The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain and Other Tales Part 19

_Worthy._ There are, however, many relative duties included in that commandment; unkindness to all kindred is forbidden.

_Bragwell._ O, if you mean my turning off my nephew Tom, the plowboy, you must not blame me for that, it was all my wife's fault.

He was as good a lad as ever lived to be sure, and my own brother's son; but my wife could not bear that a boy in a carter's frock should be about the house, calling her aunt. We quarreled like dog and cat about it; and when he was turned away she and I did not speak for a week.

_Worthy._ Which was a fresh breach of the commandment; a worthy nephew turned out of doors, and a wife not spoken to for a week, are no very convincing proofs of your observance of the fifth commandment.

_Bragwell._ Well, I long to come to the sixth, for you don't think I commit murder, I hope.

_Worthy._ I am not sure of that.

_Bragwell._ Murder! what, I kill any body?

_Worthy._ Why, the laws of the land, indeed, and the disgrace attending it, are almost enough to keep any man from actual murder; let me ask, however, do you never give way to unjust anger, and pa.s.sion, and revenge? as for instance, do you never feel your resentment kindle against some of the politicians who contradict you on a Sunday night? and do you never push your animosity against somebody that has affronted you, further than the occasion can justify?

_Bragwell._ Hark'ee, Mr. Worthy, I am a man of substance, and no man shall offend me without my being even with him. So as to injuring a man, if he affronts me first, there's nothing but good reason in that.

_Worthy._ Very well! only bear in mind, that you willfully break this commandment, whether you abuse your servant, are angry at your wife, watch for a moment to revenge an injury on your neighbor, or even wreak your pa.s.sion on a harmless beast; for you have then the seeds of murder working in your breast; and if there were no law, no gibbet, to check you, and no fear of disgrace neither, I am not sure where you would stop.

_Bragwell._ Why, Mr. Worthy, you have a strange way of explaining the commandments; so you set me down for a murderer, merely because I bear hatred to a man who has done me a hurt, and am glad to do him a like injury in my turn. I am sure I should want spirit if I did not.

_Worthy._ I go by the Scripture rule, which says, "he that hateth his brother is a murderer," and again, "pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you." Besides, Mr. Bragwell, you made it a part of your boast that you said the Lord's prayer every day, wherein you pray to G.o.d to forgive you your trespa.s.ses as you forgive them that trespa.s.s against you. If therefore you do not forgive them that trespa.s.s against you, in that case you daily pray that your own trespa.s.ses may never be forgiven. Now own the truth; did you last night lie down in a spirit of forgiveness and charity with the whole world?

_Bragwell._ Yes, I am in charity with the whole world in general; because the greater part of it has never done me any harm. But I won't forgive old Giles, who broke down my new hedge yesterday for firing--Giles, who used to be so honest.

_Worthy._ And yet you expect that G.o.d will forgive you who have broken down his sacred laws, and have so often robbed him of his right--you have robbed him of the honor due unto his name--you have robbed him of his holy day by doing your own work, and finding your own pleasure in it--you have robbed his poor, particularly in the instance of Giles, by withholding from them, as overseer, such a.s.sistance as should prevent their being driven to the sin of stealing.

_Bragwell._ Why, you are now charging me with other men's sins as well as my own.

_Worthy._ Perhaps the sins which we cause other men to commit, through injustice, inconsideration, and evil example, may dreadfully swell the sum of our responsibility in the great day of account.

_Bragwell._ Well, come, let us make haste and get through these commandments. The next is, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." Thank G.o.d, neither I nor my family can be said to break the seventh commandment.

_Worthy._ Here again, remember how Christ himself hath said, "whoso looketh on a woman to l.u.s.t after her, hath already committed adultery with her in his heart." These are no far-fetched expressions of mine, Mr. Bragwell, they are the words of Jesus Christ. I hope you will not charge him with having carried this too far; for if you do, you charge him with being mistaken in the religion he taught; and this can only be accounted for, by supposing him an impostor.

