THE GOLDEN LION.
Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy alighted at the Golden Lion. It was
market-day: the inn, the yard, the town was all alive. Bragwell was
quite in his element. Money, company, and good cheer always set his
spirits afloat. He felt himself the principal man in the scene. He
had three great objects in view; the sale of his land; the letting
Mr. Worthy see how much he was looked up to by so many substantial
people, and the showing these people what a wise man his most
intimate friend, Mr. Worthy was. It was his way to try to borrow a
little credit from every person, and every thing he was connected
with, and by the credit to advance his interest and increase his
wealth.
The farmers met in a large room; and while they were transacting
their various concerns, those whose pursuits were the same naturally
herded together. The tanners were drawn to one corner, by the common
interest which they took in bark and hides. A useful debate was
carrying on at another little table, whether the practice of
_sowing_ wheat or of _planting_ it were most profitable. Another set
were disputing whether horses or oxen were best for plowing. Those
who were concerned in canals, sought the company of other canalers;
while some, who were interested in the new bill for inclosures,
wisely looked out for such as knew most about waste lands.
Mr. Worthy was pleased with all these subjects, and picked up
something useful on each. It was a saying of his, that most men
understood some one thing, and that he who was wise would try to
learn from every man something on the subject he best knew; but Mr.
Worthy made a further use of the whole. What a pity is it, said he,
that Christians are not so desirous to turn their time to good
account as men of business are! When shall we see religious persons
as anxious to derive profit from the experience of others as these
farmers? When shall we see them as eager to turn their time to good
account? While I approve these men for not being _slothful in
business_, let me improve the hint, by being also _fervent in
spirit_.
SHOWING HOW MUCH WISER THE CHILDREN OF THIS GENERATION ARE THAN THE
CHILDREN OF LIGHT.
When the hurry was a little over, Mr. Bragwell took a turn on the
bowling-green. Mr. Worthy followed him, to ask why the sale of the
estate was not brought forward. "Let the auctioneer proceed to
business," said he; "the company will be glad to get home by
daylight. I speak mostly with a view to others; for I do not think
of being a purchaser myself." "I know it," said Bragwell, "or I
would not be such a fool as to let the cat out of the bag. But is it
really possible," proceeded he, with a smile of contempt, "that you
should think I will sell my estate before dinner? Mr. Worthy, you
are a clever man at books, and such things; and perhaps can make out
an account on paper in a handsomer manner than I can. But I never
found much was to be got by fine writing. As to figures, I can carry
enough of them in my head to add, divide, and multiply more money
than your learning will ever give you the fingering of. You may beat
me at a book, but you are a very child at a bargain. Sell my land
before dinner, indeed!"
Mr. Worthy was puzzled to guess how a man was to show more wisdom by
selling a piece of ground at one hour than another, and desired an
explanation. Bragwell felt rather more contempt for his
understanding than he had ever done before. "Look'ee, Mr. Worthy,"
said he, "I do not think that knowledge is of any use to a man,
unless he has sense enough to turn it to account. Men are my books,
Mr. Worthy; and it is by reading, spelling, and putting them
together to good purpose, that I have got up in the world. I shall
give you a proof of this to-day. These farmers are most of them come
to the Lion with a view of purchasing this bit of land of mine, if
they should like the bargain. Now, as you know a thing can't be any
great bargain both to the buyer and the seller too, to them and to
me, it becomes me as a man of sense, who has the good of his family
at heart, to secure the bargain to myself. I would not cheat any
man, sir, but I think it fair enough to turn his weakness to my own
advantage; there is no law against that, you know; and this is the
use of one man's having more sense than another. So, whenever I have
a piece of land to sell, I always give a handsome dinner, with
plenty of punch and strong beer. We fill up the morning with other
business; and I carefully keep back my talk about the purchase till
we have dined. At dinner we have, of course a slice of politics.
This puts most of us into a passion, and you know anger is thirsty.
