Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbour Mr. Hackit than for most people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd substantial man, whose advice about crops is always worth listening to, and who is too well off to want to borrow money. bohea. You have a vague idea of a Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, exmilch cow as probably a white-plaster pects a large legacy, and whom she animal standing in a butterman's is determined to disappoint. Her window, and you know nothing of money shall all go in a lump to a disthe sweet history of genuine cream,, tant relation of her husband's, and such as Miss Gibbs': how it was this Janet shall be saved the trouble of morning in the udders of the large pretending to cry, by finding that she sleek beasts, as they stood lowing a is left with a miserable pittance. patient entreaty under the milkingshed; how it fell with a pleasant rhythm into Betty's pail, sending a delicious incense into the cool air; how it was carried into that temple of moist cleanliness, the dairy, where it quietly separated itself from the meaner elements of milk, and lay in mellowed whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred it to Miss Gibbs' glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conjecture, you are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea; and Mr. Pillgrim, who is holding that cup in his hand, has an idea beyond you. Mrs. Hackit declines cream; she has so long abstained from it with an eye to the weekly butter-money, that abstinence, wedded to habit, has begotten aversion. She is a thin woman with a chronic liver-complaint, which would have secured her Mr. Pillgrim's entire regard and unreserved good word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was as sharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting-no frivolous fancy knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking; the click-click of her knittingneedles is the running accompaniment to all her conversation, and in her utmost enjoyment of spoiling a friend's self-satisfaction, she was never known to spoil a stocking. Mrs. Patten does not admire this excessive click clicking activity, Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the sense of compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed an ample function to her, and she does her malevolence gently. She is a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a close cap and tiny flat white curls round her face, as natty and unsoiled and invariable as the waxen image of a little old lady under a glass case; once a lady's-maid, and married for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she adores her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation's hatred for her niece, And now that we are snug and warm with this little_tea-party, while it is freezing with February bitterness outside, we will listen to what they are talking about. So," said Mr. Pillgrim, with his mouth only half empty of muffin, "you had a row in Shepperton church last Sunday. I was at Jem Hood's, the bassoon-man's, this morning, attending his wife, and he swears he'll be revenged on the parson—a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who must be putting his finger in every pie. What was it all about?" "O, a passill o' nonsense," said Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb between the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of snuff with the other-for he was but moderately given to "the cups that cheer but not inebriate," and had already finished his tea ; "they began to sing the wedding psalm for a new-married couple, as pretty psalm an' as pretty a tune as any's in the prayer-book. It's been sung for every new-married couple since I was a boy. And what can be better? Here Mr. Hackit stretched out his left arm, threw back his head, and broke into melody "O what a happy thing it is, a But Mr. Barton is all for th' hymns, and a sort o' music as I can't join in at all." "And so," said Mr. Pillgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyrical reminiscences to narrative, "he called out Silence! did he? when he got into the 5 pulpit; and gave a hymn out himself beginning, when I went into service, "Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch, "and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often say, when he preaches about meekness, he gives himself a slap in the face. He's like me-he's got a temper of his own." "Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton," said Mr. Pillgrim, who hated the Reverend Amos for two reasonsbecause he had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a dabbler in drugs, he had the credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pillgrim's. "They say his father was a dissenting shoemaker; and he's half a dissenter himself. Why doesn't he preach extempore in that cottage up here, of a Sunday evening?" “Tchaw!”—this was Mr. Hackit's favourite interjection-" that preaching without book's no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible at his fingers' ends. It was all very well for Parry-he'd a gift; and in my youth I've heard the Ranters out o' doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour or two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. one clever chap, I remember, as used There was to say, 'You're like the wood-pigeon; it says do, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself.' That's bringing it home to people. But our parson's no gift at all that way; he can preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But when he tries to preach wi'out book, he rambles about, and doesn't stick to 's text; and every now and then he flounders about like a sheep as has cast itself, and can't get on'ts legs again. You wouldn't like that, Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to church now?" "Eh, dear," said Mrs. Patten, fall ing back in her chair, and lifting up her little withered hands, "what would Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about in the church in these ten years? I don't understand these new sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o' marcy. Now, Mr. Hackit, I've never been a sinner. From the fust cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, I've known women as their the cheese-money to make up their when their husbands had counted on rent; and yet they'd three