_Bragwell._ Why, upon my word, Mr. Worthy, I don't like these sayings of his which you quote upon me so often, and that is the truth of it, and I can't say I feel much disposed to believe them.

_Worthy._ I hope you believe in Jesus Christ. I hope you believe that creed of yours, which you also boasted of repeating so regularly.

_Bragwell._ Well, well, I'll believe any thing you say, rather than stand quarreling with you.

_Worthy._ I hope then, you will allow, that since it is adultery to look at a woman with even an irregular thought, it follows from the same rule, that all immodest dress in your daughters, or indecent jests and double meanings in yourself; all loose songs or novels; and all diversions also which have a like dangerous tendency, are forbidden by the seventh commandment; for it is most plain from what Christ has said, that it takes in not only the act, but the inclination, the desire, the indulged imagination; the act is only the last and highest degree of any sin; the topmost round, as it were, of a ladder, to which all the lower rounds are only as so many steps and stages.

_Bragwell._ Strict indeed! Mr. Worthy; but let us go on to the next; you won't pretend to say _I steal_; Mr. Bragwell, I trust, was never known to rob on the highway, to break open his neighbor's house, or to use false weights or measures.

_Worthy._ No, nor have you ever been under any temptation to do it, and yet there are a thousand ways of breaking the eighth commandment besides actual stealing. For instance do you never hide the faults of the goods you sell, and heighten the faults of those you buy? Do you never take advantage of an ignorant dealer, and ask more for a thing than it is worth? Do you never turn the distressed circ.u.mstances of a man who has something to sell, to your unfair benefit; and thus act as unjustly by him as if you had stolen? Do you never cut off a shilling from a workman's wages, under the pretense which your conscience can't justify? Do you never pa.s.s off an unsound horse for a sound one? Do you never conceal the real rent of your estate from the overseers, and thereby rob the poor-rates of their legal due?

_Bragwell._ Pooh! these things are done every day. I sha'n't go to set up for being better than my neighbors in these sort of things; these little matters will pa.s.s muster--I don't set up for a reformer--if I am as good as the rest of my neighbors, no man can call me to account: I am not worse, I trust, and don't pretend to be better.

_Worthy._ You must be tried hereafter at the bar of G.o.d, and not by a jury of your fellow-creatures; and the Scriptures are given us, in order to show by what rule we shall be judged. How many or how few do as you do, is quite aside from the question; Jesus Christ has even told us to strive to enter in at the _strait_ gate; so we ought rather to take fright, from our being like the common run of people, than to take comfort from our being so.

_Bragwell._ Come, I don't like all this close work--it makes a man feel I don't know how--I don't find myself so happy as I did--I don't like this fishing in troubled waters; I'm as merry as the day is long when I let these things alone. I'm glad we are got to the ninth. But I suppose I shall be lugged in there too, head and shoulders. Any one now who did not know me, would really think I was a great sinner, by your way of putting things; I don't bear false witness, however.

_Worthy._ You mean, I suppose, you would not swear away any man's life falsely before a magistrate, but do you take equal care not to slander or backbite him? Do you never represent a good action of a man you have quarreled with, as if it were a bad one? or do you never make a bad one worse than it is, by your manner of telling it?

Even when you invent no false circ.u.mstances, do you never give such a color to those you relate, as to leave a false impression on the mind of the hearers? Do you never twist a story so as to make it tell a little better for yourself, and a little worse for your neighbor, than truth and justice warrant?

_Bragwell._ Why, as to that matter, all this is only natural.

_Worthy._ Ay, much too natural to be right, I doubt. Well, now we have got to the last of the commandments.

_Bragwell._ Yes, I have run the gauntlet finely through them all; you will bring me in guilty here, I suppose, for the pleasure of going through with it; for you condemn without judge or jury, Master Worthy.

_Worthy._ The culprit, I think, has. .h.i.therto pleaded guilty to the evidence brought against him. The tenth commandment, however, goes to the root and principle of evil, it dives to the bottom of things; this command checks the first rising of sin in the heart; teaches us to strangle it in the birth, as it were, before it breaks out in those acts which are forbidden: as, for instance, every man covets before he proceeds to steal; nay, many covet, knowing they can do it with impunity, who dare not steal, lest they should suffer for it.