Besides 'Church and King' naturally brings on a good many other
toasts. Now, as I am master of the feast, you know it would be
shabby in me to save my liquor; so I push about the glass one way,
and the tankard the other, till all my company are as merry as
kings. Every man is delighted to see what a fine hearty fellow he
has to deal with, and Mr. Bragwell receives a thousand compliments.
By this time they have gained as much in good humor as they have
lost in sober judgment, and this is the proper moment for setting
the auctioneer to work, and this I commonly do to such good purpose,
that I go home with my purse a score or two pounds heavier than if
they had not been warmed by their dinner. In the morning men are
cool and suspicious, and have all their wits about them; but a
cheerful glass cures all distrust. And what is lucky, I add to my
credit as well as my pocket, and get more praise for my dinner than
blame for my bargain."
Mr. Worthy was struck with the absurd vanity which could tempt a man
to own himself guilty of an unfair action for the sake of showing
his wisdom. He was beginning to express his disapprobation, when
they were told dinner was on the table. They went in, and were soon
seated. All was mirth and good cheer. Every body agreed that no one
gave such hearty dinners as Mr. Bragwell. Nothing was pitiful where
he was master of the feast. Bragwell, who looked with pleasure on
the excellent dinner before him, and enjoyed the good account to
which he should turn it, heard their praises with delight, and cast
an eye on Worthy, as much as to say Who is the wise man now? Having
a mind, for his own credit, to make his friend talk, he turned to
him saying, "Mr. Worthy, I believe no people in the world enjoy life
more than men of our class. We have money and power, we live on the
fat of the land, and have as good right to gentility as the best."
"As to gentility, Mr. Bragwell," replied Worthy, "I am not sure that
this is among the wisest of our pretensions. But I will say, that
ours is a creditable and respectable business. In ancient times,
farming was the employment of princes and patriarchs; and,
now-a-days, an honest, humane, sensible, English yeoman, I will be
bold to say, is not only a very useful, but an honorable character.
But then, he must not merely think of _enjoying life_ as you call
it, but he must think of living up to the great ends for which he
was sent into the world. A wealthy farmer not only has it in his
power to live well, but to do much good. He is not only the father
of his own family, but his workmen, his dependants, and the poor at
large, especially in these hard times. He has in his power to raise
into credit all the parish offices which have fallen into disrepute
by getting into bad hands; and he can convert, what have been
falsely thought mean offices, into very important ones, by his just
and Christian-like manner of filling them. An upright juryman, a
conscientious constable, a humane overseer, an independent elector,
an active superintendent of a work-house, a just arbitrator in
public disputes, a kind counselor in private troubles; such a one, I
say, fills up a station in society no less necessary, and, as far as
it reaches, scarcely less important than that of a magistrate, a
sheriff of a county, or even a member of parliament. That can never
be a slight or degrading office, on which the happiness of a whole
parish may depend."
Bragwell, who thought the good sense of his friend reflected credit
on himself, encouraged Worthy to go on, but he did it in his own
vain way. "Ay, very true, Mr. Worthy," said he, "you are right; a
leading man in our class ought to be looked up to as an example, as
you say; in order to which, he should do things handsomely and
liberally, and not grudge himself, or his friends, any thing;"
casting an eye of complacency on the good dinner he had provided.
"True," replied Mr. Worthy, "he should be an example of simplicity,
sobriety, and plainness of manners. But he will do well," added he,
"not to affect a frothy gentility, which will sit but clumsily upon
him. If he has money, let him spend prudently, lay up moderately for
his children, and give liberally to the poor. But let him rather
seek to dignify his own station by his virtues, than to get above it
by his vanity. If he acts thus, then, as long as his country lasts,
a farmer of England will be looked upon as one of its most valuable
members; nay more, by this conduct, he may contribute to make
England last the longer. The riches of the farmer, corn and cattle,
are the true riches of a nation; but let him remember, that though
corn and cattle _enrich_ a country, nothing but justice, integrity,
and religion, can _preserve_ it."
