Sunday Morning—Tares and Wheat—Teetotalism—Hearsay—Irish Family—What
Profession?—Sabbath Evening—Priest or Minister—Give us God.
On the Sunday morning, as we sat at breakfast, we heard the noise of
singing in the street; running to the window, we saw a number of people,
bareheaded, from whose mouths the singing or psalmody proceeded. These,
on inquiry, we were informed, were Methodists, going about to raise
recruits for a grand camp-meeting, which was to be held a little way out
of the town. We finished our breakfast, and at eleven attended divine
service at the Cathedral. The interior of this holy edifice was smooth
and neat, strangely contrasting with its exterior, which was rough and
weather-beaten. We had decent places found us by a civil verger, who
probably took us for what we were—decent country people. We heard much
fine chanting by the choir, and an admirable sermon, preached by a
venerable prebend, on “Tares and Wheat.” The congregation was numerous
and attentive. After service we returned to our inn, and at two o’clock
dined. During dinner our conversation ran almost entirely on the sermon,
which we all agreed was one of the best sermons we had ever heard, and
most singularly adapted to country people like ourselves, being on “Wheat
and Tares.” When dinner was over my wife and daughter repaired to the
neighbouring church, and I went in quest of the camp-meeting, having a
mighty desire to know what kind of a thing Methodism at Chester was.
I found about two thousand people gathered together in a field near the
railroad station; a waggon stood under some green elms at one end of the
field, in which were ten or a dozen men with the look of Methodist
preachers; one of these was holding forth to the multitude when I
arrived, but he presently sat down, I having, as I suppose, only come in
time to hear the fag-end of his sermon. Another succeeded him, who,
after speaking for about half an hour, was succeeded by another. All the
discourses were vulgar and fanatical, and in some instances
unintelligible, at least to my ears. There was plenty of vociferation,
but not one single burst of eloquence. Some of the assembly appeared to
take considerable interest in what was said, and every now and then
showed they did by devout hums and groans; but the generality evidently
took little or none, staring about listlessly, or talking to one another.
Sometimes, when anything particularly low escaped from the mouth of the
speaker, I heard exclamations of “how low! well, I think I could preach
better than that,” and the like. At length a man of about fifty,
pock-broken and somewhat bald, began to speak: unlike the others who
screamed, shouted, and seemed in earnest, he spoke in a dry, waggish
style, which had all the coarseness and nothing of the cleverness of that
of old Rowland Hill, whom I once heard. After a great many jokes, some
of them very poor, and others exceedingly thread-bare, on the folly of
those who sell themselves to the Devil for a little temporary enjoyment,
he introduced the subject of drunkenness, or rather drinking fermented
liquors, which he seemed to consider the same thing; and many a sorry
joke on the folly of drinking them did he crack, which some half-dozen
amidst the concourse applauded. At length he said:—
“After all, brethren, such drinking is no joking matter, for it is the
root of all evil. Now, brethren, if you would all get to heaven, and
cheat the enemy of your souls, never go into a public-house to drink, and
never fetch any drink from a public-house. Let nothing pass your lips,
in the shape of drink, stronger than water or tea. Brethren, if you
would cheat the Devil, take the pledge and become teetotalers. I am a
teetotaller myself, thank God—though once I was a regular lushington.”
Here ensued a burst of laughter in which I joined, though not at the
wretched joke, but at the absurdity of the argument; for, according to
that argument, I thought my old friends the Spaniards and Portuguese must
be the most moral people in the world, being almost all water-drinkers.
As the speaker was proceeding with his nonsense, I heard some one say
behind me—“a pretty fellow that, to speak against drinking and
public-houses: he pretends to be reformed, but he is still as fond of the
lush as ever. It was only the other day I saw him reeling out of a
gin-shop.”
Now that speech I did not like, for I saw at once that it could not be
true, so I turned quickly round and said—“Old chap, I can scarcely credit
that!”
The man, whom I addressed, a rough-and-ready-looking fellow of the lower
class, seemed half disposed to return me a savage answer; but an
Englishman of the lower class, though you call his word in question, is
never savage with you, provided you call him old chap, and he considers
you by your dress to be his superior in station. Now I, who had called
the word of this man in question, had called him old chap, and was
considerably better dressed than himself; so, after a little hesitation,
he became quite gentle, and something more, for he said in a
half-apologetic tone—“Well, sir, I did not exactly see him myself, but a
particular friend of mine heer’d a man say, that he heer’d another man
say, that he was told that a man heer’d that that fellow—”
“Come, come!” said I, “a man must not be convicted on evidence like that;
no man has more contempt for the doctrine which that man endeavours to
inculcate than myself, for I consider it to have been got up partly for
fanatical, partly for political purposes; but I will never believe that
he was lately seen coming out of a gin-shop; he is too wise, or rather
too cunning, for that.”