_Bragwell._ Why, look'ee, Mr. Worthy, I don't understand these new fashioned explanations; one should not have a grain of sheer goodness left, if every thing one does is to be fritted away at this rate. I am not, I own, quite so good as I thought, but if what you say were true, I should be so miserable, I should not know what to do with myself. Why, I tell you all the world may be said to break the commandments at this rate.

_Worthy._ Very true. All the world, and I myself also, are but too apt to break them, if not in the letter, at least in the spirit of them. Why, then, all the world are (as the Scripture expresses it) "guilty before G.o.d." And if guilty, they should own they are guilty, and not stand up and justify themselves, as you do, Mr. Bragwell.

_Bragwell._ Well, according to my notion, I am a very honest man, and honesty is the sum and substance of all religion, say I.

_Worthy._ All truth, honesty, justice, order, and obedience grow out of the Christian religion. The true Christian acts at all times, and on all occasions, from the pure and spiritual principle of love to G.o.d and Christ. On this principle he is upright in his dealings, true to his word, kind to the poor, helpful to the oppressed. In short, if he truly loves G.o.d, he _must_ do justice, and _can't_ help loving mercy. Christianity is a uniform consistent thing. It does not allow us to make up for the breach of one part of G.o.d's law, by our strictness in observing another. There is no sponge in one duty, that can wipe out the spot of another sin.

_Bragwell._ Well, but at this rate, I should be always puzzling and blundering, and should never know for certain whether I was right or not; whereas I am now quite satisfied with myself, and have no doubts to torment me.

_Worthy._ One way of knowing whether we really desire to obey the whole law of G.o.d is this; when we find we have as great a regard to that part of it, the breach of which does not touch our own interest, as to that part which does. For instance, a man robs me; I am in a violent pa.s.sion with him, and when it is said to me, doest thou well to be angry? I answer, I do well. _Thou shalt not steal_ is a law of G.o.d, and this fellow has broken that law. Ay, but says conscience, 'tis _thy own property_ which is in question. He has broken _thy_ hedge, he has stolen _thy_ sheep, he has taken _thy_ purse. Art thou therefore sure whether it is his violation of thy property, or of G.o.d's law which provokes thee? I will put a second case: I hear another swear most grievously; or I meet him coming drunk out of an ale-house; or I find him singing a loose, profane song. If I am not as much grieved for this blasphemer, or this drunkard, as I was for this robber; if I do not take the same pains to bring him to a sense of his sin, which I did to bring the robber to justice, "how dwelleth the love of G.o.d in me?" Is it not clear that I value my own sheep more than G.o.d's commandments? That I prize my purse more than I love my Maker? In short, whenever I find out that I am more jealous for my own property than for G.o.d's law; more careful about my own reputation than _his_ honor, I always suspect I have got upon wrong ground, and that even my right actions are not proceeding from a right principle.

_Bragwell._ Why, what in the world would you have me do? It would distract me, if I must run up every little action to its spring, in this manner.

_Worthy._ You must confess that your sins _are_ sins. You must not merely call them sins, while you see no guilt in them; but you must confess them so as to hate and detest them; so as to be habitually humbled under the sense of them; so as to trust for salvation not in your freedom from them, but in the mercy of a Saviour; and so as to make it the chief business of your life to contend against them, and in the main to forsake them. And remember, that if you seek for a deceitful gayety, rather than a well-grounded cheerfulness; if you prefer a false security to final safety, and now go away to your cattle and your farm, and dismiss the subject from your thoughts, lest it should make you uneasy, I am not sure that this simple discourse may not appear against you at the day of account, as a fresh proof that you "loved darkness rather than light," and so increase your condemnation.

Mr. Bragwell was more affected than he cared to own. He went to bed with less spirits and more humility than usual. He did not, however, care to let Mr. Worthy see the impression which it had made upon him; but at parting next morning, he shook him by the hand more cordially than usual, and made him promise to return his visit in a short time.

