"And is it not the over-plenty of labourers, that makes labour cheap? I
remember this village when there were not more than fifty labourers'
families, each with a cottage to itself; now there are upwards of eighty
families, and sometimes two crammed together in one house. I have read
in the newspapers, that the people throughout England have increased in
the last twenty years thirty-two in every hundred--that is, where there
were but ten, there are now more than thirteen."
"But what has that to do with the poor rates?"
"Why do not you think that the poor rates are an encouragement to early
marriages?"
"And what then," said Hannah; "did not the Almighty say, _Increase and
multiply_?"
"The command to _increase and multiply and replenish the earth_, was
given--_first_, when there were upon the face of the whole earth no men
and women at all, excepting the first pair: and _again_, when all
mankind had been destroyed, with the exception of the family of Noah.
The world was pretty well empty of inhabitants then, and wanted
_replenishing_. But the case is different in an old inhabited country,
which is already so _replenished_--so full and over-full--that the
people stand in each other's way."
"But surely, John, you are not for preventing marriages?"
"Heaven forbid!" said the old man, wiping a tear of thankfulness from
his eye; "Heaven forbid! It is to marriage that I owe the greater part
of the happiness that I have enjoyed in this life; and marriage, I
trust, has assisted in preparing me, through divine grace and the merits
of my Redeemer, for happiness in the life to come. I know too who it is
that has said, _Marriage is honourable in all_.--No, no, I am no enemy
to marriage, I am its warmest friend. But then, as the Prayer-Book tells
us, there are _two_ ways of engaging in marriage. Men may either enter
upon it _reverently_, _discreetly_, _advisedly_, and _in the fear of
God_; or else they may engage in it _inadvisedly_, _lightly_, and
_wantonly_, '_like brute beasts that have no understanding_.' I am
afraid that now-a-days young people are more apt to engage in marriage
after the latter manner, than after the former. When I was young, men
generally did not like to marry--I'm sure I did not--till they had
secured a bit of a cottage to put a wife in, and a few articles of
furniture, and perhaps a few pounds to begin the world with. Now boys
and girls marry without thought and reflection, without sixpence
beforehand, and trust to the parish for every thing--house, goods,
clothes, and the maintenance of their children. As for the parish
finding houses for all that wish to marry, it's what can't be
done.--No, no, I don't want to prevent their marrying, I only want them
to wait a very few years, that they may have a better chance of
happiness when they marry. We all know, that _when want comes in at the
door, love is very apt to fly out at the window_; and parish pay is but
a poor dependence after all.
"And why should they not wait? Those, who are better off in the world,
are for the most part forced to wait a good number of years. The sons of
the farmers, of the tradesmen, and of the gentlemen, generally wait, I
think, till they are nearer thirty than five and twenty. Look at Squire
Bentley's family: there's his eldest son that is the counsellor, who, as
they say, has been for some years engaged to one of Mr. Hale's
daughters; he is now, I take it, upwards of thirty, but he waits till
they have a better chance of maintaining a family. There's his second
son, who is to be a physician; and the third in the army; both I dare
say would be glad enough to marry, if they could marry with any sort of
prudence.--It is because the poor think that the parish must find every
thing, that they marry without thought or care; and then the numbers of
the people increase till there are more hands than work; and that makes
wages so low.
"There's another way in which the poor rates keep down the price of
labour. A man is out of work. He goes round to the farmers; but they all
say that they don't want him: they have hands more than enough already.
He then goes to the overseer for employment.--Now the parish--if bound
by law to find work for him at all, about which there seems to be some
doubt--is only bound to pay him enough to keep him from starving, and
for that may require a full day's work. The farmers of course know this;
and as in these times it is natural for them to wish to get hands at as
low a rate as possible, one of them tells this man that he will give him
a trifle more than the parish, though still a _mere trifle_, and turns
off one of his regular workmen to make way for him; and so it may go on,
till all are brought down to the same low key.--Or perhaps the farmers
will pay all the labourers, either in whole, or in part, out of the poor
rates. This I take to be a very bad plan for the farmers in the end; for
as men will seldom do more work than they are paid for, the work will
not be done so well or so cheerfully; and besides, it sadly breaks the
spirit of the labourers. In short, I wish, as I said before, that the
poor depended less upon parish pay, and more upon themselves."
