It was happy for the Rev¹. 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 buoyed² up by the air-vessels³ of our own conceit⁴: alas⁵ 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 orator⁶, suddenly, that his wig⁷ is awry⁸, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and that he is tickling⁹ 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 eloquence¹⁰. That is a deep and wide saying, that no miracle can be wrought¹¹ without faith—without the worker’s faith in himself, as well as the recipient’s faith in him. And the greater 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 Phœbe thinks my squint¹² intolerable, and I shall never be able to fix her blandly¹³ 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 benignity¹⁴ 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 squire¹⁵ of the parish, and, stimulated¹⁶ by unwonted gravies¹⁷ and port-wine, had been delivering his opinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation¹⁸. 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 waterproof¹⁹ cape²⁰ over one’s shoulders, doesn’t frighten away the cold from one’s legs; but entirely²¹ unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit’s estimate of his oratorical²² 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 sniff²³ so frightfully as Mr. Barton did—she had a great mind to offer him her pocket-handkerchief; and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said he was going for to do a thing. He, excellent man! was meditating²⁴ fresh pastoral exertions²⁶ 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 Dissenters²⁸—one especially, purporting²⁹ to be written by a working man who, out of pure zeal³⁰ for the welfare of his class, took the trouble to warn them in this way against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting³¹ preachers. The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence of that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. Dissent²⁷, he considered, would have its head bruised³² in Shepperton, for did he not attack it in two ways? He preached Low-Church doctrine³³—as evangelical as anything to be heard in the Independent Chapel³⁴; and he made a High-Church 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 aslant³⁵ 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 robust³⁶ maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face of no particular complexion³⁸—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 surmounted³⁹ 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-room⁴⁰ 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 dispensing⁴¹ with the light of a candle altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red firelight, 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 was a lovely woman—Mrs. Amos Barton, a large, fair, gentle Madonna, with thick, close, chestnut⁴² 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 graceful⁴³, and her old frayed⁴⁴ black silk seemed to repose⁴⁵ on her bust³⁷ and limbs with a placid⁴⁶ elegance⁴⁷ and sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling⁴⁸ of Mrs. Farquhar’s gros de Naples. The caps she wore would have been pronounced, when off her head, utterly⁴⁹ heavy and hideous—for in those days even fashionable caps were large and floppy⁵⁰; but surmounting⁵¹ her long arched neck, and mingling⁵² 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 crimson⁵³ if any one appealed to her opinion; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence was so imposing⁵⁴ in its mildness, that men spoke⁵⁵ to her with an agreeable sensation of timidity.
 
Soothing⁵⁶, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood! which supersedes⁵⁷ all acquisitions, all accomplishments⁵⁸. You would never have asked, at any period of Mrs. Amos Barton’s life, if she sketched⁵⁹ or played the piano. You would even perhaps have been rather scandalized if she had descended⁶⁰ from the serene⁶¹ 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 hot aching forehead will be soothed⁶² by the contact of her cool soft hand—who will recover himself from dejection at his mistakes and failures in the loving light of her unreproaching eyes! You would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this bliss⁶⁴ would fall to the share of precisely⁶⁵ such a man as Amos Barton, whom you have already surmised⁶⁶ not to have the refined sensibilities for which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton’s qualities to be destined⁶⁷ by pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge⁶⁸ Amos Barton this sweet wife. I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs, who are nobody’s pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat and a pleasant morsel⁶⁹, than meet the condescending⁷⁰ advances of the loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady’s chair. That, to be sure, is not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow of fine proportions and aristocratic mien⁷², who makes no faux pas, and wins golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, There would be a proper match! Not at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet⁷³ and able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts are often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence. She—the sweet woman—will like it as well; for her sublime⁷⁴ capacity of loving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton’s nature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the man you would perhaps have had in your eye for her—a man with sufficient income and abundant personal éclat. Besides, Amos was an affectionate husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.
 
But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, ‘Well, Milly!’
 
‘Well, dear!’ was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent⁷⁵ by a smile.
 
‘So that young rascal⁷⁶ won’t go to sleep! Can’t you give him to Nanny?’
 
‘Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I’ll take him to her now.’ And Mrs. Barton glided⁷⁷ towards the kitchen, while her husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize⁷⁸-coloured dressing-gown, in which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did not suit his complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack⁸⁰ of hitting on the wrong thing in garb⁸¹ as well as in grammar.
 
Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she would not enter on it at once. ‘Have you had a nice evening, dear?’
 