gowns to my one. know a many as are in a bad way. If I'm not to be saved, I But it's well for me as I can't go to church any longer, for if th old singers are to be done away with, there'll be nothing left as it was in Mr. Patten's time; and what's more, I hear you've settled to pull the church down and build it up new?" a Now the fact was that the Rev. Patten, had urged her to enlarge Amos Barton, on his last visit to Mrs. her promised subscription of twenty pounds, representing to her that she was only a steward of her riches, and that she could not spend them more for the glory of God than by giving a heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton church practical precept which was not likely of his theological doctrine. to smooth the way to her acceptance Hackit, who had more doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a little shocked by the heathenism of her speech, and was glad of the new turn given to the subject by this question, addressed to him as churchwarden, and an authority in all parocial matters. Mr. son's boddered us into it at last, and we'd made up the sum, and, for my good-nature began to act now that it good sort o' man, for all he's not "Well, I don't know about that," overburthen'd i' th' upper story; said Mrs. Hackit, who had always and his wife's as nice a lady-like woman as I'd wish to see. How nice she keeps her children! and little enough money to do't with; and a delicate creatur'-six children, and another a-coming. I don't know how they make both ends meet, I'm sure, now her aunt has left 'em. But I sent 'em a cheese and a sack o' potatoes last week; that's something towards filling the little mouths." "Ah," said Mr. Hackit, "and my wife makes Mr. Barton a good stiff glass o' brandy-and-water, when he comes in to supper after his cottage preaching. The parson likes it; it puts a bit o' colour into 's face, and makes him look a deal handsomer." the courage of her opinion, "but I know, some of our labourers and stockingers as used never to come to church, come to the cottage, and that's better than never hearing anything good from week's end to week's end. And there's that Track Society as Mr. Barton has begun-I've seen more o' the poor people with going tracking, than all the time I've lived in the parish before. And there'd need be something done among 'em; for the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shameful. There's hardly a steady man or steady woman either, but what's a dissenter." During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's Mr. Pillgrim had emitted a sucThis allusion to brandy-and-water cession of little snorts, something suggested to Miss Gibbs the introduc- like the treble grunts of a guinea-pig, tion of the liquor decanters, now that which were always with him the the tea was cleared away; for in bu- sign of suppressed disapproval. But colic society five-and-twenty years he never contradicted Mrs. Hackitago, the human animal of the male a woman whose "pot luck" was sex was understood to be perpetually always to be relied on, and who on athirst, and "something to drink" her side had unlimited reliance on was as necessary a "condition of bleeding, blistering, and draughts. thought" as Time and Space. "Now, that cottage preaching," said Mr. Pillgrim, mixing himself a strong glass of "cold without," "I was talking about it to our Parson Ely the other day, and he doesn't approve of it at all. He said it did as much harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching. That was what Ely said-it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching." Mr. Pillgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of splutter; indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was a pity such a clever man had a "pediment" in his speech. But when he came to what he conceived the pith of his argument or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his words with slow emphasis; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement, passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimo crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely's particularly metaphysical and profound, and the more decisive of the question because it was a generality which represented no particulars to his mind. Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had no reasons for suppressing it. 66 Well," she remarked, "I've heard of no good from interfering with one's neighbours, poor or rich. And I hate the sight o' women going about trapesing from house to house in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in with their petticoats dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted to join in the tracking, but I told her I'd have nobody tracking out o' my house; when I'm gone, she may do as she likes. I never dagged my petticoats in my life, and I've no opinion o' that sort o' religion." "No," said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acerbities of the feminine mind with a jocose compliment, "you held your petticoats so high, to show your tight ankles: it isn't everybody as likes to show her ankles." This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet, whose ankles were only tight in the sense of looking extremely squeezed by her boots. But Janet seemed always to identify herself with her aunt's personality, holding her own under protest. Under cover of the general laughter, the gentlemen replenished their glasses, Mr. Pillgrim attempting to give his the character of a stirrupcup, by observing that he "must be going.' Miss Gibbs seized this opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the dairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with her to "help brew;" whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied, that she had always thought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said, there was no bacon stolen when she was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who always said he "never saw the like to women with their maids-he never had any trouble with his men," avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question of vetches with Mr. Pillgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged; no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main object of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waiting till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it incumbent on