Here one of the company, who was known to be a man of loose
principles, and who seldom went to public worship, said he had no
objection to religion, and was always ready to testify his regard to
it by drinking church and king. On this Mr. Worthy remarked, that he
was afraid that too many contented themselves with making this toast
include the whole of their religion, if not of their loyalty. "It is
with real sorrow," continued he, "that I am compelled to observe,
that though there are numberless honorable instances to the
contrary, yet I have seen more contempt and neglect of Christianity
in men of our calling, than in almost any other. They too frequently
hate the rector on account of his tithes, to which he has as good a
right as they have to their farms, and the curate on account of his
poverty; but the truth is, religion itself is often the concealed
object of their dislike. I know too many, who, while they affect a
violent outward zeal for the church, merely because they conceive
its security to be somehow connected with their own political
advantages, yet prove the hollowness of their attachment, by showing
little regard to its ministers, and less to its ordinance."
Young Wilson, the worthy grazier, whom Miss Bragwell turned off
because he did not understand French dances, thanked Mr. Worthy for
what he had said, and hoped he should be the better for it as long
as he lived, and desired his leave to be better acquainted. Most of
the others declared they had never heard a finer speech, and then,
as is usual, proceeded to show the good effect it had on them, by
loose conversation, hard drinking, and whatever could counteract all
that Worthy had been saying.
Mr. Worthy was much concerned to hear Mr. Bragwell, after dinner,
whisper to the waiter, to put less and less water into every fresh
bowl of punch. This was his old way; if the time they had to sit was
long, then the punch was to be weaker, as he saw no good in wasting
money to make it stronger than the time required. But if time
pressed, then the strength was to be increased in due proportion, as
a small quantity must then intoxicate them as much in a short time
as would be required of a greater quantity had the time been longer.
This was one of Mr. Bragwell's nice calculations; and this was the
sort of skill on which he so much valued himself.
At length the guests were properly primed for business; just in that
convenient stage of intoxication which makes men warm and rash, yet
keeps short of that absolute drunkenness which disqualifies for
business, the auctioneer set to work. All were bidders, and, if
possibly, all would have been purchasers; so happily had the feast
and the punch operated. They bid on with a still increasing spirit,
till they got so much above the value of the land, that Bragwell
with a wink and a whisper, said: "Who would sell his land fasting?
Eh! Worthy?" At length the estate was knocked down, at a price very
far above its worth.
As soon as it was sold, Bragwell again said softly to Worthy, "Five
from fifty and there remain forty-five. The dinner and drink won't
cost me five pounds, and I have got fifty more than the land was
worth. Spend a shilling to gain a pound! This is what I call
practical arithmetic, Mr. Worthy."
Mr. Worthy was glad to get out of this scene; and seeing that his
friend was quite sober, he resolved as they rode home, to deal
plainly with him. Bragwell had found out, among his calculations,
that there were some sins which could only be committed, by a
prudent man, one at a time. For instance, he knew that a man could
not well get rich and get drunk at the same moment; so that he used
to practice one first, and the other after; but he had found out
that some vices made very good company together; thus, while he had
watched himself in drinking, lest he should become as unfit to sell
as his guests were to buy, he had indulged, without measure, in the
good dinner he had provided. Mr. Worthy, I say, seeing him able to
bear reason, rebuked him for this day's proceedings with some
severity. Bragwell bore his reproofs with that sort of patience
which arises from an opinion of one's own wisdom, accompanied by a
recent flush of prosperity. He behaved with that gay good humor,
which grows out of united vanity and good fortune. "You are too
squeamish, Mr. Worthy," said he, "I have done nothing discreditable.
These men came with their open eyes. There is no compulsion used.
They are free to bid or to let it alone. I make them welcome, and I
shall not be thought a bit the worse of by them to-morrow, when they
are sober. Others do it besides me, and I shall never be ashamed of
any thing as long as I have custom on my side."
_Worthy._ I am sorry, Mr. Bragwell, to hear you support such
practices by such arguments. There is not, perhaps, a more dangerous
snare to the souls of men than is to be found in that word CUSTOM.
