Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Janet Blenkinship and the
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THE
COMPLETE PROSE WORKS
OF
MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, ESQ.
COMPRISING
THE CROCK OF GOLD,
THE TWINS,
AN AUTHOR'S MIND,
HEART,
PROBABILITIES, ETC.
REVISED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS EDITION BY W. C. ARMSTRONG.
HARTFORD:
PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON
1851.
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|Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. This |
|omnibus edition consists of four separately published works which |
|contain many inconsistencies. These are as in the originals. |
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PUBLISHERS' PREFACE.
Mr. Tupper has achieved a popularity for his works, which
has rarely been enjoyed by any one at so early a period of life;
he being now only between thirty-five and forty years of age.
Where all are so intrinsically valuable, it is difficult to determine
which particular work has contributed most to his rapid and
enviable advancement; yet, were an award indispensable, we
should feel constrained to make it in favour of his '_Proverbial
Philosophy_.' It is one of those unique productions which commends
itself to all classes of readers, and from the perusal of
which _all_ cannot but derive substantial means of improvement.
Familiar truths are so cogently treated therein, as to leave an
indelible impression upon the mind, which could not, perhaps,
have been so thoroughly made in any other manner; and the
"thoughts and arguments" may be perused and rëperused with
an advantage but few other writings are capable of yielding.
The rapid and extensive sale of several editions, issued in
other places--some of them of rather an indifferent character, as
regards mechanical execution--and the increasing demand still
manifested for them, has induced the present publishers to collect
the entire works of Mr. Tupper, and to stereotype them in a
style worthy of their excellence. Each work has been thoroughly
revised, and the errors which disfigure some other editions have
been carefully corrected--an advantage readily appreciable by
those who discriminate in their selections for the library or the
centre-table.
* * * * *
THE
CROCK OF GOLD;
A RURAL NOVEL.
BY
MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, ESQ., M.A.,
AUTHOR OF
"PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY."
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE.
1. The Labourer; and his Dawning Discontent 11
2. The Family; the Home; and more Repinings 14
3. The Contract 17
4. The Lost Theft 21
5. The Inquest 23
6. The Bailiff; and a Bitter Trial 27
7. Wrongs and Ruin 32
8. The Covetous Dream 35
9. The Poacher 38
10. Ben Burke's Strange Adventure 41
11. Sleep 45
12. Love 48
13. The Discovery 52
14. Jonathan's Store 56
15. Another Discovery, and the Earnest of Good Things 58
16. How the Home was blessed thereby 62
17. Care 65
18. Investment 68
19. Calumny 72
20. The Bailiff's Visit 74
21. The Capture 77
22. The Aunt and her Nephew 80
23. Schemes 83
24. The Devil's Counsel 87
25. The Ambuscade 89
26. Preliminaries 92
27. Robbery 95
28. Murder 96
29. The Reward 97
30. Second Thoughts 100
31. Mammon; and Contentment 102
32. Next Morning 104
33. The Alarm 106
34. Doubts 108
35. Fears 109
36. Prison Comforts 111
37. Good Counsel 113
38. Experience 114
39. Jonathan's Troth 115
40. Suspicions 118
41. Grace's Alternative 119
42. The Dismissal 122
43. Simon alone 124
44. The Trial 127
45. Roger's Defence 129
46. The Witness 130
47. Mr. Sharp's Advocacy 133
48. Sentence and Death 140
49. Righteous Mammon 143
50. The Crock a Blessing 144
51. Popularity 147
52. Roger at the Swan 149
53. Roger's Triumph 151
54. Sir John's Parting Speech 152
CHAPTER I.
THE LABOURER; AND HIS DAWNING DISCONTENT.
Roger Acton woke at five. It was a raw March morning, still
dark, and bitterly cold, while at gusty intervals the rain beat in
against the crazy cottage-window. Nevertheless, from his poor pallet he
must up and rouse himself, for it will be open weather by sunrise, and
his work lies two miles off; Master Jennings is not the man to show him
favour if he be late, and Roger cannot afford to lose an hour: so he
shook off the luxury of sleep, and rose again to toil with weary effort.
"Honest Roger," as the neighbours called him, was a fair specimen of a
class which has been Britain's boast for ages, and may be still again,
in measure, but at present that glory appears to be departing: a class
much neglected, much enduring; thoroughly English--just, industrious,
and patient; true to the altar, and loyal to the throne; though haply
shaken somewhat now from both those noble faiths--warped in their
principles, and blunted in their feelings, by lying doctrines and harsh
economies; a class--I hate the cold cant term--a race of honourable men,
full of cares, pains, privations--but of pleasures next to none; whose
life at its most prosperous estate is labour, and in death we count him
happy who did not die a pauper. Through them, serfs of the soil, the
earth yields indeed her increase, but it is for others; from the fields
of plenty they glean a scanty pittance, and fill the barns to bursting,
while their children cry for bread. Not that Roger for his part often
wanted work; he was the best hand in the parish, and had earned of his
employers long ago the name of Steady Acton; but the fair wages for a
fair day's labour were quite another thing, and the times went very hard
for him and his. A man himself may starve, while his industry makes
others fat: and a liberal landlord all the winter through may keep his
labourers in work, while a crafty, overbearing bailiff mulcts them in
their wages.
