspect himself of folly, for having carried his opposition to such an extremity in a merely friendly dialogue.
"Come now, Mr. Nixon," resumed the subdean, in a tone of pleasant expostulation, "does not this very circumstance, of the striking change in manners that you have alluded to, convince you that the hostile course is unwise? Do you expect, now, that the poor can be brought to observe the same outwardlysubmissive courtesies that their fathers practised when you and I were young?"
"Well, I must confess, I do not," tardily—but perforce of conviction—Mr. Nicholas made answer.
"It would be foolish to expect it, Mr. Nixon," continued the clergyman; "and as they will continue to keep the course they have commenced outwardly, so will they grow in the habit of scrutinising the conduct of those above them. I think the time is nearly at hand when neither Blues nor Pinks, nor any other shade of political party, will be able to raise excitements by attempting to persuade the poor, that these are designing to cheat them, while those are their disinterested and sympathising friends. The times are changed, for the English people are changed: we cannot deny it, since we have here a proof of it, Mr. Nixon."
"That we have, too truly, Mr. Subdean!" echoed Mr. Nicholas, and sighed very dolorously.
"Nay, I do not think there is any cause for regret, in all this," observed his cheerful and more enlightened acquaintance; "whatever severe causes may have operated to produce it, no philanthropist can regret that there is discernible the commencement of a spirit of self-respect on the part of the poor. We are all equal in the sight of our Maker, you know, my friend; and for my part I assure you, I do not desire that the old usages of servility should be resumed, and the great first law of human brotherhoodbe again lost sight of—for, I suspect, that was too often the fact while the brother in superfine cloth received such frequent obeisance from the brother in ragged linen."
"I must again say you surprise me greatly, sir," observed Gentleman Nixon, beginning again to recover his belligerent humour.
"Butdo notbe surprised, Mr. Nixon," answered the churchman, instantly and persuasively: "the world has changed, though you remain an honest Tory, and——"
"And you have become a Whig, sir, I fear," observed Mr. Nicholas, while his face and throat began to assume the hue of a distempered turkey-cock.
"No, Mr. Nixon, a Conservative, if you please."
"All the same," said the retired gentleman, but with a subsidence of his mettle; "scarcely any thing but a distinction without a difference."
"To speak the broad truth," resumed the clergyman, "there are but very few now, who boast themselves,—as you do, Mr. Nixon, most honestly,—to be Tories. Nor are you very far from right in your belief of the resemblance of some other parties,—for the old Whig and the modern Conservative are nearly akin. The modern Whig would also have been a Radical some few years ago, while the hotter advocates for change have also considerably enlarged their demands."
"And do you pretend to tell me, Mr. Subdean,"asked Mr. Nicholas, very impatiently, "that you and others are any other than madmen to yield to this jacobinical spirit of change?—I say jacobinical—the plain word that my father used, and that I believe to be the best word."
"But I donotbelieve it to be the best word, my dear sir," repeated the subdean, and took the hand of the retired gentleman with a smile,—seeing they were about to separate; "I believe we should be madmen indeed if we did not yield wisely to this spirit of change. You will never find me among the advocates of rash and hasty changes, Mr. Nixon; but I repeat—change has begun,—and if we do not yield to it wisely, it will speedily proceed more rashly and hastily than any of us would wish to see. All parties are amalgamating, for they are blending names; and all ranks are converging to a common point, where rank will be forgotten. Forty years ago you could not have imagined that a cathedral dignitary would have walked from the 'Chequer Gate to St. Botolph's Bar, and not one of the hundreds of poor men he met ever touch their hat to him;—and yet you have walked with me every inch of the way this morning, and seen every poor man pass by without showing the subdean any more respect than he shows to one of his ragged neighbours:—you have seen this, Mr. Nixon, and you cannot deny thatit was so. Good morning, sir!"
"Good morning, sir!" echoed Mr. Nicholas Nixon,though it was somewhat vacantly. And thrice he turned to look after the clergyman when they had separated,—stunned and confounded as he felt at what the dignitary had said; and then wondered how it could be! But the more Mr. Nicholas wondered, the less he could comprehend what he wondered at. He knew that he himself was what he was thirty years ago,—the same old-fashioned Tory, who, even then, lived each day alike, in the same house in the Minster-yard; but as for the subdean and many others, though he perceived they had changed, he could not comprehend why:—all that he could comprehend was,—thatit was so.
OR,ONE PARSON AND TWO CLERKS.
It was at the very time,—for History is notoriously fond of synchronisms for her greatest events,—witness Mycale and Platæa, fought and won on the self-same day,—it was at the very time that Papineau and the Canadian rebels took up swords and guns to resist Sir John Colborne and the English troops,—that the old women of Stow, in the parts of Lindsey, took up eggs to pelt the parish parson!
All the world knows, or if it doth not know it has profited but little by the industry of antiquarians, that Stow, in the division of Lindsey, and eight miles north-and-by-west of Lincoln, was an ancient Roman station, under the euphonic appellation ofSidnacester; that under that name it was the seat of a Saxon bishopric; that although Remigius de Feschamp, one of the Norman tyrant's fighting churchmen, transferred the seat of the diocese to Lincoln, yet when the stately cathedral which he founded was finished, while they placed his episcopal effigy on one of the grand pinnacles of the imposing west front, they fixed the grotesque image of "the Swineherd of Stow" (holding in his hand the horn which he gave filled with silver pennies, towards building the Minster,) on the other; that the episcopal palace of Stow was the favourite residence of the bishops of Lincoln down to the close of the fourteenth century, and that Stow still gives title to an archdeacon; lastly, that its venerable-looking church, dedicated to the blessed Virgin, constructed in the form of the Holy Rood, and adorned with a west door of decayed Gothic grandeur, is, to this day, called "the Mother of Lincoln Minster."