I stayed listening to these people till evening was at hand. I then left
them, and without returning to the inn strolled over the bridge to the
green, where the tents stood. I went up to them: two women sat at the
entrance of one; a man stood by them, and the children, whom I had before
seen, were gambolling near at hand. One of the women was about forty,
the other some twenty years younger; both were ugly. The younger was a
rude, stupid-looking creature, with red cheeks and redder hair, but there
was a dash of intelligence and likewise of wildness in the countenance of
the elder female, whose complexion and hair were rather dark. The man
was about the same age as the elder woman; he had rather a sharp look,
and was dressed in hat, white frock-coat, corduroy breeches, long
stockings and shoes. I gave them the seal of the evening.
“Good evening to your haner,” said the man—“Good evening to you, sir,”
said the woman; whilst the younger mumbled something, probably to the
same effect, but which I did not catch.
“Fine weather,” said I.
“Very, sir,” said the elder female. “Won’t you please to sit down?” and
reaching back into the tent, she pulled out a stool which she placed near
me.
I sat down on the stool. “You are not from these parts?” said I,
addressing myself to the man.
“We are not, your haner,” said the man; “we are from Ireland.”
“And this lady,” said I, motioning with my head to the elder female, “is,
I suppose, your wife.”
“She is, your haner, and the children which your haner sees are my
children.”
“And who is this young lady?” said I, motioning to the uncouth-looking
girl.
“The young lady, as your haner is pleased to call her, is a daughter of a
sister of mine who is now dead, along with her husband. We have her with
us, your haner, because if we did not she would be alone in the world.”
“And what trade or profession do you follow?” said I.
“We do a bit in the tinkering line, your haner.”
“Do you find tinkering a very profitable profession?” said I.
“Not very, your haner; but we contrive to get a crust and a drink by it.”
“That’s more than I ever could,” said I.
“Has your haner then ever followed tinkering?” said the man.
“Yes,” said I, “but I soon left off.”
“And became a minister,” said the elder female, “Well, your honour is not
the first indifferent tinker that’s turned out a shining minister.”
“Why do you think me a minister?”
“Because your honour has the very look and voice of one. Oh, it was kind
in your honour to come to us here in the Sabbath evening, in order that
you might bring us God.”
“What do you mean by bringing you God?” said I.
“Talking to us about good things, sir, and instructing us out of the Holy
Book.”
“I am no minister,” said I.
“Then you are a priest; I am sure you are either a minister or a priest;
and now that I look on you, sir, I think you look more like a priest than
a minister. Yes, I see you are a priest. Oh, your Reverence, give us
God! Pull out the crucifix from your bosom, and let us kiss the face of
God!”
“Of what religion are you?” said I.
“Catholics, your Reverence, Catholics are we all.”
“I am no priest.”
“Then you are a minister; I am sure you are either a priest or a
minister. Oh sir, pull out the Holy Book, and instruct us from it this
blessed Sabbath evening. Give us God, sir, give us God!”
“And would you, who are Catholics, listen to the voice of a minister?”
“That would we, sir; at least I would. If you are a minister, and a good
minister, I would as soon listen to your words as those of Father Toban
himself.”
“And who is Father Toban?”
“A powerful priest in these parts, sir, who has more than once eased me
of my sins, and given me God upon the cross. Oh, a powerful and
comfortable priest is Father Toban.”
“And what would he say if he were to know that you asked for God from a
minister?”
“I do not know, and do not much care; if I get God, I do not care whether
I get Him from a minister or a priest; both have Him, no doubt, only give
Him in different ways. Oh sir, do give us God; we need Him sir, for we
are sinful people; we call ourselves tinkers, but many is the sinful
thing—”
“Bi-do-hosd;” said the man: Irish words tantamount to “Be silent!”
“I will not be hushed,” said the woman, speaking English. “The man is a
good man, and he will do us no harm. We are tinkers, sir; but we do many
things besides tinkering, many sinful things, especially in Wales,
whither we are soon going again. Oh, I want to be eased of some of my
sins before I go into Wales again, and so do you, Tourlough, for you know
how you are sometimes haunted by devils at night in those dreary Welsh
hills. Oh sir, give us comfort in some shape or other, either as priest
or minister; give us God! Give us God!”
“I am neither priest nor minister,” said, I, “and can only say: Lord have
mercy upon you!” Then getting up I flung the children some money and
departed.
“We do not want your money, sir,” screamed the woman after me; “we have
plenty of money. Give us God! Give us God!”
“Yes, your haner,” said the man, “give us God! we do not want money;” and
the uncouth girl said something, which sounded much like Give us God! but
I hastened across the meadow, which was now quite dusky, and was
presently in the inn with my wife and daughter.