"But, John," said Hannah, "you are not for knocking up the poor laws
altogether?"
"By no means," answered John: "I am in one sense a poor man myself; and
I am glad that there is such a provision for those, who can do nothing
for themselves, and for those who are thrown back by a severe sickness,
or by some accident. For myself, I hope that, by the blessing of God, I
shall never be forced to stoop to ask for parish relief. As my wife and
I contrived to bring up a family without any help from an overseer, so
when our children were old enough to get out, and take care of
themselves, we began to think of putting by a trifle against old age.
The savings bank notion has given us a lift, and I think that I have
that there, which will keep me from being a burden to any one. As times
are now, a man with a large family can't help going to the parish, and
no one can blame him for it--I only wish that times were such as to
enable him, with industry and prudence, to look for maintenance to no
one but himself and God Almighty."
By the time that old Truman had finished this _dissertation_ on the poor
laws, the surgeon had arrived. He examined Fowler's leg, and found the
fracture to be as bad a one as well could be. It was attended too with a
considerable degree of fever, which was increased by the heated state of
the blood, occasioned by excessive drinking.
The next day he was delirious, and the fever had increased so much, that
but slight hopes were entertained of his recovery. He remained for some
days in this state, hanging between life and death, till at length the
fever abated. The delirium too was at an end; but it left him in a state
of the most deplorable weakness.
Nanny Fowler never had bestowed one serious thought upon a future life;
but some of her neighbours told her, that with her husband in such a
dangerous condition, she ought to desire the parson to come and see him.
This she accordingly did.
Mr. Hooker, at his two or three first visits, found both body and mind
so weakened, that he did little more than pray by him. Neither Fowler
nor his wife entered much into the meaning or spirit of his prayers, but
still they were flattered and pleased by the attention of their pastor.
For many years Fowler had hardly set foot in church, excepting once to
attend the funeral of a relation, and twice as godfather to the children
of two of his friends. Though he had not shewn any positive disrespect
to Mr. Hooker to his face, yet he was in the habit of laughing at him
behind his back, and of trying to turn whatever he did or said in the
execution of his sacred office--and indeed his office itself--into
ridicule. In this, according to the opinion of his thoughtless and
profligate companions, he succeeded tolerably well; for he had a turn
for low humour; and it is sometimes found, the more sacred any thing is,
the greater is the effect of representing it in a ludicrous point of
view, to those who are unrestrained by any sense of decency or of
religion. From Mr. Hooker he had never received any thing but tokens of
kindness, but he disliked him, because he knew that he disapproved of
his manner of going on, and still more, for one or two admonitions
which he had received from him. He now felt ashamed of his former
disrespectful behaviour towards his worthy minister.
The fever having entirely left him, Mr. Hooker determined to take
advantage of the opportunity which this accident afforded, for the
purpose of endeavouring to bring Fowler to some proper sense of
religion. He accordingly often talked to him in the most serious manner,
trying both to inform his understanding, and to affect his heart.
One day when he called, he found Barton sitting by the bed side. The
farmer immediately got up to go away; Fowler, however, begged him to
stay; and Mr. Hooker was not without hopes, that what he said might not
be entirely lost upon Barton, of whose religious sentiments he had but
an unfavourable opinion.
After making use of the prayers in the Visitation Office, he represented
to Fowler the folly of living without God in the world; the hateful
nature of sin; and the awful consequences of continuing in sin without
repentance. He spoke of the great atonement, but told him that the
benefits even of that would be lost to those who continued hardened and
impenitent. He added a few words upon the particular vice of
drunkenness, upon its tendency to lead on to almost all other sins
without exception, and upon its dreadful punishment in the world to
come, since _drunkards can not inherit the kingdom of God_.