Now such being the distinctions of Stow itself, of course the "Perpetual Curate" of Stow, on receiving the awful impressment of episcopal hands, and the mysterious investiture of canonical habits, together with the comfortable appointment of the patron to the vacant curacy, entered on the discharge of his spiritual functions with strong notions of the altitude of his office, and of the plenary powers attached thereto. The ideas of the governed, however, in these days, somehow or other, don't happen to preserve an equal altitude, respecting office, with those of the governors; and the new Perpetual Curate ofStow, the successor to the once vice-regal priests of Sidnacester, was stricken with ghostly astonishment at finding that sundry rustics of his parish cared not a bodle for his new authority; that they snapped their fingers at his counsel and reproofs; and, setting at nought his college learning, preferred lending their ears to the unlearned Wesleyan local preachers,—a race of heretics who are so vulgar and unfashionable as to follow the example of Paul, and other vulgar workers of old, who earned their bread with the labour of their own hands, and yet, occasionally, ministered in word and doctrine. In the very nature of things this was unsavoury to a clergyman,—especially to a young one,—but more especially to one who actually stood in the shoes, speaking spiritually, of the princely and potential bishops of Sidnacester: it was not for him, above all established teachers in the shire, to endure such contemptuous preferences, and by that endurance permit heresy to bud and blossom unchecked.
Now, a neighbouring reverend brother of his, the fox-hunting shepherd of Willingham, was also very grievously pestered with these energetic heretics,—and he had resorted to the ancient evangelical custom of thundering forth anathemas against them from his pulpit: but that only seemed to render the pestiferous teachers more successful,—so the Perpetual Curate of Stow resolved to exert the whole power of his wit in discovering some effectual way of doing, what hiszealous and pious brother of Willingham could not do,—driving out heresy, and subduing the rebellious spirit of his flock. So to work the Perpetual Curate went with his wit, and a profound mine he wrought: such a mine as would, no doubt, have blown up heresy for ever in his parish, had he ever been able to put the match to it: so profound, that, since his scheme was frustrated, no one has ever been able to fathom it, and, therefore,nobodycan tellanybodywhat it really was. But how was it that a scheme so profound, so workmanlike, so masterly, did not succeed? Alas! how often in this frail humanity of ours do the most exalted enterprises fail, yea, often by the unexpected resistance of the very instruments on which we think we can most unerringly and safely depend! And thus it was with the great Perpetual Curate: he was most magnanimously bent on subduing revolt and heresy, when, lo! even Sir Amen, his clerk, lifted up his heel against him!
Now this was a notable event of a very auspicious character for the revolters. Clerk William Middleton was no ordinary clerk. Gervase Middleton, his father, had been clerk before him. Clerk William Middleton had, therefore, an important hereditary stamp upon him. And then, he was aschollard, as the old women called it, and was so gentle, that he was never known to hurt a worm; so moral, that he was never seen drunk in his life; so religious, that he never used a stronger oath than "Marry goodfaith!" and "By'r Lady!" (old oaths of popish times that are not yet lost in old Lincolnshire); and so upright, that he would not deny his conscience, even for the parson! This was no ordinary auxiliary on the side of the enemy; and there was no wonder that it put the Perpetual Curate, for a while, to his wit's end, to hear the reports which were brought to him by one Spurr (who was spurred on by his own inward aims to reach Sir Amen's office), of the stout and unflinching and open assertions made in the streets of Stow, by Clerk William Middleton, that the Methodists had as much right to preach as the parson! It was heresy he did not expect from such a quarter; but he was resolved he would be even with this member of the revolt, however; so he played a master-stroke so suddenly, that it shook the whole parish like an earthquake: he actuallyun-clerked Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, the old, learned, hereditary, gentle, moral, upright, pious, and religious parish-clerk!!!
This was a most unprecedented and most unexpected event; and it gave rise, as may be guessed it would, to a mighty concatenation of stupendous occurrences. The spirit of the Perpetual Curate was roused, and his genius, too, as was proved by his statesmanlike blow at the ring-leader of the rustic confederacy; and the spirit of the parishioners was roused likewise, for they were determined that, although the parson might appoint a new clerk, theywould stick by the old one. The ensuing Sunday, accordingly, brought forth the strange anomaly ofoneparson withtwoclerks, reading the church service in the ancient aisle of Stow! Moreover, when thechosenof the Perpetual Curate was beheld to be the egregious tale-bearer and notorious sycophant, Spurr, who was no adept at the letters of his prayer-book, the churchwarden and parishioners were alike wroth, and resolved, still more resolutely, on abiding by their old respected utterer of amens, Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase. Thus it fell out that Clerk Spurr,—we know not, nor care we, what was his pronomen, or "christened" name, as they call it in Lincolnshire; whether it were Moses or Mahershalalhashbaz, Nahum or Nebuchadnezzar, Jeremiah or Judas Iscariot, we cannot tell, nor doth it concern the dignity of this our record, to say with positiveness,—for the fellow was but as a buzzard to a sparrow-hawk, when compared with the rightful clerk; but thus it fell out, that Clerk Spurr was called "the Parson's Clerk," while Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, bore the creditable and legitimate epithet of "the Parish Clerk."
And, then, it came to pass that, when announcements of christenings, burials, or marriages, had to be made, the parishioners, in the spirit of their preference, commissioned their own clerk, "the Parish Clerk," to inform his Reverence the Perpetual Curateof the same, and to request the fulfilment of the accustomed rites. But the cooler the parishioners grew towards "the Parson's Clerk," the hotter did the parson grow towards his parishioners. He scorned to compromise his sacerdotal dignity by attempting a reconciliation with the unruly spirits by which he was surrounded: he spurned the ignoble example of the ancient worthies who thought the first and last part of Christianity was meekness and long-suffering; and he meditated a still more afflictive stroke of retaliation on his spiritual rebels.
Clerk William Middleton conveyed a request to his spiritual superior from a sorrowing villager to bury his dead child;—but the grand Perpetual Curate would not fulfil the request because it was brought him by the discarded, though old, hereditary Amen,—and adjourned, in dudgeon, to the hamlet of Coates,—while the poor villager's child was put into its grave,—as every child of such rebels deserved to be put,—like a dog,—without a prayer being read, or a hope expressed about its resurrection!