Mr. Pillgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going. CHAPTER II. It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhear the conversation recorded in the last chapter. Indeed, what mortal is there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity of comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with the picture they make on the mental retina of his neighbours? We are poor plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit: alas for us, if we get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence! The very capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned orator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and that he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that no miracle can be wrought without faith-without the worker's faith in himself, as well as the recipient's faith in him. And the greatest part of the worker's faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe in him. Let me be persuaded that my neighbour Jenkins considers me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let me discover that the lovely Phoebe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall never be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thank heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be useful and agreeable-that we don't know exactly what our friends think of us-that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the figure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By the help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to dream that other men admire our talents-and our benignity is undisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good-and we do a little. Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday evening, when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross Farm. He had been dining at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary squire of the parish, and, stimulated by unwonted gravies and port wine, had been delivering his opinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation. And he was now returning home in the moonlight-a little chill, it is true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with clerical dignity, and a fur boa round one's neck, with a waterproof cape over one's shoulders, doesn't frighten away the cold from one's legs; but entirely unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers, but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him.. Miss Julia had observed that she never heard any one sniff so frightfully as Mr. Barton did-she had a great mind to offer him her pockethandkerchief; and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going for to do a thing. He, excellent man! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions on the morrow; he would set on foot his lending library, in which he had introduced some books that would be a pretty sharp blow to the dissenters-one especially, purporting to be written by a working man who, out of pure zeal for the welfare of his class, took the trouble to warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the dissenting preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent, he considered, would have its head bruised in Shepperton, for did he not attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine-as evangelical as anything to be heard in the Independent Chapel; and he made a HighChurch assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters would feel that "the parson" was too many for them. Nothing like a man who combines shrewdness with energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr. Barton considered, was one of his strong points. Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard! The silver light that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables you to see his slim black figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits past the pale gravestones. He walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once-that is to say, by the robust maid-of-allwork, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion-even the small-pox that has attacked it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind with features of no particular shape, and an eye of no particular expression, is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about forty. The house is quiet, for it is half-past ten, and the children have long been gone to bed. He opens the sitting-room door, but instead of seeing his wife, as he expected, stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light of one candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red fire-light, holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, who looks over her shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while the patient mother pats his back with her soft hand, and glances with a sigh at the heap of large and small stockings lying unmended on the table. She w23 a lovely woman-Mrs. Amos Barton; a large, fair, gentle Madonna, with thick, close chestnut curls beside her well-rounded cheeks, and with large, tender, short-sighted eyes. The flowing lines of her tall figure made the limpest dress look graceful, and her old frayed black silk seemed to repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling of Mrs. Farquhar's gros de Naples. The caps she wore would have been pronounced, when off her head, utterly heavy and hideous-for in those days even fashionable caps were large and floppy; but surmounting her long arched neck, and mingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her chestnut curls, they seemed miracles of successful millinery. Among strangers she was shy and tremulous as a girl of fifteen; she blushed crimson if any one appealed to her opinion; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence was so imposing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agreeable sensation of timidity. Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which supersedes all acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would never have asked, at any period of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, if she sketched or played the piano. You would even perhaps have been rather scandalised if she had descended from the serene dignity of being to the assiduous unrest of doing. Happy the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest on her in the pauses of his fireside reading-whose |