“But one Sunday, when Maister Hatfield gave out about the sacrament, I noticed where he said, ‘If there be any of you that cannot quiet his own conscience, but requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come to me, or some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word and open his grief!
4
So next Sunday morning, afore service, I just looked in to th’ vestry, an’ began a talking to th’ rector again ... I hardly could fashion to take such a liberty, but I thought when my soul was at stake, I shouldn’t stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn’t time to attend to me then.
“ ‘And indeed,’ says he, ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, but what I’ve said before . . . take the sacrament of course, and go on doing your duty; and if that won’t serve you, nothing will. So don’t bother me any more.’
“So then, I went away. But I heard Maister Weston ... Maister Weston was there Miss—this was his first Sunday at Horton you know, an’ he was i’ th’ vestry in his surplice helping th’ rector on with his gown.”
“Yes Nancy.”
“And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I was; an’ he said, ‘Oh! she’s a canting
ax
old fool.’
“And I was very ill grieved Miss Grey; but I went to my seat, and I tried to do my duty as afore time; but I like got no peace. An’ I even took the sacrament; but I felt as though I were eating an’ drinking to my own damnation all th’ time. So I went home, sorely troubled.
“But next day, afore I’d gotten fettled up—for indeed Miss, I’d no heart to sweeping an’ fettling,
ay
an’ washing pots; so I sat me down i’ th’ muck—but who should come in but Maister Weston! I started siding
az
stuff then, an’ sweeping an’ doing; an’ I expected he’d begin a calling me for my idle ways as Maister Hatfield would a’ done; but I was mista’en: he only bid me good mornin’ like, in a quiet dacent way. So I dusted him a chair, an’ fettled up th’ fire place a bit; but I hadn’t forgotten th’ rector’s words, so says I,
“‘I wonder sir, you should give yourself that trouble, to come so far to see a “canting old fool,” such as me.’
“He liked seemed taken aback at that; but he would fain persuade me ’at the rector was only in jest; and when that wouldn’t do, he says,
“‘Well, Nancy, you shouldn’t think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield was a little out of humour just then; you know we’re none of us perfect—even Moses spoke unadvisedly with his lips.
ba
But now sit down a minute, if you can spare the time, and tell me all your doubts and fears; and I’ll try to remove them.’
“So I sat me down anent
bb
him. He was quite a stranger you know Miss Grey, and even
younger
nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; an’ I had thought him not so pleasant looking as him, and rather a bit crossish, at first, to look at; but he spake so civil like—and when th’ cat, poor thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a smile: so I thought that was a good sign; for once, when she did so to th’ rector, he knocked her off, like as it might be in scorn and anger, poor thing. But you can’t expect a cat to know manners like a christian,
5
you know Miss Grey.”
“No of course not Nancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?”
“He said naught; but he listened to me as steady an’ patient as could be, an’ never a bit o’ scorn about him; so I went on, an’ telled him all, just as I’ve telled you—an’ more too.
“ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘Mr. Hatfield was quite right in telling you to persevere in doing your duty; but in advising you to go to church, and attend to the service, and so on, he didn’t mean that was the whole of a christian’s duty; he only thought you might there learn what more was to be done, and be led to take delight in those exercises, instead of finding them a task and a burden. And if you had asked him to explain those words that trouble you so much, I think he would have told you that, if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not be able, it is their own sins that hinder them; just as a man with a large sack on his back, might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find it impossible to do so, unless, he would leave his sack behind him. But you Nancy, I dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw aside, if you knew how?’
“ ‘Indeed sir, you speak truth,’ says I.
“ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you know the first, and great commandment—and the second which is like unto it—on which two commandments hang all the law and the prophets? You say you cannot love God; but it strikes me, that if you rightly consider who and what He is, you cannot help it. He is your father, your best friend; every blessing, everything good, pleasant, or useful comes from him; and everything evil, everything you have reason to hate, to shun, or to fear comes from Satan,
His
enemy as well as ours; and for
this
cause was God manifest in the flesh, that He might destroy the works of the devil: in one word God IS LOVE;
6
and the more of love we have within us, the nearer we are to Him, and the more of His spirit we possess.’