‘Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early. Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance⁸². But I don’t think he’s much smitten⁸³. I’ve a notion Ely’s engaged to some one at a distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing⁸⁴ for him here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely’s a sly dog; he’ll like that.’
 
‘Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?’
 
‘Yes; Farquhar said he thought it was time there was some improvement in the choir⁸⁵. But he was rather scandalized at my setting the tune⁸⁶ of “Lydia.” He says he’s always hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting.’ Here Mr. Barton laughed—he had a way of laughing at criticisms that other people thought damaging—and thereby⁸⁷ showed the remainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the Old Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for wear. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘Mrs. Farquhar talked the most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has taken up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to her opinion, but I told her pretty strongly what I thought.’
 
‘Dear me! why will people take so much pains to find out evil about others? I have had a note from the Countess since you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday.’
 
Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, and gave it to her husband. We will look over his shoulder while he reads it:—
 
‘Sweetest Milly,—Bring your lovely face with your husband to dine with us on Friday at seven—do. If not, I will be sulky with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall long to kiss you that very moment. Yours, according to your answer,
 
‘Caroline Czerlaski.
 
‘Just like her, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘I suppose we can go?’
 
‘Yes; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is to-morrow, you know.’
 
‘And, dear, Woods the butcher called, to say he must have some money next week. He has a payment to make up.’
 
This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed⁸⁸ more rapidly, and looked at the fire.
 
‘I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two months till Lady-day, and we can’t give Woods our last shilling.’
 
‘I hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear—he and Mrs. Hackit have been so very kind to us; they have sent us so many things lately.’
 
‘Then I must ask Oldinport. I’m going to write to him to-morrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I’ve been thinking of about having service in the workhouse while the church is being enlarged. If he agrees to attend service there once or twice, the other people will come. Net the large fish, and you’re sure to have the small fry.’
 
‘I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don’t see how we can. Poor Fred must have some new shoes; I couldn’t let him go to Mrs. Bond’s yesterday because his toes were peeping out, dear child! and I can’t let him walk anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pair before Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of my life. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and make old look like new; but there’s no coaxing⁸⁹ boots and shoes to look better than they are.’
 
Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing boots and shoes. She had at that moment on her feet a pair of slippers⁹⁰ which had long ago lived through the prunella phase of their existence, and were now running a respectable career as black silk slippers, having been neatly⁹¹ covered with that material by Mrs. Barton’s own neat fingers. Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spend a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece of calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysterious little garment with all sorts of hemmed⁹² ins and outs. She was even trying to persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor.
 
But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the candle begins to burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nanny has succeeded in lulling⁹³ Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot by his mother’s bedside; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair, indents⁹⁴ the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy⁹⁵ lips, for baby is given to the infantile peccadillo⁹⁶ of thumb-sucking.
 
So Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go to bed.
 
Mrs. Barton carried up-stairs the remainder of her heap of stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also she placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tin socket⁹⁷ fixed⁹⁸ at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but her heart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the transitory nature of shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed⁹⁹ with love, she felt sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for husband and babes better than she could foresee; so she was soon asleep. But about half-past five o’clock in the morning, if there were any angels watching round her bed—and angels might be glad of such an office—they saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering¹⁰⁰ Amos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop⁷¹ herself upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. She darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then drowsiness¹⁰¹ came with the dawn; the candle was put out, and she sank into a doze¹⁰². But at nine o’clock she was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and-butter for five hungry mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fat neck, and night-gown, brought in a jug¹⁰³ of hot milk-and-water. Nearest her mother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest¹⁰⁴ child, whose sweet fair face is already rather grave sometimes, and who always wants to run up-stairs to save mamma’s legs, which get so tired of an evening. Then there are four other blond heads—two boys and two girls, gradually decreasing in size down to Chubby¹⁰⁵, who is making a round O of her mouth to receive a bit of papa’s ‘baton’. Papa’s attention was divided between petting Chubby, rebuking¹⁰⁶ the noisy Fred, which he did with a somewhat excessive sharpness, and eating his own breakfast. He had not yet looked at Mamma, and did not know that her cheek was paler than usual. But Patty whispered, ‘Mamma, have you the headache?’
 
Happily coal was cheap in the neighbourhood of Shepperton, and Mr. Hackit would any time let his horses draw a load for ‘the parson’ without charge; so there was a blazing fire in the sitting-room, and not without need, for the vicarage garden, as they looked out on it from the bow-window, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white woolly look that portends¹⁰⁷ snow.
 
Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and occupied himself in the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldinport. It was very much the same sort of letter as most clergymen would have written under the same circumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrote preambulate, and instead of ‘if haply’, ‘if happily’, the contingency¹⁰⁹ indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift of perfect accuracy in English orthography¹¹⁰ and syntax, which was unfortunate, as he was known not to be a Hebrew scholar, and not in the least suspected of being an accomplished¹¹¹ Grecian. These lapses¹¹², in a man who had gone through the Eleusinian mysteries of a university education, surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely; especially the Misses Farquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter as Dear Mads., apparently¹¹³ an abbreviation for Madams. The persons least surprised at the Rev. Amos’s deficiencies were his clerical brethren, who had gone through the mysteries themselves.
 
At eleven o’clock, Mr. Barton walked forth¹¹⁴ in cape and boa, with the sleet¹¹⁵ driving in his face, to read prayers at the workhouse, euphemistically called the ‘College’. The College was a huge square stone building, standing¹¹⁶ on the best apology for an elevation¹¹⁷ of ground that could be seen for about ten miles around Shepperton. A flat ugly district this; depressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The roads are black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy¹¹⁸ with smoke; and at that time—the time of handloom weavers¹²⁰—every other cottage had a loom¹¹⁹ at its window, where you might see a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressing a narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill¹²¹ work with legs and arms. A troublesome district for a clergyman; at least to one who, like Amos Barton, understood the ‘cure of souls’ in something more than an official sense; for over and above the rustic¹²² stupidity furnished by the farm-labourers, the miners brought obstreperous¹²³ animalism, and the weavers an acrid¹²⁴ Radicalism¹²⁵ and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit often observed that the colliers, who many of them earned better wages than Mr. Barton, ‘passed their time in doing nothing but swilling¹²⁶ ale and smoking, like the beasts that perish’ (speaking, we may presume, in a remotely analogical sense); and in some of the alehouse corners the drink was flavoured by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like rinsings of Tom Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement created by the popular preaching of Mr. Parry, Amos’s predecessor¹²⁷, had nearly died out, and the religious life of Shepperton was falling back towards low-water mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Satan; and you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had to stand single-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the walls of Jericho fell down before the sound of trumpets¹²⁸; but we nowhere hear that those trumpets were hoarse¹²⁹ and feeble. Doubtless they were trumpets that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty¹³⁰ vibration¹³¹ through brick and mortar¹³². But the oratory¹³³ of the Rev. Amos resembled rather a Belgian railway-horn, which shows praiseworthy intentions inadequately¹³⁵ fulfilled. He often missed the right note both in public and private exhortation¹³⁶, and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amos thought himself strong, he did not feel himself strong. Nature had given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without that opinion he would probably never have worn cambric bands, but would have been an excellent cabinetmaker and deacon of an Independent church, as his father was before him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). He might then have sniffed¹³⁷ long and loud in the corner of his pew in Gun Street Chapel; he might have indulged in halting rhetoric¹³⁸ at prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty English in private life; and these little infirmities would not have prevented him, honest faithful man that he was, from being a shining light in the dissenting circle of Bridgeport. A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent thing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty’s nose and eye are not sensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax; it is only when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and introduce it into the drawing-room, that it seems plebeian¹³⁹, dim, and ineffectual. Alas for the worthy¹³⁴ man who, like that candle, gets himself into the wrong place! It is only the very largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity him—who will discern and love sincerity¹⁴⁰ of purpose amid all the bungling¹⁴¹ feebleness of achievement.
 
But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet as far as the College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, and is reading, in the dreary¹⁴² stone-floored dining-room, a portion of the morning service to the inmates¹⁴³ seated on the benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had not yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting¹⁴⁴ as paid chaplain of the union, but as the pastor²⁵ who had the cure of all souls in his parish, pauper¹⁴⁵ as well as other. After the prayers he always addressed to them a short discourse¹⁴⁶ on some subject suggested by the lesson for the day, striving if by this means some edifying¹⁴⁷ matter might find its way into the pauper mind and conscience—perhaps a task as trying as you could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces on which his eye had to rest, watching whether there was any stirring under the stagnant¹⁴⁸ surface.
 
Right in front of him—probably because he was stone-deaf, and it was deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a long one—sat ‘Old Maxum’, as he was familiarly called, his real patronymic remaining a mystery to most persons. A fine philological¹⁴⁹ sense discerns in this cognomen¹⁵⁰ an indication that the pauper patriarch had once been considered pithy¹⁵¹ and sententious in his speech; but now the weight of ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well as in his ears, and he sat before the clergyman with protruded¹⁵² chin, and munching¹⁵³ mouth, and eyes that seemed to look at emptiness.
 