It is a word invented to reconcile corruption with credit, and sin
with safety. But no custom, no fashion, no combination of men, to
set up a false standard can ever make a wrong action right. That a
thing is often done, is so far from a proof of its being right, that
it is the very reason which will set a thinking man to inquire if it
be not really wrong, lest he should be following "a multitude to do
evil." Right is right, though only one man in a thousand pursues it;
and wrong will be forever wrong, though it be the allowed practice
of the other nine hundred and ninety-nine. If this shameful custom
be really common, which I can hardly believe, that is a fresh
reason why a conscientious man should set his face against it. And I
must go so far as to say (you will excuse me, Mr. Bragwell) that I
see no great difference, in the eye of conscience, whatever there
may be in the eye of the law, between your making a man first lose
his reason, and then getting fifty guineas out of his pocket,
_because_ he has lost it, and your picking the fifty guineas out of
his pocket, if you had met him dead drunk in his way home to-night.
Nay, he who meets a man already drunk and robs him, commits but one
sin; while he who makes him drunk first that he may rob him
afterward, commits two.
Bragwell gravely replied: "Mr. Worthy, while I have the practice of
people of credit to support me, and the law of the land to protect
me, I see no reason to be ashamed of any thing I do." "Mr.
Bragwell," answered Worthy, "a truly honest man is not always
looking sharp about him, to see how far custom and the law will bear
him out; if he be honest on principle, he will consult the law of
his conscience, and if he be a Christian, he will consult the
written law of God. We never deceive ourselves more than when we
overreach others. You would not allow that you had robbed your
neighbor for the world, yet you are not ashamed to own you have
outwitted him. I have read this great truth in the works of a
heathen, Mr. Bragwell, that the chief misery of man arises from his
not knowing how to make right calculations."
_Bragwell._ Sir, the remark does not belong to me. I have not made
an error of a farthing. Look at the account, sir--right to the
smallest fraction.
_Worthy._ Sir, I am talking of final accounts; spiritual
calculations; arithmetic in the long run. Now, in this, your real
Christian is the only true calculator; he has found out that we
shall be richer in the end, by denying, than by indulging
ourselves. He knows that when the balance comes to be struck, when
profit and loss shall be summed up, and the final account adjusted,
that whatever ease, prosperity, and delight we had in this world,
yet if we have lost our souls in the end, we can not reckon that we
have made a good bargain. We can not pretend that a few items of
present pleasure make any great figure, set over against the sum
total of eternal misery. So you see it is only for want of a good
head at calculation that men prefer time to eternity, pleasure to
holiness, earth to heaven. You see if we get our neighbor's money at
the price of our own integrity; hurt his good name, but destroy our
own souls; raise our outward character, but wound our inward
conscience; when we come to the last reckoning, we shall find that
we were only knaves in the second instance, but fools in the first.
In short, we shall find that whatever other wisdom we possessed, we
were utterly ignorant of the skill of true calculation.
Notwithstanding this rebuff, Mr. Bragwell got home in high spirits,
for no arguments could hinder him from feeling that he had the fifty
guineas in his purse.
There is to a worldly man something so irresistible in the actual
possession of present, and visible, and palpable pleasure, that he
considers it as a proof of his wisdom to set them in decided
opposition to the invisible realities of eternity.
As soon as Bragwell came in, he gayly threw the money he had
received on the table, and desired his wife to lock it up. Instead
of receiving it with her usual satisfaction, she burst into a
violent fit of passion, and threw it back to him. "You may keep your
cash yourself," said she. "It is all over--we want no more money.
You are a ruined man! A wicked creature, scraping and working as we
have done for her!" Bragwell trembled, but durst not ask what he
dreaded to hear. His wife spared him the trouble, by crying out as
soon as her rage permitted: "The girl is ruined; Polly is gone off!"
Poor Bragwell's heart sunk within him; he grew sick and giddy, and
as his wife's rage swallowed up her grief, so, in his grief, he
almost forgot his anger. The purse fell from his hand, and he cast a
look of anguish upon it, finding, for the first time, that money
could not relieve his misery.