This circumstance sank deeply into the minds of the Stow revolters: it was a something that had never been heard of a clergyman in the memory of man,—at least at Stow in the parts of Lindsey: it made their skin creep, and the very "hair of their flesh to stand up,"—for they were simple, unsophisticated sort of people, and, therefore, all strong mental emotions had the same effects upon their physical frames,as the author of "Job" and Homer describe in their days. But the strong feeling did not evaporate through the pores of their skin, especially with the more noble, though tenderer, sex:theylaid their heads together to do such a deed upon a parson as had never been done upon one since the name of parson had been known in Stow. In a short time another message had to be despatched to the Perpetual Curate: a woman had to be churched, and a child to be buried, on the same afternoon,—and, judging from the former example, the villagers conjectured that his Reverence would "make himself scarce" after the churching, and leave this child, also, unburied. And now, a valorous army of the female gender, their pockets plentifully provided with plenipotent ammunition of eggs, formed themselves, in heroic ambuscade, near the church door, purposing right courageously to assail the clerical enemy, if he should haughtily refuse the offices of Christian sepulture to the deceased child. "Enterprises of great pith and moment," however, as the immortal one saith, often "their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action." So it was in this ambuscade so gloriously planned. The clerical enemy wisely capitulated: his clerk, "the Parson's Clerk," preceded the Perpetual Curate from the church, as a herald of moderation, assuring the armed battalion that his reverence would peaceably inter the child; and, forthwith, some of the gallant troop immediatelygroundedtheir arms,while others preferredthrowingthem to a distance,—in token that they put away all hostile thoughts far from them.
And here, perchance, this chivalrous history might have ended, had not the demon of Litigation, who was doubtless hovering near the field of intended affray, taken the case into his own foul hands. Some part of the rejected artillery chanced to alight upon the garments of "the Parson's Clerk's" wife, and of the Perpetual Curate's servant-maid. It was in vain that the members of the ambuscade protested this mishap to be owing in no degree to their intent:—the parson commenced an action at law against the entire petticoat regiment, or its ringleaders, for "assault and battery."
Another untoward event thickened the quarrel, and doubled the action at law; but the event itself cannot be so distinctly related as the last, seeing it occurred in the dark, while the female ambuscade was planted by broad daylight. The successor of the bishops, bearing a staff instead of a crosier, and his chosen Amen, bearing a hayfork, chanced to meet two youths connected with the revolters, one evening after dusk, in the churchyard. Who gave the primal assault cannot be positively affirmed, for it is not over safe to speak closely after the parties in a squabble, when there are no other witnesses. However, a fight certainly took place, even among the tombs of the dead; and so high did the wrath of the belligerentClerk Spurr rise in the conflict, that a cottager, neighbouring to the church, heard with alarm, even at his own door, the said clerkly warrior threaten to stab his opponent with the hayfork! Ere the cottager could quit his door, up came the parson and demanded help; but the cottager honestly told the parson "he would look better at home." His Reverence then sought "help" at the blacksmith's shop, but there, also, no one thought he needed it,—and so he retreated to his lodgings.
Such, in a few words, was the cause of the double action at law; and, at the ensuing Kirton sessions, the two youngsters who had either cudgelled the parson, or had been cudgelled themselves, together with the ringleaders of the famous female ambuscade, were together tried for "assault and battery." But the wrathful parson did not get his will: the affair was so ludicrous that he was compelled to consent that it should be "hushed up."
To hush up the heart-burnings of the parties, on their return to the seat of war, was, however, not so easy a matter. Above all things, did it now become a difficult task to keep peace between the rival clerks. Passing by the many minor occasions wherein fiery frowns and black glances were exchanged, this history, which we must abridge, through dread of being adjudged tedious, conducts us to another notable event, which became the subject ofanother"action-at-law," at a succeeding Kirton Quarter Sessions.
The funeral of a parishioner was about to take place, and the friends of the deceased "particularly requested" that Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase,—the true "Parish Clerk,"—the old, hereditary, and established, and legitimate pronouncer of conclusive amens,—might give the responses at this funeral. Clerk Spurr, the "Parson's Clerk," however, determined on contesting the point;—and—a struggle for the old folio prayer-book actually took place in the church!
Here, again, was a sight that had never been beheld, or dreamt of, before, in the parish of Stow: but as strange and indecorous a sight as it was, it was one that many a rural spectator declared he wouldn't have missed for a quart of ale!—The very mourners for the dead were compelled to hide their laughing faces with their white handkerchiefs,—for the grotesque wrestling of the rival clerks, and their looks of rage, as they together grasped and tugged at the prayer-book, put weeping out of the question. The parson had got through—"I said I will take heed to my ways,"—and wanted to begin—"Lord, thou hast been our refuge,"—but there stood the wrestlers, grasping, and pulling, and panting, and sweating,—and it was a most difficult thing to say which would be likely to beat. Many a stout farmer that shook his sides,—for the laugh became broad and general, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion,—longed to shout out, "A crown toa groat upon Middleton!"—but restrained himself. At length,—the genuine, hereditary spirit of the true "Parish Clerk" prevailed!—he possessed the book: the "Parson's Clerk" sought a seat, to take his breath;—and Clerk William, panting, and wiping the streaming perspiration from his comely and heroic brow, proceeded to echo the "Confession" after the Perpetual Curate.
Such was the cause of the "action" brought by Spurr (at the direction, and by the ghostly advice of the Perpetual Curate) against Middleton at the succeeding sessions,—an action of "assault committed by the said Middleton upon him the said Spurr, while in the performance of duty." The jury, on this occasion,—to make short of the narrative,—sat till eleven at night,—the Court rang with laughter for hours,—and the affair was, at last, got rid of,—by some legal resort, and Spurr (or his advisers) were saddled with costs.Thatwas a conclusion that "gravelled" Spurr, as he said, on leaving the Court; and the Perpetual Curate was also "gravelled"—though he did not use the same expression; and they each showed it, soon after their second return to the old seat of war. But another slight event must first be chronicled, ere the several succeeding and exalted doings of the "Parson's Clerk" and the Perpetual Curate are narrated.