Fowler appeared to be attentive, and to feel what was said, and Barton
looked every now and then a little uneasy. His uneasiness was
occasioned, not by the slightest degree of apprehension for his own
religious interests, but by the wound which his _good-nature_ received,
at hearing such strong things said. The farmer accompanied Mr. Hooker
down stairs; but the moment he had quitted the house, exclaimed, "I
wish, Nanny, you would not let the parson come to your husband any more.
I'm sure it's enough to make a man ill to hear him talk." "Why, what's
the matter?" said Nanny, "what's the matter?"
"Why, he has been talking about his soul, and getting drunk, and heaven,
and hell, and I know not what besides; I'm sure, I thought it very
_ill-natured_ of him. It's bad enough for poor Bob to have broken his
leg, without being troubled with such melancholy thoughts. And what's
the use of it? There's no chance of his dying this bout, and there can
be no occasion for his making himself uneasy with these church-yard
thoughts yet."
"Surely you are not in earnest, neighbour," said Farmer Oldacre, who had
called in to enquire how the broken leg was going on; "you cannot really
mean what you say."
"Yes, but I do though," replied Barton, "and I say again, it was very
_ill-natured_ of Mr. Hooker."
"I always thought," said Oldacre, "that you professed and called
yourself a Christian."
"As good a Christian as yourself," rejoined Barton, with some quickness;
"aye, or as Mr. Hooker _either_, though, perhaps, I mayn't talk so much
about it as some people."
"Well, don't be angry," said Oldacre calmly, "but just listen to me for
two minutes. If a Christian, you of course acknowledge the Scriptures
to be the word of God?"
"To be sure I do."
"Well--you know--the whole parish knows--that poor Bob Fowler was
leading a most ungodly and wicked life."
"No, I do _not_ know it; poor Bob was nobody's enemy but his own; and if
he did get drunk now and then, what was that to any body else? I don't
call that being wicked."
"And what _do_ you call being _wicked_?"
"Why, I call a man wicked, when he robs and steals, or commits murder,
or--let me see--let me see--when he takes a false oath before a
justice--or--when he slanders his neighbours."
"These, certainly," answered Oldacre, "are instances of great
wickedness; but you seem to confine the word _wickedness_ almost
entirely to offences, by which _men_ are injured; now I call a man
_wicked_, when he lives in the wilful and habitual neglect of any part
of his duty; and since the Scriptures tell us, that the first and chief
part of our duty is our duty towards God, I particularly call a man
wicked when he lives in the open neglect of that duty--when he leads, in
short, an ungodly life."
Barton made no answer, but seemed to be waiting to hear what was to come
next.
"Now as for poor Bob Fowler, you know very well that he never went to
church, never thought of keeping holy the Lord's day, that he was in the
constant habit of profane swearing, that he never spoke of religion but
to laugh at it, and that instead of having God in all his thoughts, he
lived in a total forgetfulness both of him and of his laws. Now the
Scriptures tell us, over and over again, that _the wicked shall be
turned into hell, and all the people that forget God_. If these words of
Scripture be true--and you acknowledge yourself that they are so--Fowler
was certainly in a dangerous state. Now, neighbour, suppose you were to
see a blind man walking right on to the brink of a pit, and ready to
fall into it, should you think it _ill-natured_ to tell him of his
danger? And is it _ill-natured_ of Mr. Hooker, to try to save a man from
falling into the pit of destruction?"
"But why should he do it at such a time--when Bob has a broken leg to
vex him?"
"I know," replied Oldacre, "that Mr. Hooker did sometimes speak to him
when he was in health; but Fowler was either sulky, or turned it into
joke: he was one of those, who _sit in the seat of the scornful_; it was
like _casting pearls before swine, which turn again and rend you_. His
present confinement offers an opportunity for giving him some notions of
religion; and our good minister, who is always on the watch for
opportunities of being of use, most likely felt, that if this
opportunity was not taken advantage of, he might never have another."
"But is it not enough to drive a man to despair," said Barton, "to talk
to him about death and judgment, and future punishment?"