Mr. Worthy, who, though much concerned, was less discomposed, now
called to mind, that the young lady had not returned with her mother
and sister the night before; he begged Mrs. Bragwell to explain this
sad story. She, instead of soothing her husband, fell to reproaching
him. "It is all your fault," said she; "you were a fool for your
pains. If I had had my way the girls would never have kept company
with any but men of substance, and then they could not have been
ruined." "Mrs. Bragwell," said Worthy, "if she has chosen a bad man,
it would be still a misfortune, even though he had been rich." "O,
that would alter the case," said she, "a _fat sorrow is better than
a lean one_. But to marry a beggar, there is no sin like that." Here
Miss Betsy, who stood sullenly by, put in a word, and said, her
sister, however, had not disgraced herself by having married a
farmer or a tradesman; she had, at least, made choice of a
gentleman. "What marriage! what gentleman!" cried the afflicted
father. "Tell me the worst;" He was now informed that his darling
daughter was gone off with a strolling player, who had been acting
in the neighboring villages lately. Miss Betsy again put in, saying,
he was no stroller, but a gentleman in disguise, who only acted for
his own diversion. "Does he so," said the now furious Bragwell,
"then he shall be transported for mine."
At this moment a letter was brought him from his new son-in-law, who
desired his leave to wait upon him, and implore his forgiveness. He
owned he had been shopman to a haberdasher; but thinking his person
and talents ought not to be thrown away upon trade, and being also a
little behindhand, he had taken to the stage with a view of making
his fortune; that he had married Miss Bragwell entirely for love,
and was sorry to mention so paltry a thing as money, which he
despised, but that his wants were pressing: his landlord, to whom he
was in debt, having been so vulgar as to threaten to send him to
prison. He ended with saying: "I have been obliged to shock your
daughter's delicacy, by confessing my unlucky real name. I believe I
owe part of my success with her, to my having assumed that of
Augustus Frederic Theodosius. She is inconsolable at this
confession, which, as you are now my father, I must also make to
you, and subscribe myself, with many blushes, by the vulgar name of
your dutiful son,
"TIMOTHY INCLE."
"O!" cried the afflicted father, as he tore the letter in a rage,
"Miss Bragwell married to a strolling actor! How shall I bear it?"
"Why, I would not bear it at all," cried the enraged mother; "I
would never see her; I would never forgive her; I would let her
starve at the corner of the barn, while that rascal, with all those
pagan, popish names, was ranting away at the other." "Nay," said
Miss Betsy, "if he is only a shopman, and if his name be really
Timothy Incle, I would never forgive her neither. But who would have
thought it by his looks, and by his _monstrous genteel_ behavior?
no, he never can have so vulgar a name."
"Come, come," said Mr. Worthy, "were he really an honest
haberdasher, I should think there was no other harm done, except the
disobedience of the thing. Mr. Bragwell, this is no time to blame
you, or hardly to reason with you. I feel for you sincerely. I
ought not, perhaps, just at present, to reproach you for the
mistaken manner in which you have bred up your daughters, as your
error has brought its punishment along with it. You now see, because
you now feel, the evil of a false education. It has ruined your
daughter; your whole plan unavoidably led to some such end. The
large sums you spent to qualify them, as you thought, for a high
station, only served to make them despise their own, and could do
them nothing but harm, while your habits of life properly confined
them to company of a lower class. While they were better dressed
than the daughters of the first gentry, they were worse taught as to
real knowledge, than the daughters of your plowmen. Their vanity has
been raised by excessive finery, and kept alive by excessive
flattery. Every evil temper has been fostered by indulgence. Their
pride has never been controlled; their self-will has never been
subdued; their idleness has laid them open to every temptation, and
their abundance has enabled them to gratify every desire; their
time, that precious talent, has been entirely wasted. Every thing
they have been taught to do is of no use, while they are utterly
unacquainted with all which they ought to have known. I deplore Miss
Polly's false step. That she should have married a runaway shopman,
turned stroller, I truly lament. But for what better husband was she
qualified? For the wife of a farmer she was too idle; for the wife
of a tradesman she was too expensive; for the wife of a gentleman
she was too ignorant. You yourself was most to blame. You expected
her to act wisely, though you never taught her that _fear of God
which is the beginning of wisdom_. I owe it to you, as a friend, and
to myself as a Christian, to declare, that your practices in the
common transactions of life, as well as your present misfortune, are
almost the natural consequences of those false principles which I
protested against when you were at my house."[12]
[12] See Part II.