Thomas Skill, was a skilful yeoman of good report, holding two farms in the ancient parish of Stow;and although he eschewed all heresy and dissent, and willed to worship after the fashion of his forefathers,—who had been creditable yeomen in Stow from time immemorial,—yet liked he not of the wayward doings of his Reverence the Perpetual Curate. Now it chanced that on a certain Sunday in November that the said Skill the skilful went, as was his pious and religious wont, to pay his devotionsaccording to law, in the parish church of Stow, the ancient and venerated sanctuary of his forefathers. As a holder of two farms, be it observed, this creditable yeoman had a right, by the customs of this rural district, totwopews; nevertheless, being by no means a person of an unreasonable disposition, he was content, on that day, to occupy butone, if so be that he might be allowed to worship quietly. Nevertheless, scarcely was he seated, ere a certain Jesse Ellis, an aged man of some rural rank as a master-husband-man who had been selected by the Perpetual Curate ashischurchwarden, came up to the pew-door, said "he wasorderedto pull Skill out," and, forthwith, attempted to put the "order" into execution. Did Skill the skilful resist?—Did he yield? No, no: he knew a trick worth two of either. He had not his name for nought! When Ellis laid his grasp vehemently on the pew-door, skilful Skill held it fast for a few moments, and then skilfully let it go,—all in a moment,—so that the vehement Ellis, by the vehemence of his grasp and the rebound of the pew-door,was overthrown; and there he lay,—he, the parson's own churchwarden,—on the floor of the aisle of Stow church, in the time of "divine service," with the congregation from their seats and pews, and the Perpetual Curate, from his reading-desk, and Clerk Spurr, the "Parson's Clerk," and Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, squeezing one another in the desk below, and yet looking on, and all looking on, at his signal defeat and overthrow: there he "lay vanquished—confounded;"—like Milton's Satan, sprawling on the "fiery gulf," when all the fallen angels were sprawling there likewise, but yet looking on and shaking their heads at him for a rash captain—no doubt!
Then appeared Skill the skilful, and Ellis the sprawler, before a bench of "Her Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the parts of Lindsey," in the Moothall of Gainsborough; where the justices acted with sense and discernment, and dismissed the sprawler's suit, saddling him with costs. An end might have come to this episode here; but the sprawler and his son were people of spirit, and were so much dissatisfied with this decision of the justices, that they went home muttering all the way aboutlaw, and declaring to every one they met, that they "wouldyet have it." And so skilful Skill thought it wise and prudent to let them "have it;" and, therefore, from mere neighbourly good humour, commenced his action, in turn, against the said Jesse Ellis for attempting to pullhim out of his own pew, on the said Sunday in November, and in the parish church of Stow aforesaid. Our manuscript hath, in this place, an hiatus; so that we cannot say how the said action terminated: but it will not excite wonder that amidst the ravelled tissue of broils and litigations occasioned by the gospel-mindedness of the illustrious successor to the Sidnacestrian prelates, some of their issues should escape complete and satisfactory chronicle.
It behoveth, moreover, that we now attend to the more lofty department of this our history of ecclesiastical revolutions,—for, as the sun transcendeth the stars, so do the acts of sacerdotal personages outshine the brightest deeds of the vulgar laity.
And first, of the continued luminous acts and deeds of Clerk Spurr, the notable and notorious "Parson's Clerk," the hero of the hayfork. Let none imagine that he always warred with such a vulgar weapon of the field; forasmuch as his Reverence the Perpetual Curate, being in possession of a grand double-barrelled gun, was wont to commit and intrust it to the lawful custody of his worthy coadjutor in heroic exercises, the heroic Clerk Spurr. Neither did it redound a little to the credit of the Perpetual Curate's humanity, that he did so commit and intrust the said formidable piece of ordnance to the custody of the said Spurr;—forasmuch as the life and safety of that hero of the hayfork were discerned to be seriously in danger,—inasmuch as it had beenproven how the malicious urchins of the community, participating deeply in the heart-burnings of their sires and mothers, were wont often to annoy, with sundry small pebbles and other mischief-working missiles, the precious person of the said hero. Lest, therefore, these assaults should issue in some bodily harm to himself, the man of nightly valour was equipped with the gun, and speedily proceeded to defend himself therewith, in the manner that shall now be described and related, together with the fruition of his new act of heroism.
The night was two hours old,—no moon, no stars,—it was deeply dark and murkily cloudy, and—but never mind all that! Anon, up cometh the troop of youngsters, whispering laughter, and saying "Hush!" to each other, as they approach the camp of the enemy. Little thought they, as they marched along, each laden with his pocket of pebbles, of the sore discomfiture which had been planned for them by the foe! Clerk Spurr, that signal warrior of the implement with prongs, had planted himself, firelock on shoulder, eye full of aim, and heart full of valour, close by the usual point of attack. The besiegers halt,—and, in a moment, a shower of gravel gravelleth their enemy; but loud as was the war-cry of their tiny voices, above it rose the booming thunder of the "Parson's Clerk's" grand double-barrelled gun,—and woeful was the effect thereof!!! The shot or the wadding,—the manuscript sayeth not which—hadentered,—notthe brains, nor, even, the hats of the juvenile assailants,—but—but—the church windows! Away scampered the youngsters,—every mother's son feeling whether his head was off or on,—and yelling, till every cottage door in the neighbourhood was thrown open, and lights were brought out in alarm! Down tumbled the old coloured glass from the ancient mullions, rattling on the tomb-stones beneath, and sounding like curses on sacrilege in the ears of the affrighted hero of the gun and the hayfork! His weapon dropped,—for he was panic-struck! The churchwardens brought a bill against him for the repair of the church-windows: he refused to pay: was brought before the Lincoln county magistrates for recovery; and the hero of the hayfork had to "fork out" seven shillings and sixpence for his freak! The Stow rustics grinned from ear to ear, nodded approbation of the sentence, and spread mirth and fun when they reached home with the news; but the reverend successor of the ancient episcopal potencies was sorely grieved at heart when he heard of this repetition of defeat for his chosen and chop-fallen ejaculator of amens.
As for the grand Perpetual Curate himself, his personal troubles and griefs, and the uninterrupted continuation thereof, would require volumes for full narration. Suffice it to say, ere we bring this exalted record to an end, that, in the profundity of his wisdom, he resorted to multitudinous devices of apostolical character, after the defeats at law that have been heretofore noted. During ten successive Sundays he resorted to a most novel course of Christianity, closing the service after merely reading a few of the "Sentences,"—or, in addition, a few words of the "Absolution,"—and then, leaving his flock to find their way to heaven as they might. The legitimate "Parish Clerk" would come into his desk pretty early; then would come in the "Parson's Clerk;" and, lastly, the parson would walk into his desk, and commence reading after the following unique method:—
"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.——William Middleton! I charge you to come out of that seat, and let the clerk come in peaceably and quietly!"