Next to him sat Poll Fodge—known to the magistracy of her county as Mary Higgins—a one-eyed woman, with a scarred and seamy face, the most notorious rebel in the workhouse, said to have once thrown her broth¹⁵⁴ over the master’s coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature’s apparent safeguards against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuation¹⁵⁵ of the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who was behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss Fodge fixed her one sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of hardy¹⁵⁶ defiance¹⁵⁷.
 
Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the bench, sat ‘Silly Jim’, a young man afflicted¹⁵⁸ with hydrocephalus, who rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the point of his nose. These were the supporters of Old Maxum on his right.
 
On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once been a footman in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy elevation had enunciated¹⁵⁹ a contemptuous opinion of boiled beef, which had been traditionally handed down in Shepperton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to pauper commons. His calves¹⁶⁰ were now shrunken, and his hair was grey without the aid of powder; but he still carried his chin as if he were conscious of a stiff cravat¹⁶¹; he set his dilapidated hat on with a knowing inclination¹⁶² towards the left ear; and when he was on field-work, he carted and uncarted the manure¹⁶³ with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of that jaunty¹⁶⁴ demeanour with which he used to usher¹⁶⁵ in my lady’s morning visitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued¹⁶⁶ but in his stomach, and he still divided society into gentry¹⁶⁷, gentry’s flunkeys, and the people who provided for them. A clergyman without a flunkey was an anomaly, belonging to neither of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an irrepressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in the recurrent regularity¹⁶⁸ with which he dozed¹⁶⁹ off until he nodded and awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechanism¹⁷⁰, ingeniously contrived¹⁷¹ for measuring the length of Mr. Barton’s discourse.
 
Perfectly¹⁷² wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbour, Mrs. Brick, one of those hard undying old women, to whom age seems to have given a network of wrinkles, as a coat of magic armour¹⁷³ against the attacks of winters, warm or cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still sensitive—the theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and fear—was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming¹⁷⁴ powder, helping¹⁷⁵ her soul to do the office of salt.
 
And now, eke¹⁷⁶ out an audience of which this front benchful was a sample, with a certain number of refractory¹⁷⁷ children, over whom Mr. Spratt, the master of the workhouse, exercised an irate¹⁷⁸ surveillance, and I think you will admit that the university-taught clergyman, whose office it is to bring home the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently¹⁷⁹ hard task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous¹⁸⁰ intervention¹⁸¹, he must bring his geographical¹⁸², chronological¹⁸³, exegetical¹⁸⁴ mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of no view; he must have some approximate conception of the mode in which the doctrines¹⁸⁵ that have so much vitality¹⁸⁶ in the plenum of his own brain will comport¹⁸⁷ themselves in vacuo—that is to say, in a brain that is neither geographical, chronological, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination that can take such a leap as that, and an adroit¹⁸⁸ tongue that can adapt its speech to so unfamiliar¹⁸⁹ a position. The Rev. Amos Barton had neither that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. He talked of Israel and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the Paschal lamb, of blood as a medium of reconciliation¹⁹⁰; and he strove in this way to convey religious truth within reach of the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the first lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus¹⁹¹, and Mr. Barton’s exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the world more suited to the simple understanding than instruction through familiar types and symbols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the interest or comprehension of your hearers may stop short precisely at the point where your spiritual interpretation¹⁹² begins. And Mr. Barton this morning succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, but unfortunately was not able to carry it upwards¹⁹³ from that well-known object to the unknown truths which it was intended to shadow forth.
 
Alas! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keeping ‘terms’ at Cambridge, where there are able mathematicians¹⁹⁴, and butter is sold by the yard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian¹⁹⁵ doctrine will distil¹⁹⁶ as welcome dew on withered¹⁹⁷ souls.
 
And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unquestionable snow, and the stony¹⁹⁸ dining-room looked darker and drearier¹⁹⁹, and Mr. Fitchett was nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was boxing the boys’ ears with a constant rinforzando, as he felt more keenly the approach of dinner-time, Mr. Barton wound up his exhortation with something of the February chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, thoroughly²⁰⁰ roused now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously²⁰¹ and gracefully²⁰² advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brick rubbed her withered forefinger²⁰³ round and round her little shoe-shaped snuff-box, vainly seeking for the fraction of a pinch. I can’t help thinking that if Mr. Barton had shaken into that little box a small portion of Scotch²⁰⁴ high-dried, he might have produced something more like an amiable²⁰⁵ emotion in Mrs. Brick’s mind than anything she had felt under his morning’s exposition of the unleavened bread. But our good Amos laboured under a deficiency of small tact⁶³ as well as of small cash; and when he observed the action of the old woman’s forefinger, he said, in his brusque way, ‘So your snuff is all gone, eh?’
 