Mrs. Bragwell attempted several times to interrupt Mr. Worthy, but
her husband would not permit it. He felt the force of all his friend
said, and encouraged him to proceed. Mr. Worthy thus went on: "It
grieves me to say how much your own indiscretion has contributed
even to bring on your present misfortune. You gave your countenance
to this very company of strollers, though you knew they were acting
in defiance of the laws of the land, to say no worse. They go from
town to town, and from barn to barn, stripping the poor of their
money, the young of their innocence, and all of their time. Do you
remember with how much pride you told me that you had bespoke _The
Bold Stroke for a Wife_, for the benefit of this very Mr. Frederic
Theodosius? To this pernicious ribaldry you not only carried your
own family, but wasted I know not how much money in treating your
workmen's wives and children, in these hard times, too, when they
have scarcely bread to eat, or a shoe on their feet; and all this
only that you might have the absurd pleasure of seeing those
flattering words, _By desire of Mr. Bragwell_, stuck up in print at
the public house, on the blacksmith's shed, at the turnpike-gate,
and on the barn-door."
Mr. Bragwell acknowledged that his friend's rebuke was too just, and
he looked so very contrite as to raise the pity of Mr. Worthy, who,
in a mild voice, thus went on: "What I have said is not so much to
reproach you with the ruin of one daughter, as from a desire to save
the other. Let Miss Betsy go home with me. I do not undertake to be
her jailor, but I will be her friend. She will find in my daughters
kind companions, and in my wife a prudent guide. I know she will
dislike us at first, but I do not despair in time of convincing her
that a sober, humble, useful, pious life, is as necessary to make us
happy on earth, as it is to fit us for heaven."
Poor Miss Betsy, though she declared it would be _frightful dull_,
and _monstrous vulgar_, and _dismal melancholy_, yet was she so
terrified at the discontent and grumbling which she would have to
endure at home, that she sullenly consented. She had none of that
filial tenderness which led her to wish to stay and sooth and
comfort her afflicted father. All she thought about was to get out
of the way of her mother's ill humor, and to carry so much of her
finery with her as to fill the Misses Worthy with envy and respect.
Poor girl! she did not know that envy was a feeling they never
indulged; and that fine clothes were the last thing to draw their
respect.
Mr. Worthy took her home next day. When they reached his house they
found there young Wilson, Miss Betsy's old admirer. She was much
pleased at this, and resolved to treat him well. But her good or ill
treatment now signified but little. This young grazier reverenced
Mr. Worthy's character, and ever since he had met him at the Lion,
had been thinking what a happiness it would be to marry a young
woman bred up by such a father. He had heard much of the modesty and
discretion of both the daughters, but his inclination now determined
him in favor of the elder.
Mr. Worthy, who knew him to be a young man of good sense and sound
principles, allowed him to become a visitor at his house, but
deferred his consent to the marriage till he knew him more
thoroughly. Mr. Wilson, from what he saw of the domestic piety of
this family, improved daily, both in the knowledge and practice of
religion; and Mr. Worthy soon formed him into a most valuable
character. During this time Miss Bragwell's hopes had revived: but
though she appeared in a new dress almost every day, she had the
mortification of being beheld with great indifference by one whom
she had always secretly liked. Mr. Wilson married before her face a
girl who was greatly her inferior in fortune, person, and
appearance; but who was humble, frugal, meek, and pious. Miss
Bragwell now strongly felt the truth of what Mr. Wilson had once
told her, that a woman may make an excellent partner for a dance who
would make a very bad companion for life.
Hitherto Mr. Bragwell and his daughters had only learned to regret
their folly and vanity, as it had produced them mortification in
this life; whether they were ever brought to a more serious sense of
their errors may be seen in a future part of this history.