“‘Well sir,’ I said, ‘if I can always think on these things, I think I might well love God; but how can I love my neighbours—when they vex me, and be so contrairy and sinful as some on ’em is?’
“ ‘It may seem a hard matter,’ says he, ‘to love our neighbours, who have so much of what is evil about them, and whose faults so often awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves, but remember, that He made them, and
He
loves them; and whosoever loved him that begat, loveth him that is begotten also.
bc
And if God so loveth us, that He gave His only begotten son to die for us, we ought also to love one another.
bd
But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who do not care for you, you can at least, try to do to them as you would they should do unto you;
be
you can endeavour to pity their failings and excuse their offences, and to do all the good you can to those about you. And if you accustom yourself to this, Nancy, the very effort itself will make you love them in some degree—to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness would beget in them, though they might have little else that is good about them. If we love God and wish to serve Him, let us try to be like Him, to do His work, to labour for His glory, which is the good of man, to hasten the coming of His kingdom, which is the peace, and happiness of all the world—however powerless we may seem to be, in doing all the good we can through life, the humblest of us may do much towards it; and let us dwell in love, that He may dwell in us, and we in Him.
bf
The more happiness we bestow, the more we shall receive, even here, and the greater will be our reward in Heaven when we rest from our labours.’
“I believe, Miss, them is his very words, for I’ve thought ‘em ower many a time. An’ then he took that bible, an’ read bits here and there, an’ explained ’em as clear as the day: and it seemed like as a new light broke in on my soul; an’ I felt fair a glow about my heart, an’ only wished poor Bill an’ all the world could a’ been there an’ heard it all, and rejoiced wi’ me.
“After he was gone, Hannah Rogers, one o’ th’ neighbours came in and wanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn’t just then, for I hadn’t set on th’ potaties for th’ dinner, nor washed up th’ breakfast stuff yet. So then she began a calling me for my nasty, idle ways. I was a little bit vexed at first; but I never said nothing wrong to her: I only telled her, like all in a quiet way, ‘at I’d had th’ new parson to see me; but I’d get done as quick as ever I could, an’ then come an’ help her. So then she softened down; and my heart like as it warmed towards her, an’ in a bit, we was very good friends.
“An’ so it is, Miss Grey, ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.’
bg
It isn’t only in them you speak to, but in yourself.”
“Very true, Nancy, if we could always remember it.”
“Aye, if we could!”
“And did Mr. Weston ever come to see you again?”
“Yes, many a time; and since my eyes has been so bad, he’s sat an’ read to me by the half-hour together; but you know Miss, he has other folks to see, and other things to do—God bless him! An’ that next Sunday he preached
such
a sermon! his text was ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ and them two blessed verses that follows.
bh
You wasn’t there, Miss, you was with your friends then—but it made me
so
happy! and I
am
happy now, thank God! an’ I take a pleasure, now, in doing little bits o’ jobs for my neighbours—such as a poor old body, ’ats half blind can do ... and they take it kindly of me, just as he said. You see Miss, I’m knitting a pair o’ stockings now:—they’re for Thomas Jackson: he’s a queerish old body, an’ we’ve had many a bout at threaping
bi
one anent t’other; an’ at times we’ve differed sorely. So I thought I couldn’t do better nor knit him a pair o’ warm stockings; an’ I’ve felt to like him a deal better, poor old man, sin’ I began. It’s turned out just as Maister Weston said.”
“Well, I’m very glad to see you so happy Nancy, and so wise: but I must go now; I shall be wanted at the Hall,” said I; and bidding her good-bye, I departed, promising to come again when I had time, and feeling nearly as happy as herself.