The poor "Parish Clerk," meanwhile, would make no answer; but full meekly, and in the spirit of his vocation, would hold his peace. Again the parson would proceed:—
"Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to——William Middleton! if you do not come out of that seat, and cease interrupting me in my duty, I shall conclude the service!"
And then would he close the book,—the poor "Parish Clerk" answering not a word,—and, walking to the communion-table, give a couple ofparish alms-loaves to such as he chose to call—usuallyhis ownclerk, for one,—and then,—and then,—in the spirit of Jewel and Latimer, and the rest of the tireless and devoted exemplars of his religion, would he quit the consecrated edifice, and leave the congregation to finish by themselves,—or disperse, which of course they preferred to do, after witnessing these apostolical exhibitions. One more relation of the subtle and profound devices of the immortal and Perpetual Curate, ere we come to an end.
Vexed, teased, troubled, and circumvented, as he was, it came to pass that, in the plenitude of his mortified and yet haughty reflections, the successor of purple prelates bethought him that it was not seemly for the rebellious herdsmen, ploughmen, and other rustics of low degree, wherewith he was surrounded, to walk daily over the "consecrated ground" of the churchyard, in the ancient footpath. The more he thought of it the more he shuddered at it; that a number of rude rebels, with their heretical and sacrilegious feet, should tread daily on ground which had been "consecrated" in the hallowed mists of dateless antiquity, by mitred magnates, before whose uplifted crosier kings had lowered their sceptres, and mailed barons trembled and turned pale. It was not to be permitted: the magnanimous Perpetual Curate resolved to root out such impious sacrilege from the face of the earth; and immediately fastened up the gates of the said ancient footpath with strong locks and chains; yea, planted goodly young trees in the line of road hitherto trodden by unworthy and rebellious rustics. Nay, more, conceiving that even the remembrance of every grandmother and great-grandfather of such a stiff-necked generation should be obliterated, his high-minded Reverence gave order that all the hillocks over the graves should be laid low, and the whole churchyard be levelled!
But now the grand priest had reached a climax, in the judgment of his parishioners; and now arose the mighty wrath of the people,—that barrier which hath so often stood before proud priests,—yea, and will so stand again,—seeming to bear on its front, "Thus far shall ye go, and no further, and here shall your proud wills be stayed!" A parishioner, whose purse was lined with a store of guineas to back his resolution, avowed that the Perpetual Curate, if he caused to be touched a single clod that covered the ashes of his, the parishioner's, forefathers, should have his clerical cup sweetened with all the sugar that could be purchased for him in a court of law; and, lo! the successor of the prelates of Sidnacester rescinded his "order" for levelling the quiet graves of the dead!
Nor long did the other late devices of his canonical wisdom stand. The urchins of the parish contrived to slip slily over the churchyard wall, and to breakdown the newly-planted trees; and, at length, one parishioner, having conversed with Sir John Barleycorn at Gainsborough market, and being strongly advised by that notable counsellor of courage to set the proud parson at nought, and "break his bonds asunder," rushed to the churchyard gates, as soon as he arrived at his native village, and smiting at locks and chains, as if he had been Samson before Gaza, burst his way valiantly through,—and, thereafter, did the sacrilegious feet of every rebel rustic again press the path of their forefathers, without let or impediment! Such are the sovereign achievements of the magisterial "people," when engaged in the assertion of their time-hallowed "rights!" What are the acts of emperors compared therewith?
And now come we to the final "action" in this concatenationof litigation, one that gave consternationto the poor "parish clerk," be it understood. We have spoken of the "actions" at the first Kirton Sessions; namely, the Perpetual Curateversusthe Female Ambuscaders, and the Perpetual Curateversusthe Cudgellers in the dark: then spoke we of the "action" at the next sessions, Clerk Spurr, the Parson's Clerk,v.Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, the Parish Clerk: then of thepetit"action" before the Gainsborough Justices—Ellisv.Skill: then of the greater "action" at assize—Skillv.Ellis: then of the "action" before the Lincoln magistrates for recovery of value for brokenchurch-windows—the Churchwardens of Stowv.the Parson's Clerk: lastly, of thethreatenedaction by the parishioner of the long purse, which the Perpetual Curate avoided by rescinding his presumptuous "order" for levelling the graves:—but now come we to the final "action"—the action of actions: that to which all the rest formed but a petty preface: that wherein the Perpetual Curate departing from all by-ways of attack, undisguisedly assumed a position of legal and spiritual antagonism against the foe whom he esteemed as the chief author of his ills, the disturber of his projected schemes, that would, so many months before, have issued in subjugating the rebels, and consuming heresy in his parish,—against the old, hereditary, gentle, moral, upright parish clerk, Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase.
Andwherewas the action commenced?—Before the county magistrates,—or at sessions,—or at assize? Pooh! nonsense!—that was not the way to finish Middleton's business as the parson intended to finish it. Where then? In the Queen's Bench, or the Common Pleas, or the Exchequer? No. What then, in the Vice Chancellor's Court, or the Court of Chancery itself? Not one of 'em, sir; but in a more awful court than any of 'em, or all of 'em put together: in theSpiritual Court, sir!
What aged dame in Lindsey had not heard of the Spiritual Court? Why the mere sound of the wordserved to fill her with mysterious awe, and to call up in her memory all the fireside stories of her grandmothers: how such awful "penances" were inflicted by this court, on erring females, intheirdays,—when the dread power of the priesthood was displayed in punishing the subjects of that natural frailty called "scandal," by compelling them to walk up the church aisle covered with a white sheet, and bearing a wax taper in their hand! With such associations derived from his grandmother, only conceive how awfully queer poor, moral, gentle, religious, upright Clerk William felt when he received the mysterious "writ," issued against him by this mysterious court. "Schollard," as he was, it was so strange a thing to look upon, that he instantly sent for the parish schoolmaster, who, with spectacles on nose, and frequent spelling and some mispelling, read aloud—to a house full of consternated neighbours,—Clerk William turning pale as he heard the beginning,—
"In the Name of God, Amen!"We, John Haggard, Doctor in Civil and Canon Law, Vicar-General in spirituals of the Right Reverend Father in God, John, by Divine Permission, Lord Bishop of Lincoln, and official Principal of the Episcopal and Consistorial Court of Lincoln, lawfully constituted,—to you William Middleton, of the parish of Stow, &c. &c., touching and concerning your soul's health, and the lawful correction andreformation of your manners and excesses, and more especially for profaning the parish church of Stow aforesaid, by brawling, quarrelling, or chiding in the said parish church during the celebration of divine service therein by the Rev. ——, perpetual curate, &c. &c., and also for contumacious behaviour, and refusing to obey the lawful commands of the said ----," &c. &c.