"It is rather the best way to save a man from despair. Mr. Hooker speaks
to him of future misery, in order that he may escape it. I dare say that
he tells him, as he tells us in church, that if he will but repent of
and forsake his sins, full forgiveness is offered, through the mediation
of the Redeemer. A man who wilfully goes on in a worldly, ungodly
course of life, has certainly nothing before him but a _fearful looking
for of judgment and fiery indignation_. Surely it is not _ill-natured_,
but rather the kindest thing that can be done for such a man, to try to
persuade him to flee from the wrath to come, by changing his course of
life by the aid of God's grace, and by seeking for God's mercy through
Christ, before the gates of mercy are closed for ever."
There was a pause of some minutes. Barton, however, did not like to give
up his notions of _ill-nature_, and returned to the charge. "Still, I
must say, neighbour Oldacre, that the parson speaks of these things much
too plainly and too strongly; and, to tell you the truth, that is the
reason why I so seldom go to hear him in church. It would not look well,
you know, for a man like me _never_ to go to church at all, so I drop in
sometimes when there is no sermon. I like to be _good-humoured_ and
pleasant, and don't like to think of these melancholy subjects until
I've occasion."
Oldacre found that he was impenetrable by any thing that _he_ could say,
and was not inclined to resume the conversation, and went up stairs to
Fowler to ask him how he was.
Barton quitted the house, but the door was hardly closed, when his
_good-nature_ was put to a fresh trial of a different description. He
was met by a stranger, who, having asked him whether his name was
Barton, and received his answer that it was, put into his hands a paper,
which he found was a notice to him as surveyor, that a certain part of
the road in the parish had been indicted at the Quarter Sessions which
were just over, and a true bill found.
The fact was this.--A gentleman, who was going to the Sessions on
business, had occasion to travel along the road, the bad state of which
Mr. Bentley had pointed out to Farmer Barton. One of his coach-horses
shyed at a heap of dung lying close to the road side, the coachman
whipped him, the horses sprang forward, but in crossing the deep ruts,
one of the fore springs of the carriage snapped, and the near horse was
thrown down, and cut both his knees. The gentleman proceeded slowly to
Chippingden; and while his servants were getting the spring made safe
for the remainder of his journey, had the worst part of the road
measured, and then travelling on to Sessions in the full heat of his
anger and vexation, preferred a bill of indictment against the parish of
Inglewood.
This Farmer Barton thought the most _ill-natured_ proceeding that ever
was known; and in the first warmth of his indignation said, that there
should be no _putting off_, but that the parish should try it out at the
following Sessions. He was still surveyor, for he had so entirely
neglected calling out the statute-duty, and indeed every part of his
office, that he was ashamed to attend the justice meeting, which was
held for the purpose of appointing new surveyors; and felt pretty sure,
that his non-attendance would not be taken notice of. The magistrates,
every now and then, threatened _stoutly_, and talked of fining the
absentees, but they would not be so _ill-natured_ as to carry their
threats into execution; and the comfort and convenience of the public,
and the real interests of the several parishes themselves, were
sacrificed for the credit of their _good-nature_.
Fowler's leg, meanwhile, continued to mend, and he was able to get down
stairs, and attend to his new business. What Mr. Hooker had said to him,
produced considerable effect upon his mind and conduct. But though he
left off drinking himself, yet from his former habits and character he
could not be expected to possess much authority over those who resorted
to his house. Many of the poor never entered the public house at all;
many went to it now and then for a pot of beer to drink in a quiet
family way at home; but a few of the married men, and several of the
young ones, spent there many of their evenings, and most of their money.
Many little disturbances consequently took place in the village. One
evening in particular, Tim Nesbit came from the public house so drunk,
and was so noisy and troublesome, that some of the neighbours talked of
having him fined, or set in the stocks. "Surely you wou'dn't be so
_ill-natured_ as that comes to," said Barton. "When a man robs and
steals, punish him to the utmost; but drunkenness is a _good-natured_
fault, and the drunken man is nobody's enemy but his own."
"Nobody's enemy but his own!" said old Truman, who happened to be
standing by, "I think a drunken man the enemy of every body. He is
ready to quarrel with every body that comes in his way, and to do all
sorts of mischief."