For the outward man, Acton stood about five feet ten, a gaunt, spare,
and sinewy figure, slightly bent; his head sprinkled with gray; his face
marked with those rigid lines, which tell, if not of positive famine, at
least of too much toil on far too little food; in his eye, patience and
good temper; in his carriage, a mixture of the sturdy bearing, necessary
to the habitual exercise of great muscular strength, together with that
gait of humility--almost humiliation--which is the seal of oppression
upon poverty. He might be about forty, or from that to fifty, for
hunger, toil, and weather had used him the roughest; while, for all
beside, the patched and well-worn smock, the heavily-clouted high-laced
boots, a dingy worsted neck-tie, and an old felt hat, complete the
picture of externals.
But, for the matter of character within, Roger is quite another man. If
his rank in this world is the lowest, many potentates may envy him his
state elsewhere. His heart is as soft, as his hand is horny; with the
wandering gipsy or the tramping beggar, thrust aside, perhaps
deservedly, as impudent impostors from the rich man's gate, has he
often-times shared his noon-day morsel: upright and sincere himself, he
thinks as well of others: he scarcely ever heard the Gospels read in
church, specially about Eastertide, but the tears would trickle down his
weather-beaten face: he loves children--his neighbour's little ones as
well as his own: he will serve any one for goodness' sake without reward
or thanks, and is kind to the poor dumb cattle: he takes quite a pride
in his little rod or two of garden, and is early and late at it, both
before and after the daily sum of labour: he picks up a bit of knowledge
here and there, and somehow has contrived to amass a fund of information
for which few would give him credit from his common looks; and he joins
to that stock of facts a natural shrewdness to use his knowledge wisely.
Though with little of what is called sentiment, or poetry, or fancy in
his mind (for harsh was the teaching of his childhood, and meagre the
occasions of self-culture ever since), the beauty of creation is by no
means lost upon him, and he notices at times its wisdom too. With a
fixed habit of manly piety ever on his lips and ever in his heart, he
recognises Providence in all things, just, and wise, and good. More than
so; simply as a little child who endures the school-hour for the
prospect of his play-time, Roger Acton bears up with noble meekness
against present suffering, knowing that his work and trials and
troubles are only for a little while, but his rest and his reward remain
a long hereafter. He never questioned this; he knew right well Who had
earned it for him; and he lived grateful and obedient, filling up the
duties of his humble station. This was his faith, and his works followed
it. He believed that God had placed him in his lot, to be a labourer,
and till God's earth, and, when his work is done, to be sent on better
service in some happier sphere: the where, or the how, did not puzzle
him, any more than divers other enigmatical whys and wherefores of his
present state; he only knew this, that it would all come right at last:
and, barring sin (which he didn't comprehend), somehow all was right at
present. What if poverty pinched him? he was a great heir still; what if
oppression bruised him? it would soon be over. He trusted to his Pilot,
like the landsman in a storm; to his Father, as an infant in the dark.
For guilt, he had a Saviour, and he thought of him in penitence; for
trouble, a Guardian, and he looked to him in peace; and as for toil,
back-breaking toil, there was another Master whom he served with spade,
and mattock, and a thankful heart, while he only seemed to be working
for the landlord or his bailiff.
Such a man then had been Roger Acton from his youth up till now, or, if
sadness must be told, nearly until now; for, to speak truth, his heart
at times would fail him, and of late he had been bitter in repinings and
complaint. For a day or two, in particular, he had murmured loudly. It
was hard, very hard, that an honest, industrious man, as he was, should
so scantily pick a living out of this rich earth: after all said, let
the parson preach as he will, it's a fine thing to have money, and that
his reverence knows right well, or he wouldn't look so closely for his
dues. [N.B. Poor Mr. Evans was struggling as well as he could to bring
up six children, on a hundred and twenty pounds per annum.] Roger, too,
was getting on in years, with a blacker prospect for the future than
when he first stood behind a plough-tail. Then there were many wants
unsatisfied, which a bit of gold might buy; and his wife teased him to
be doing something better. Thus was it come at length to pass, that,
although he had endured so many years, he now got discontented at his
penury;--what human heart can blame him?--and with murmurings came
doubt; with doubt of Providence, desire of lucre; so the sunshine of
religion faded from his path;--what mortal mind can wonder?