What befell Mr. Bragwell and his family on his going home may, perhaps, make the subject of a future part of this history.

PART III.

THE VISIT RETURNED.

Mr. Bragwell, when he returned home from his visit to Mr. Worthy, as recorded in the second part of this history, found that he was not quite so happy as he had formerly been. The discourses of Mr. Worthy had broken in not a little on his comfort. And he began to suspect that he was not so completely in the right as his vanity had led him to believe. He seemed also to feel less satisfaction in the idle gentility of his own daughters, since he had been witness to the simplicity, modesty, and usefulness of those of Mr. Worthy. And he could not help seeing that the vulgar violence of his wife did not produce so much family happiness at home, as the humble piety and quiet diligence of Mrs. Worthy produced in the house of his friend.

Happy would it have been for Mr. Bragwell, if he had followed up those new convictions of his own mind, which would have led him to struggle against the power of evil principles in himself, and to have controlled the force of evil habits in his family. But his convictions were just strong enough to make him uneasy under his errors, without driving him to reform them. The slight impression soon wore off, and he fell back into his old practices. Still his esteem for Mr. Worthy was not at all abated by the plain-dealing of that honest friend. It is true, he dreaded his piercing eye: he felt that his example held out a constant reproof to himself. Yet such is the force of early affection and rooted reverence, that he longed to see him at his house. This desire, indeed, as is commonly the case, was made up of mixed motives. He wished for the pleasure of his friend's company; he longed for that favorite triumph of a vulgar mind, an opportunity of showing him his riches; and he thought it would raise his credit in the world to have a man of Mr. Worthy's character at his house.

Mr. Bragwell, it is true, still went on with the same eagerness in gaining money, and the same ostentation in spending it. But though he was as covetous as ever, he was not quite so sure that it was right to be so. While he was actually engaged abroad indeed, in transactions with his dealers, he was not very scrupulous about the means by which he _got_ his money; and while he was indulging in festivity with his friends at home, he was easy enough as to the manner in which he _spent_ it. But a man can neither be making bargains, nor making feasts always; there must be some intervals between these two great objects for which worldly men may be said to live; and in some of these intervals the most worldly form, perhaps, some random plans of amendment. And though many a one may say in the fullness of enjoyment, "Soul take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry;" yet hardly any man, perhaps, allows himself to say, even in the most secret moments, I will _never_ retire from business--I will _never_ repent--I will _never_ think of death--eternity shall _never_ come into my thoughts. The most that such a one probably ventures to say is, I need not repent _yet_; I will continue such a sin a little longer; it will be time enough to think on the next world when I am no longer fit for the business or the pleasures of this.

Such was the case with Bragwell. He set up in his mind a general distant sort of resolution, that _some years hence_, when he should be a _few years older_, a _few_ thousands richer; when a few more of his _present schemes should be completed_, he would then think of altering his course of life. He would then certainly set about spending a religious old age; he would reform some practices in his dealings, or perhaps, quit business entirely; he would think about reading good books, and when he had completed such a purchase, he would even begin to give something to the poor; but at present he really had little to spare for charity. The very reason why he should have given more was just the cause he a.s.signed for not giving at all, namely the _hardness of the times_. The true grand source of charity, self-denial, never came into his head. _Spend less_ that you may _save_ more, he would have thought a shrewd maxim enough.

But _spend less_ that you may _spare more_, never entered into his book of proverbs.

At length the time came when Mr. Worthy had promised to return his visit. It was indeed a little hastened by notice that Mr. Bragwell would have in the course of the week a piece of land to sell by auction; and though Mr. Worthy believed the price was likely to be above his pocket, yet he knew it was an occasion which would be likely to bring the princ.i.p.al farmers of that neighborhood together, some of whom he wanted to meet. And it was on this occasion that Mr.

Bragwell prided himself, that he should show his neighbors so sensible a man as his dear friend Mr. Worthy.