"Yes," replied Barton, "but when a man don't know what he is doing, he
has a right to be excused."
"Now I say just the contrary," answered Truman. "When a man chooses to
throw away his reason, and to bring himself down to a level with a
beast, he must take the consequences. Drunkenness, instead of being an
excuse for any fault, is an aggravation, and the law of the land says
the same. I heartily wish that the laws against tippling and
drunkenness[j] were more frequently put in execution."
[Footnote j: If any person (with a few particular exceptions) shall
continue drinking or tippling in a public house, he shall forfeit three
shillings and fourpence to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks
for four hours.
Any person convicted of drunkenness shall for the first offence forfeit
five shillings to the use of the poor, or be set in the stocks for six
hours. Upon a second conviction the offender shall be bound, with two
sureties, to be thenceforth of good behaviour.]
"These laws," replied Barton, "cannot, generally speaking, be put in
force, unless some one will _inform_, and that would be so
_ill-natured_. And besides, every one hates and cries out against the
very name of an _informer_."
"I grant you," said Truman, "that when a man turns _informer_ from
spite--or for the sake of getting money--or from a view to private
interest of any sort--he may perhaps deserve to be disliked. But a man
who, _after fair notice, informs_ against an offender from a sense of
public duty--with a view to check a bad practice which is hurtful both
to society and to those who are guilty of it--or from a sincere zeal for
the interests of morality and religion, is a benefactor to the
community. The lawless and profligate, who would be glad to get rid of
all the restraints of every sort, will of course try to run him down;
but he ought not to mind that, and he certainly deserves the thanks of
all the friends of good order and morality."
Not only was the quiet of the village of Inglewood sometimes disturbed
by drunken _rows_, but many little acts of mischief were committed, not
from any particular spite, but in the mere wantonness of drunkenness.
The farmers too found some of their men less disposed to work than
formerly, and more disposed to be saucy; and they saw the wives and
children of some few growing more and more ragged and miserable. They
consoled themselves by abusing the justices for consenting to the
establishment of the alehouse, and by blaming their minister for not
taking more active measures to prevent it; and said for themselves, that
they would never have set their hands to the certificate, if at the time
they had not felt sure that the licence would not be granted.
Fowler's friends, however, determined to make it as good a thing for him
as they could. His accident, and long confinement in consequence of it,
had thrown him back, and they wished, they said, to give him a _start_.
They resolved to have some _pastime_ in the village, and tried to make
up a purse for two prize fighters, who resided in the neighbourhood.
Barton entered zealously into the scheme, and took care to have the fame
of the projected amusement spread through the adjoining villages. Having
occasion to call on Mr. Hooker on other business, he said that he hoped
that he did not object to what was going forward. Mr. Hooker replied,
that "he disapproved of it most decidedly."
Barton's _good-nature_ was immediately up in arms. "Surely, Sir, it's
very hard that the poor may not have a little amusement now and then.
Our only object is, to give them a day's pleasure, and at the same time
to give a little help to Fowler in his business, after his sad accident,
which has thrown him back so unluckily."
"Nobody," said Mr. Hooker, "can be more friendly than I am to the
amusements of the poor; provided they are _innocent_, and do not, almost
necessarily, lead to immorality and sin. You know, Mr. Barton, as well
as I do, that the _pastime_, as you call it, which you propose, will be
attended with a great deal of drunkenness. Your avowed object is, that
Fowler should sell as much beer and spirits as possible. I need not tell
you, that drunkenness is not only a great sin in itself, but that it
also leads to sins of every description. You know very well too, that on
occasions of this sort, there is generally a great deal of swearing, a
great deal of improper language, and, perhaps, a great deal of
quarrelling. With respect to _prize-fighting_, sensible men have
entertained different sentiments. My own opinion is, that it is a
positive offence against the laws both of God and man; that it is a most
disgusting exhibition; and surely a most improper sight for the women
and children, who, in a village, will be spectators of it. I think also,
that if one of the combatants should be killed, as is frequently the
case, all those who have promoted the battle are parties in the guilt of
manslaughter.