"In the Name of God, Amen!
"We, John Haggard, Doctor in Civil and Canon Law, Vicar-General in spirituals of the Right Reverend Father in God, John, by Divine Permission, Lord Bishop of Lincoln, and official Principal of the Episcopal and Consistorial Court of Lincoln, lawfully constituted,—to you William Middleton, of the parish of Stow, &c. &c., touching and concerning your soul's health, and the lawful correction andreformation of your manners and excesses, and more especially for profaning the parish church of Stow aforesaid, by brawling, quarrelling, or chiding in the said parish church during the celebration of divine service therein by the Rev. ——, perpetual curate, &c. &c., and also for contumacious behaviour, and refusing to obey the lawful commands of the said ----," &c. &c.
And then followed a pompous quotation from a statute of Edward the Sixth, showing that a clergyman had power to prohibit a contumacious member of his flockab ingressu ecclesiæ,—that is to say, from entering the church: in other words, to excommunicate him! Furthermore, an act of the 53d George III. was quoted, declaring that "Persons who may be pronounced or declared to be excommunicate by any ecclesiastical courtin definitive sentences, orin interlocutory decrees, having the force and effect of definitive sentences, as spiritual censures for offences of ecclesiastical cognisance, shall incur imprisonment not exceeding six months, as the court pronouncing or decreeing such person excommunicate shall direct."
That was a sore shake for poor Clerk William! Excommunicated! Why, the thought of such a fate to one who had been brought up in a veneration of the church, whose father was a clerk, and thought himself as fully consecrated as a bishop!—it was nojoke to such a one to hear there was a chance of his being excommunicated. Yet he would not "give it up!" No, that he wouldn't: his father had said, "Nobody could turn the parish clerk out of his office so long as he had morality on his side: his office was his freehold:" so his father, Clerk Gervase, of pious memory, had said; and he, Clerk William, would abide by it. So he took the desk on the following Sunday, and kept up the war as usual. Yet he often pondered on "definitive sentences" and "interlocutory decrees,"—when he had learnt the words by heart,—wondering what kind of awful things they were.
The effect of issuing this writ, however, so completely astounded the parishioners that they thenceforth only whispered where they had shouted, and were silent where they had whispered, in all matters relating to the parson: true, whenever a paper for convening any particular parochial meeting was attached to the church door, bearing the usual signature of —— ——, Incumbent Minister, some wag would be sure to scratch out one of the words, so as to make it read "Incumbrance" Minister, instead: but beyond that there was, now, no further daring.
And, at last, the summons came, and no less than a score of witnesses were taken to the Consistory in Lincoln Cathedral, to be sworn that they would give evidence on the case. And week by week—week by week—the prosing "examinations" were proceeded with, on a certain day of the week, untila thousand foliosof "examination" were counted; and when a parishioner asked how much he must pay for a copy of the depositions for Clerk William, the reckoning was made by the "registrar" of the court, at the usual sum per folio—and he was told it would merely be such a trifle asfive-and-twenty pounds! And then the calculations, and the wonders, and wishes that were expressed, night by night, and day by day, in every cottage at Stow,—nay, in all the villages round, and the wagers that were laid in every village ale-house on a Saturday night, what would be the cost of the whole trial, and how long Clerk William would be imprisoned, andwherethey would imprison him,—for nobody was so slow of heart or understanding, as not to know beforehand that the "Vicar-General in Spirituals" would give judgmentagainstthe poor "parish clerk," as a matter of course, whenever the trial should come to an end.
Anddidthe trial ever come to an end? andwasClerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, really excommunicated? "By no manner of means, sir," as the pompous fellow says in the play: the grand suit, after causing so tremendous a quassation, and all that, of a considerable quarter of Lindsey, was—given up! Yes, it was: and more than that, the true "parish clerk," Clerk William, was reinstated, fully and entirely, in his rightful office. Ay to thisday,—unless our information misleads us,—he exercises the same without losing an inch of his height, or a fragment of his independent spirit; for it is but a few months bygone since he showed it. The grand Perpetual Curate, according to his wont, took upon him to reprehend, at the very grave-side, a Wesleyan, whose child, then being interred, had been baptized by a Wesleyan preacher: Clerk William, right bluntly, told the priest that the Wesleyan had a right to please himself! "Why, as for you, you will say or do any thing," retorted the priest, "if they'll pay you for it!"—"And would you be standing there in that gown, with that book in your hand, unlessyouwere paid for it?" asked and answered Clerk William. The grand Perpetual Curate bit his lip, and walked away!
Reader, we have been relatingfacts: perhaps, in adopting the style of half-rhodomontade, we have not displayed very good taste; but the narrative itself contains uncontradictablefacts. And these did not occur in a district disturbed by chartism, nor revolutionised by radicalism, or anti-corn-law agitation; but in the old-fashioned, rural centre of Lindsey: it is even there where the "spiritual court" shrinks from employing the foolery of its own worn-out terrors; and where the peasant adventures to beard the priest! Are not these "Signs of the Times?"
AND HER ORPHAN APPRENTICE, JOE.
Joe's story opens in that unclassical region, the Isle of Axholme,—a section of Lincolnshire divided from the main body of the county by the broad and far extending stream of the Trent. Insular situations are invariably held to give some peculiarity of manners to their inhabitants; and the Axholmians, or "Men of the Isle," have always been reckoned to be an odd sort of, plain kind of people, by the other inhabitants of Lindsey, the great northern division of the shire, of which the Isle is accounted a part. This was more emphatically true of them seventy years ago; and the face of the country was, at that time, much in keeping with the unpolished character of the Axholmian people. A journey through the Isle, in the autumnal and winter months especially, would then have been studiously avoided by a traveller acquainted with its excessively bad roads, renderedinsufferably disagreeable by the stench of the sodden "line" or flax, with which the broad ditches on each side of the rural ways were filled. Low, thatched abodes, built of "stud and mud,"—or wood and clay, were the prevailing description of human dwellings scattered over the land; and swine were the animals most commonly kept and fattened by the farmers and peasantry.