At another time, I went to read to a poor labourer who was in the last stage of a consumption. The young ladies had been to see him, and somehow, a promise of reading to him had been extracted from them; but it was too much trouble, so they begged
me
to do it instead. I went, willingly enough, and there too I was gratified with the praises of Mr. Weston, both from the sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great comfort and benefit, from the visits of the new parson, who frequently came to see him, and was “another guess sort of man,”
bj
to Mr. Hatfield, who before the other’s arrival at Horton, had now and then paid him a visit, on which occasions, he would always insist upon having the cottage door kept open to admit the fresh air for his own convenience, without considering how it might injure the sufferer, and having opened his prayer-book, and hastily read over a part of the service for the sick, would hurry away again, if he did not stay to administer some harsh rebuke to the afflicted wife, or to make some thoughtless, not to say heartless, observation rather calculated to increase than diminish the troubles of the suffering pair.
“Whereas,” said the man, “Maister Weston ’ull pray with me quite in a different fashion, an’ talk to me as kind as owt,
bk
an’ oft read to me too, an’ sit beside me just like a brother.”
“Just for all the world!” exclaimed his wife, “an’ about a three wik sin’, when he seed how poor Jem shivered wi’ cold, an’ what pitiful fires we kept, he axed if wer stock o’ coals was nearly done. I telled him it was, an’ we was ill set to get more—but you know mum I didn’t think o’ him helping us—but howsoever, he sent us a sack o’ coals next day; an’ we’ve had good fires ever sin’; an’ a great blessing it is, this winter time. But that’s his way, Miss Grey—when he comes into a poor body’s house a seein’ sick folk, he like notices what they most stand i’ need on, an’ if he thinks they can’t readily get it therseln, he never says nowt
bl
about it, but just gets it for ’em:—an’ it isn’t everybody ‘at ’ud do that, ’at has as little as he has; for you know mum, he’s nowt at all to live on, but what he gets fra’ th’ rector; an’ that’s little enough they say.”
I remembered then, with a species of exultation, that he had frequently been styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray, because he sported a silver watch,
7
and clothes not quite so bright and fresh as Mr. Hatfield’s.
In returning to the lodge, I felt very happy, and thanked God that I had now something to think about, something to dwell on as a relief from the weary monotony, the lonely drudgery of my present life—for I
was
lonely—never, from month to month, from year to year, except during my brief intervals of rest at home, did I see one creature to whom I could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope of sympathy, or even comprehension; never one, unless it were poor Nancy Brown, with whom I could enjoy a single moment of real social intercourse, or whose conversation was calculated to render me better, wiser, or happier than before; or who, as far as I could see, could be greatly benefited by mine. My only companions had been unamiable children, and ignorant, wrong-headed girls, from whose fatiguing folly, unbroken solitude was often a relief most earnestly desired, and dearly prized. But to be restricted to such associates was a serious evil, both in its immediate effects, and the consequences that were likely to ensue.
Never a new idea or a stirring thought came to me from without; and such as rose within me were, for the most part, miserably crushed at once, or doomed to sicken and fade away, because they could not see the light.
Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each other’s minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit, against our will—slowly—gradually—imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and speak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible power of assimilation extends; but if one civilized man were doomed to pass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had power to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that period, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I, as I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that they would make me worse—would gradually bring my feelings, habits, capacities to the level of their own, without, however, imparting to me their light-heartedness, and cheerful vivacity. Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting, and I trembled lest my very moral perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the baleful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth were gathering round me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and thus it was, that Mr. Weston rose, at length, upon me, appearing, like the morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness; and I rejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation, that was above me, not beneath. I was glad to see that all the world was not made up of Bloomfields, Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.; and that human excellence was not a mere dream of the imagination. When we hear a little good, and no harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine more—in short, it is needless to analyze all my thoughts, but Sunday was now become a day of peculiar delight to me, (I was now almost broken in to the back corner in the carriage,) for I liked to hear him—and I liked to see him too, though I knew he was not handsome, or even, what is called, agreeable, in outward aspect, but, certainly, he was not ugly.