The Squire was greatly ruffled at breakfast that morning. He was too
much of an Englishman to bear insult patiently, and he considered that
he had been personally insulted in the outrage offered to his recent
donation to the parish. His feelings, too, were hurt as well as his
pride. There was something so ungrateful in the whole thing, just after
he had taken so much pains, not only in the resuscitation, but the
embellishment of the stocks. It was not, however, so rare an occurrence
for the Squire to be ruffled, as to create any remark. Riccabocca,
indeed, as a stranger, and Mrs. Hazeldean, as a wife, had the quick tact
to perceive that the host was glum and the husband snappish; but the one
was too discreet and the other too sensible, to chafe the new sore,
whatever it might be; and shortly after breakfast the Squire retired
into his study, and absented himself from morning service.
In his delightful _Life of Oliver Goldsmith_, Mr. Forster takes care to
touch our hearts by introducing his hero's excuse for not entering the
priesthood. He did not feel himself good enough. Thy Vicar of Wakefield,
poor Goldsmith, was an excellent substitute for thee; and Dr. Primrose,
at least, will be good enough for the world until Miss Jemima's fears
are realized. Now, Squire Hazeldean had a tenderness of conscience much
less reasonable than Goldsmith's. There were occasionally days in which
he did not feel good enough--I don't say for a priest, but even for one
of the congregation--"days in which (said the Squire in his own blunt
way), as I have never in my life met a worse devil than a devil of a
temper, I'll not carry mine into the family pew. He shan't be growling
out hypocritical responses from my poor grandmother's prayer-book." So
the Squire and his demon staid at home. But the demon was generally cast
out before the day was over; and, on this occasion, when the bell rang
for afternoon service, it may be presumed that the Squire had reasoned
or fretted himself into a proper state of mind; for he was then seen
sallying forth from the porch of his Hall, arm-in-arm with his wife, and
at the head of his household. The second service was (as is commonly the
case, in rural districts) more numerously attended than the first one;
and it was our Parson's wont to devote to this service his most
effective discourse.
Parson Dale, though a very fair scholar, had neither the deep theology
nor the archaeological learning that distinguish the rising generation of
the clergy. I much doubt if he could have passed what would now be
called a creditable examination in the Fathers; and, as for all the nice
formalities in the rubric, he would never have been the man to divide a
congregation, or puzzle a bishop. Neither was Parson Dale very erudite
in ecclesiastical architecture. He did not much care whether all the
details in the church were purely gothic or not: crockets and finials,
round arch and pointed arch were matters, I fear, on which he had never
troubled his head. But one secret Parson Dale did possess, which is,
perhaps, of equal importance with those subtler mysteries--he knew how
to fill his church! Even at morning service no pews were empty, and at
evening service the church overflowed.
Parson Dale, too, may be considered, nowadays, to hold but a mean idea
of the spiritual authority of the Church. He had never been known to
dispute on its exact bearing with the State--whether it was incorporated
with the State, or above the State--whether it was antecedent to the
Papacy, or formed from the Papacy, &c., &c. According to his favorite
maxim, _Quieta non movere_ (not to disturb things that are quiet), I
have no doubt that he would have thought that the less discussion is
provoked upon such matters, the better for both church and laity. Nor
had he ever been known to regret the disuse of the ancient custom of
excommunication, nor any other diminution of the powers of the
priesthood, whether minatory or militant; yet for all this, Parson Dale
had a great notion of the sacred privilege of a minister of the
gospel--to advise--to deter--to persuade--to reprove. And it was for the
evening service that he prepared those sermons, which may be called
"sermons that preach _at_ you." He preferred the evening for that
salutary discipline, not only because the congregation was more
numerous, but also because, being a shrewd man in his own innocent way,
he knew that people bear better to be preached at after dinner than
before; that you arrive more insinuatingly at the heart when the stomach
is at peace. There was a genial kindness in Parson Dale's way of
preaching at you. It was done in so imperceptible, fatherly a manner,
that you never felt offended. He did it, too, with so much art that
nobody but your own guilty self knew that you were the sinner he was
exhorting. Yet he did not spare rich nor poor: he preached at the
Squire, and that great fat farmer, Mr. Bullock the churchwarden, as
boldly as at Hodge the plowman, and Scrub the hedger. As for Mr. Stirn,
he had preached at _him_ more often than at any one in the parish; but
Stirn, though he had the sense to know it, never had the grace to
reform. There was, too, in Parson Dale's sermons, something of that
boldness of illustration which would have been scholarly if he had not
made it familiar, and which is found in the discourses of our elder
divines. Like them, he did not scruple, now and then, to introduce an
anecdote from history, or borrow an allusion from some non-scriptural
author, in order to enliven the attention of his audience, or render an
argument more plain. And the good man had an object in this, a little
distinct from, though wholly subordinate to the main purpose of his
discourse. He was a friend to knowledge--but to knowledge accompanied by
religion; and, sometimes, his references to sources not within the
ordinary reading of his congregation, would spirit up some farmer's son,
with an evening's leisure on his hands, to ask the Parson for farther
explanation, and so be lured on to a little solid or graceful
instruction under a safe guide.
Now, on the present occasion, the Parson, who had always his eye and
heart on his flock, and who had seen with great grief the realization of
his fears at the revival of the stocks; seen that a spirit of discontent
was already at work among the peasants, and that magisterial and
inquisitorial designs were darkening the natural benevolence of the
Squire; seen, in short, the signs of a breach between classes, and the
precursors of the ever inflammable feud between the rich and the poor,
meditated nothing less than a great Political Sermon--a sermon that
should extract from the roots of social truths a healing virtue for the
wound that lay sore, but latent, in the breast of his parish of
Hazeldean:
And thus ran--_The Political Sermon of Parson Dale_.