The two considerable villages of Owston and Crowle (pronouncedCroolby the euphonious Axholmians), together with the town of Epworth, the modern capital of the Isle, were the only localities in Axholme to which improvements, common in the rest of the shire, had then penetrated. Haxey, the ancient capital of the district, meanwhile, remained unvisited by the spirit of modern change, and drew its only distinction from the historic associations connected with its decay. In remote times, and under its Saxon appellation of "Axel," the town had been fortified with a castle of the Mowbrays, to a chief of which chivalrous race the greater part of "the Isle of Axelholm" was given as a manor, by the Norman conqueror. And, amid the straggling and irregular assemblage of buildings which now form the village, an intelligent visitor would discover indubitable evidence of the former importance of the place. Its large church, displaying the rich architecture prevalent during the wars of the Roses, and supporting a lofty tower resonant at stated hours with chimes ofloud and pleasing music, looks from an eminence, almost in cathedral state, over the greater extent of the Isle; and a few ample and curiously built houses of some centuries old,—affording a striking contrast to the paltry erections of the day,—denote the ancient denizens of Haxey to have been the principal possessors of comparative wealth, and, it may be added, of the soil in the neighbourhood.
On a fine summer's evening, at the door of one of these large antiquated houses, sat Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, the aged widow of Barachiah Thrumpkinson, cordwainer, deceased. Her husband, who had been long dead, was a thrifty man at his trade, and had, by habits of strict industry and parsimony,—holpen therein by the like disposition of his beloved Deborah,—contrived to store a good corner of his double-locked oaken chest with spade-ace guineas. Deborah had acquired sufficient skill in the "art and mystery" of her husband's employment to be able to carry on his trade after his death; and, with the assistance of two stout apprentices, and as many journeymen, was, at the season in which our narrative begins, conducting the best business in that line within a circuit of several miles.
We have hinted that Dame Deborah began to be stricken in years: nevertheless, the labours of "the gentle craft" gave little fatigue to her elastic mind and strong sinewy frame; and as she sat in the old-fashioned oaken chair, enjoying rest, and inhaling the soft breeze, after a day of healthful toil, she neitherstooped through infirmity, nor experienced dimness of vision, though sixty winters had gone over her head. The short pipe in her mouth proved that she had discovered an effectual, though unfeminine, solace for a weary frame; and although, through the flitting volumes of smoke, you saw that their frequent visitings had left on the dame's cheek a deeper shade than years only would have imprinted there,—yet, a nearer gaze would have convinced you that, in youth, no contemptible degree of comeliness had been commingled with her strength. With the calmness derived from experienced age, and from a consciousness of honest independence,—thus, then, sat the grave Deborah, receiving, now and then, a mark of respect from the slow, worn labourers of either sex, as they passed homeward, with fork or rake on shoulder, from the hay-field.
The dame had just knocked the ashes out of the head of her pipe, and was about to retire within her dwelling for the night, when her attention was strongly attracted by the conversation of a group which was suddenly formed but a few yards from her threshold. A pale, melancholy-looking woman, with a very little boy clinging to her blue linen apron, was met by a master chimney-sweep, followed by a couple of wretched-looking urchins bowed beneath enormous bags of soot.
"Well, mistress," said the man, in a voice so harsh that it grated sorely on the ears of Dame Deborah,who would have been offended with the words of the speaker, even if they had been uttered in the softest accents, "you may as well take the fasten-penny I offered you the other day, and let me have this lad o' yours."
The child clung more closely to his mother, and looked imploringly and pitifully in her face.
"Nay, I think I mustn't," replied the pale-looking woman, in a faint and somewhat irresolute tone, catching the wistful glance of her child, and then bending her eyes sorrowfully on the ground.
"Why, a golden guinea'll do thee some service," resumed the sweep; "and I'll warrant me, I'll take care o' thy little lad. He shall get plenty to eat and drink,—and I reckon he doesn't get overmuch of ayther with thee."
"I get as much as my mammy gets," said the child, adventuring to speak, but looking greatly affrighted.
"Why, thou art a tight little rogue," said the chimney sweep, smiling grimly through his soot, "and could run briskly up a chimney, I lay a wager.—Come, give us thy hand, and say thou wilt go with us."
The man's attempt at coaxing had a repulsive effect on the child, for he drew back, and trembled lest he should be laid hold of.
"Come, I'll make it two guineas," resumed the sweep, again addressing the mother; "and what canst thou do with him, now his father is dead,—as thou saidst when I met thee at Wroot, the other day? Thou wilt be obliged to throw thyself on some parish, soon,—for they'll never suffer thee to go sorning about in this way; and if thou art once in the workhouse, depend on't th' overseers will soon 'prentice the poor little fellow to somebody that may prove a hard master to him, mayhap. Better take my offer, and let him be sure of kind usage."
The mother was silent and motionless, and tears began to fall fast, while the sense of her present destitution and fears for the impending future struggled like strong wrestlers, with natural affection:—a fearful antagonism within, of which none but Adversity's children can conceive the reality of the portraiture.
"Nay, prythee, do not fret," said the man, with affected pity; and then taking out his begrimed hempen purse under the confident expectation that he was about to gain his point at once from the heart-broken weakness of a woman, added, "Come, come, here's that that will get thee a new gown, and, maybe, put thee in the way of getting on in the world besides."
The woman did not put forth her hand to take the proffered price for her child, for her mind was now too deeply distracted to understand the sweep's meaning; or, if she understood him, her frame was now too weak with grief to permit her making any answer.
"Oh, mammy, mammy!—do not let the grimyman take me away!" exclaimed the child, bursting into violent weeping, and pulling forcibly at his mother's apron.
"What's the matter with your bairn, good woman?" cried the benevolent old Dame Deborah at this moment,—for she had heard too much to be longer a listener, merely;—and the Axholmians were not versed in those refinements of modern society which define a neighbourly and humane interposition to be an act of unmannerly officiousness.
"Mammy, mammy!—good old woman speaks you," said the eager child, striving to arouse his mother's attention, and to call off her mind from the intense conflict which seemed to have paralysed her consciousness.
