Christmas gold, p.647
Christmas Gold, page 647
"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-two in 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 to increase 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: and again, when all mankind had been destroyed, with the exception of the family of Noah. The world was pretty well empty of inhabitants then, and wanted replenishing. But the case is different in an old inhabited country, which is already so replenished—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 the greater 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 are two ways of engaging in marriage. Men may either enter upon it reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and in the fear of God; or else they may engage in it inadvisedly, lightly, and wantonly, '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 houses for 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, that when 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 of the 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 a mere 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 will not 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 such as 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 this dissertation on 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 one or 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 that would 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, since drunkards 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 his good-nature received, 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'm sure, I thought it very ill-natured of 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 very ill-natured of 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. Hooker either, 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 two minutes. 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 do not know 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 what do you call being wicked?"
"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 word wickedness almost entirely to offences, by which men are injured; now I call a man wicked, 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, that the 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 it ill-natured to tell him of his danger? And is it ill-natured of Mr. Hooker, to try to save a man from falling into the pit of destruction?"
"But why should he do it at such a time—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, who sit in the seat of the scornful; it was like casting 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 a worldly, ungodly course of life, has certainly nothing before him but a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. Surely it is not ill-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 of ill-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 me never to go to church at all, so I drop in sometimes when there is no sermon. I like to be good-humoured and pleasant, and don't like to think of these melancholy subjects until I've occasion."
Oldacre found that he was impenetrable by any thing that he could say, and was not inclined to resume the conversation, and went up stairs to Fowler to ask him how he was.
Barton quitted the house, but the door was hardly closed, when his good-nature was 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 the worst 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 most ill-natured proceeding that ever was known; and in the first warmth of his indignation said, that there should be no putting 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, threatened stoutly, and talked of fining the absentees, but they would not be so ill-natured as 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 their good-nature.
Fowler's leg, meanwhile, continued to mend, 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 so ill-natured as that comes to," said Barton. "When a man robs and steals, punish him to the utmost; but drunkenness is a good-natured fault, and the drunken man is nobody's enemy but his own."
"Nobody's enemy but his own!" said old Truman, who happened to be standing by, "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."
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