Christmas Stories

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."

[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.

"Do not say that I am an enemy to the amusements of the poor. I like to have them enjoy themselves at proper times, and in a proper manner. I can take pleasure in seeing them engaged in a game at cricket, at football, at quoits, or any other manly exercise, provided they engage in it without swearing, or drunkenness, or other vice; but of the amusement now proposed in the village, I disapprove most decidedly."

The disapprobation of the clergyman, however, was not attended to. Barton talked of the parson's ill-nature in grudging the poor a little enjoyment, and said it was all of a piece with his finding fault with the poor boys for going to play on a Sunday, instead of going to church or the Sunday school.

The promised day at length arrived. The village was filled with a motley concourse from all the country round, and the fight took place. The men were equally matched, and fought with skill and courage. Both got severely bruised; but one of them received an unfortunate blow under the ear. He fell into the arms of his second, and it was soon discovered that the blow was mortal – he never spoke again. This sad accident threw a damp over the amusement of the day, and many repented of the good-nature which had led them to promote the pastime.

We will not, however, dwell upon this melancholy event, but proceed to the result of the indictment of the roads of the parish of Inglewood.

January came, and the Quarter Sessions. Both parties wished to have the indictment tried at once, and came prepared – the prosecutor with witnesses to prove that the road was very bad and unsafe – and Barton with several good-natured men, who were ready to swear, that it was as good a road as they wished to travel. The parish, however, was beat; and it being proved that frequent representations had been made of the bad state of the road in question, Inglewood was sentenced to pay a fine of fifty pounds, together with all costs, which amounted to forty more.

Farmer Barton hardly knew which was most ill-natured, the prosecutor, the jury, or the bench of magistrates. Perhaps he was most out of humour with the jury; for consisting, as it did principally, of farmers, they might, he thought, have put their oaths and their consciences a little on one side, where brother farmers were concerned. However, there was no help for it, and the money was to be found before the Easter Sessions.

He returned to Inglewood to console himself with the popularity, which he acquired in the exercise of the office of overseer. His good-nature led him to accede to almost every application, but his good-nature arose rather from his "fear of offending the importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy[k]." The industrious and the modest remained contented with their former pittance; but the forward, and the impudent, and the clamorous, were continually urging their claims for more relief, and seldom urged them in vain.

[k] Goldsmith.

"I hope, Farmer Barton," said one woman, "you will give me a little more allowance: when bread, and candles, and soap are paid for, there's hardly any thing left for tea and sugar." "Why I suppose then I must give you a trifle more – the parish can't miss it." One petitioner he manfully refused, and told her she must be content with what she had. "And how am I to buy snuff out of that[l]?" The overseer relented: he loved a pinch of snuff himself. Farmer Oldacre would gladly have filled a deserving old woman's snuff box at his own expense, but not at the expense of the parish.

[l] Fact.

The liberal allowances granted by Barton, of course, required frequent rates, which it was not very convenient to the farmers to pay. Those, however, who happened to have money by them, paid, and allowed themselves the satisfaction of grumbling. Those who had it not, begged for time, and kept their grumbling to themselves. Barton's good-nature did not permit him to be very pressing. The consequence was, that, as he was neither disposed, nor perhaps able, to advance the money from his own pocket, fresh rates became necessary, and those who could pay made up for the deficiencies of those who could not.

Farmer Oldacre was one of the former description; and though he often told his brother overseer, that he was bound in law to levy and expend one rate before he applied for another; yet when his own pocket seemed to be concerned, he would not be peremptory.

Another of those who were always ready with their money, and were consequently entitled to the privilege of grumbling, was Richard Sterling.

Richard occupied five or six acres of land, kept three cows, and got on pretty well by supplying his neighbours with milk. "What, another rate, Master Barton! – why it seems but t'other day that I paid the last." – "It can't be helped, Richard; – the poor must be provided for." – "I know they must," answered Sterling, "and as for those who cannot keep themselves, and are come to poverty without any fault of their own, I should not grudge it them if they had more; – but there are some who might as well help to support me, as I to support them. Pray, what may you give to Tim Nesbit?" – "Why – perhaps the matter of three and sixpence a week." – "Three and sixpence a week? – that comes I think to about nine pounds twelve a-year. – Tim and I were born in the same year; when we grew up we worked for the same master; we married much about the same time, and our families are of the same size. The only difference between us was, that while I tried to put by what I could spare, Tim, whether single or married, always carried good part of his earnings to the ale-house. Now is it not a little hard that I must now be forced to help to maintain him, because he chose to squander away his money? He might at this present time have been every bit as well off in the world as I am; but because he chose to be careless and a spendthrift, I am forced to take bread, as it were, from my own children, and give it to his[m]."

[m] See a lively dialogue to this purpose in that excellent little publication, the Cottagers' Monthly Visitor.

One day, when Barton was going towards his house, he was overtaken by Ralph the butcher's lad, who accosted him with, "Mr. Barton, I want you to do me a kindness." "What is it?" said Barton. "Why, you must know, that I have some thoughts of marrying, and want the parish just to run me up a bit of a house. Master will give carriage, and I can manage a good deal of the labour myself, so that it will cost the parish a mere trifle."