"Ay, ay," observed the sweep, "Dame Thrumpkinson is a thrifty, sensible body: let us put it, now, to her, as a reasonable matter, and see if she does not say I speak fair."
The group drew near the dame's door, and the man recounted the terms of his proposal with a self-complacent emphasis which indicated that he believed the dame, being a well-reputed tradeswoman, would assent at once to the advisableness of his scheme, and assist him in its immediate accomplishment.
"Now, what d'ye think, dame?" he said in conclusion; "d'ye not think that I speak fair?"
"Think!" answered the aged woman, fixing herkeen grey eyes upon the trafficker with an expression which withered his hopes in a moment;—"think!—why I think it would be a sinful shame to soil that bairn's pratty face wi' soot; and I think, beside, that thou hast so little of a man in thee, to wring a widowed-woman's heart by tempting her to barter the body and soul of her own bairn for gold, that if I were twenty years younger, I would shake thy liver in thee for what thou hast said to her."
The man's countenance fell, and he looked, for a moment, as if about to return an answer of abuse; but the dame kept her keen eye bent unblenchingly upon him;—and it seemed as if his courage failed, for he put up the guineas hastily into his purse, and turned from the spot, without daring to attempt an answer, followed by the two diminutive slaves whose hard lot it was to call him "Master."
"Ah, poor woman!" exclaimed Dame Deborah to the weeping and speechless mother;—"what a sorry sight it would have been to see you take yon hard-hearted rascal's money, while this poor faytherless innocent trudged away with a bag o' soot on his feeble back! No, no, it isn't come to that, nayther," she continued, vacating her arm-chair, and gently forcing the distressed woman into it; "sit thee down, poor heart! the bairn shall not want a friend, if aught should ail thee. I'll take care of him myself, if God Almighty should take thee away as well as his poor fayther."
"God bless you, dame!" sobbed the cheered mother, clasping her hands, and bursting anew into tears, which were now tears of joy.
"God bless good old woman!" shouted the little fellow, with the real heaven of guileless childhood in his face.
"My poor child may soon need your goodness, kind dame," rejoined the melancholy mother, turning very deadly pale,—"for I feel I am not long for this world: my strength is nearly gone."
"Well, well, poor heart, cheer up!" said the dame, in a tone of sincere condolence:—"remember, that there is One above, who hath said, He will be "a husband to the widow, and a"——but I'll fetch thee and thy pratty bairn a bite o' bread and cheese, and a horn o' mead.—Lord bless me! how white the poor creature is turning! God Almighty save her soul! she's going!"
The kind old woman hastened to support the sinking head of the dying stranger, and the child clung, convulsively, to the cold and helpless hand of his mother,—and uttered his wailing agony. All was soon over,—for the poor wanderer died almost instantaneously in Dame Deborah's arm-chair.
Reader, if thou hast a heart to love thy mother, I need not attempt to describe to thee how deep was the grief and horror felt by the orphan as he gazed upon his dead mother's face. And if thou hast not such a heart, I will not give thee an occasion toslight a feeling so holy as a child's absorbed love for its loving mother.
Suffice it to say, that after three days of almost unmitigated grief, the child, led by Dame Deborah, followed his mother's corpse, sobbing, to the grave; but the aged hand that conducted him to witness the laying of his heart-broken parent in her last resting-place led him back to a comfortable home. The sudden and striking circumstances of his mother's death saddened the orphan's spirits for some time; but he soon recovered the natural gaiety of childhood, notwithstanding his transference from the care of an affectionate and over-indulgent mother, to that of a guardian of advanced age and grave manners.
Deborah Thrumpkinson in vain inquired after the orphan's full name. He only knew that he had been called "Joe." She guessed that he must be about four years old; and, fearful that a ceremony which she conceived to be an indispensable preparative for his eternal salvation might have been neglected, she took him to the font of the parish church, and had him baptized "Joseph—in a Christian way," as she termed it: the good dame, herself, becoming surety for the child's fulfilment of the vows thus taken upon himself by proxy.
Joe's godmother and protectress taught him to read. And no benefit she conferred upon him in after-life was more thankfully remembered by him than this, her humane and patient initiation of hisinfantile understanding into the mystery of the alphabet, and the formation of syllables. Here her labour ended, for her science extended little further; but a Bible with the Apocrypha, ornamented with plates,—a valued family possession of the Thrumpkinsons,—was within his reach, and, at any hour of Sunday,—and sometimes on other days of the week when he had washed his hands very clean,—he was privileged with the growing pleasure of turning over the pages of the folio of wonders ever new.
The good old Dame was not disposed to mar her act of genuine charity,—the adoption of an orphan,—by imprisoning his young limbs too early in the bonds of labour. She did not place him on the humblestallto bend over thelast, till she supposed he had reached the age of fourteen. The ten preceding years of his orphanage passed away in a course of happy quietude. The staid age of his venerated protectress forbade any outbreaks of juvenile buoyancy in her sedate presence; but in Joe's lonely wanderings through the fields and lanes, as well as in his silent readings of the pictured Scriptures, he found pleasures which abundantly repaid the irksomeness of occasional restraint. His simple heart danced with joy at each return of the gladsome Spring, when his beloved acquaintances, the wild flowers, shewed their beautiful faces by brook and hedgerow; and he became familiar with all their localities, and felt a glowing and mysterious rapture in the renewed survey of their glorious tints and delicate pencillings, long before he learnt their names.
The commencement of his apprenticeship was marked by an event of no less importance than his introduction to Toby Lackpenny,—the most learned tailor in the Isle of Axholme,—and a personage of such exalted merit, that we purpose to pluck a sprig of "immortal amaranth," by making the world acquainted with his separate history:—"but let that pass." Toby,—from the rich immensity—for such it seemed to Joe—of his "library,"—furnished the young disciple of St. Crispin with two books which completely fascinated him: they were—the immortal fables of "The Pilgrim's Progress" and "Robinson Crusoe,"—by the immortal toilers, John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe. Joe was assured by his new friend that Crusoe's adventures were no less veritable true than wonderful,—while the "Pilgrim" had a hidden and all-important meaning, which he must endeavour to discover, and apply to his own spiritual state as he went along.