From _North and South_.
The Rev. William Gaskell, who, along with his gifted wife, did
so much during the “Hungry Forties” as a peacemaker between
the masters and the men, was often to be found in the homes of
the Manchester poor listening to their tale of woe, and like
Mr. Hale, he always treated the poor with marked courtesy and
kindness.
She wondered how her father and Higgins had got on.
In the first place, the decorous, kind-hearted, simple, old-fashioned
gentleman had unconsciously called out, by his own refinement and
courteousness of manner, all the latent courtesy in the other.
Mr. Hale treated all his fellow creatures alike; it never entered into
his head to make any difference because of their rank. He placed a chair
for Nicholas: stood up till he, at Mr. Hale’s request, took a seat; and
called him, invariably, “Mr. Higgins,” instead of the curt “Nicholas” or
“Higgins,” to which the “drunken infidel weaver” had been accustomed.
But Nicholas was neither an habitual drunkard nor a thorough infidel. He
drank to drown care, as he would have himself expressed it; and he was
infidel so far as he had never yet found any form of faith to which he
could attach himself, heart and soul.
Margaret was a little surprised, and very much pleased, when she found
her father and Higgins in earnest conversation—each speaking with
gentle politeness to the other, however their opinions might clash.
Nicholas—clean, tidied (if only at the pump trough), and quiet spoken—was
a new creature to her, who had only seen him in the rough independence of
his own hearthstone. He had “slicked” his hair down with the fresh water;
he had adjusted his neck-handkerchief, and borrowed an odd candle-end to
polish his clogs with; and there he sat, enforcing some opinion on her
father, with a strong Darkshire accent, it is true, but with a lowered
voice, and a good, earnest composure on his face. Her father, too, was
interested in what his companion was saying. He looked round as she came
in, smiled, and quietly gave her his chair, and then sat down afresh
as quickly as possible, and with a little bow of apology to his guest
for the interruption. Higgins nodded to her as a sign of greeting; and
she softly adjusted her working materials on the table, and prepared to
listen.
“As I was a-sayin’, sir, I reckon yo’d not ha’ much belief in yo’ if yo’
lived here—if yo’d been bred here. I ax your pardon if I use wrong words;
but what I mean by belief just now, is a-thinking on sayings and maxims
and promises made by folk yo’ never saw, about the things and the life
yo’ never saw, nor no one else. Now, yo’ say these are true things, and
true sayings, and a true life. I just say, where’s the proof? There’s
many and many a one wiser, and scores better learned than I am around
me—folk who’ve had time to think on these things—while my time has had to
be gi’en up to getting my bread. Well, I sees these people. Their lives
is pretty much open to me. They’re real folk. They don’t believe i’ the
Bible—not they. They may say they do, for form’s sake; but Lord, sir,
dy’e think their first cry i’ th’ morning is, ‘What shall I do to get
hold on eternal life?’ or ‘What shall I do to fill my purse this blessed
day? Where shall I go? What bargains shall I strike?’ The purse and the
gold and the notes is real things; things as can be felt and touched;
them’s realities; and eternal life is all a talk, very fit for—I ax your
pardon, sir; yo’r a parson out o’ work, I believe. Well! I’ll never speak
disrespectful of a man in the same fix as I’m in mysel’. But I’ll just
ax yo’ another question, sir, and I dunnot want yo’ to answer it, only
to put in yo’r pipe, and smoke it, afore yo’ go for to set down us, who
only believe in what we see, as fools and noddies. If salvation, and life
to come, and what not, was true—not in men’s words, but in men’s hearts’
core—dun yo’ not think they’d din us wi’ it as they do wi’ political
’conomy? They’re mighty anxious to come round us wi’ that piece o’
wisdom; but t’other would be a greater convarsion, if it were true.”
“But the masters have nothing to do with your religion. All that they are
connected with you in is trade—so they think—and all that it concerns
them, therefore, to rectify your opinions in is the science of trade.”
“I’m glad, sir,” said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, “that yo’
put in, ‘so they think.’ I’d ha’ thought yo’ a hypocrite, I’m afeard,
if yo’ hadn’t, for all yo’r a parson, or rayther because yo’r a parson.
Yo’ see, if yo’d spoken o’ religion as a thing that, if it was true, it
didn’t concern all men to press on all men’s attention, above everything
else in this ’varsal earth, I should ha’ thought yo’ a knave for to be a
parson; and I’d rather think yo’ a fool than a knave. No offence, I hope,
sir.”
“None at all. You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more
fatally mistaken. I don’t expect to convince you in a day—not in one
conversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each
other about these things, and the truth will prevail. I should not
believe in God if I did not believe that. Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever
else you have given up, you believe” (Mr. Hale’s voice dropped low in
reverence)—“you believe in Him.”
Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up. Margaret started to
her feet—for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going into
convulsions. Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed. At last Higgins found words:
“Man! I could fell yo’ to the ground for tempting me. Whatten business
have yo’ to try me wi’ your doubts? Think o’ her lying theere, after the
life hoo’s led; and think then how yo’d deny me the one sole comfort
left—that there is a God, and that He set her her life. I dunnot believe
she’ll ever live again,” said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, as
if to the unsympathising fire. “I dunnot believe in any other life than
this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such never-ending care;
and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o’ chances, that might ha’
been altered wi’ a breath o’ wind. There’s many a time when I’ve thought
I didna believe in God, but I’ve never put if fair out before me in
words, as many men do. I may ha’ laughed at those who did, to brave it
out like—but I have looked round at after, to see if He heard me, if so
be there was a He; but to-day, when I’m left desolate, I wunnot listen
to yo’ wi’ yo’r questions, and yo’r doubts. There’s one thing steady and
quiet i’ all this reeling world, and, reason or no reason, I’ll cling to
that.”