Mrs. Brick’s eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that the parson might be intending to replenish²⁰⁶ her box, at least mediately²⁰⁷, through the present of a small copper²⁰⁸.
 
‘Ah, well! you’ll soon be going where there is no more snuff. You’ll be in need of mercy then. You must remember that you may have to seek for mercy and not find it, just as you’re seeking for snuff.’
 
At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided²⁰⁹ from Mrs. Brick’s eyes. The lid of her box went ‘click!’ and her heart was shut up at the same moment.
 
But now Mr. Barton’s attention was called for by Mr. Spratt, who was dragging a small and unwilling²¹⁰ boy from the rear. Mr. Spratt was a small-featured, small-statured man, with a remarkable²¹¹ power of language, mitigated²¹² by hesitation²¹³, who piqued²¹⁴ himself on expressing unexceptionable sentiments in unexceptional language on all occasions.
 
‘Mr. Barton, sir—aw—aw—excuse my trespassing²¹⁵ on your time—aw—to beg that you will administer a rebuke²¹⁶ to this boy; he is—aw—aw—most inveterate²¹⁷ in ill-behaviour during service-time.’
 
The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contending against ‘candles’ at his nose by feeble sniffing²¹⁸. But no sooner had Mr. Spratt uttered his impeachment²¹⁹, than Miss Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr. Barton and the accused.
 
‘That’s my child, Muster²²⁰ Barton,’ she exclaimed, further manifesting her maternal²²¹ instincts by applying her apron²²² to her offspring’s nose. ‘He’s al’ys a-findin’ faut wi’ him, and a-poundin’ him for nothin’. Let him goo an’ eat his roost goose as is a-smellin’ up in our noses while we’re a-swallering them greasy²²³ broth, an’ let my boy alooan.’
 
Mr. Spratt’s small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of uttering sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergyman; but Mr. Barton, foreseeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be to edification, said ‘Silence!’ in his severest tones.
 
‘Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave well, if you set him the example of being saucy²²⁴.’ Then stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking him by the shoulder, ‘Do you like being beaten?’
 
‘No-a.’
 
‘Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you were not naughty, you wouldn’t be beaten. But if you are naughty, God will be angry, as well as Mr. Spratt; and God can burn you for ever. That will be worse than being beaten.’
 
Master Fodge’s countenance²²⁵ was neither affirmative nor negative of this proposition.
 
‘But,’ continued Mr. Barton, ‘if you will be a good boy, God will love you, and you will grow up to be a good man. Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have been a good boy.’
 
Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue²²⁶ to him from this change of courses. But Mr. Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched on a delicate subject in alluding²²⁷ to the roast goose, was determined²²⁸ to witness no more polemics²²⁹ between her and Mr. Spratt, so, saying good morning to the latter, he hastily left the College.
 
The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes²³⁰, and already the vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed through the gate. Mrs. Barton heard him open the door, and ran out of the sitting-room to meet him.
 
‘I’m afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible morning! Let me take your hat. Your slippers are at the fire.’
 
Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is difficult, when you have been doing disagreeable duties, without praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the very minor²³¹ morals. So he showed no recognition of Milly’s attentions, but simply said, ‘Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you?’
 
‘It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn’t go into the study, because you said you would letter and number the books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have been covering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room.’
 
‘Oh, I can’t do those this morning,’ said Mr. Barton, as he took off his boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; ‘you must put them away into the parlour.’
 
The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom; and while Mamma’s back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, had insisted on superseding²³² Chubby in the guidance of a headless horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was drawing round the room, so that when Papa opened the door Chubby was giving tongue energetically.
 
‘Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to be quiet.’
 
‘Yes, dear. Hush²³³, Chubby; go with Patty, and see what Nanny is getting for our dinner. Now, Fred and Sophy and Dickey, help me to carry these books into the parlour. There are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily²³⁴.’
 
Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took up a work on Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical Book Society; thinking he would finish it and return it this afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters.
 
The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been founded some eight or ten months, had had a noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos Barton. When he first came to Shepperton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. Mr. Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated²³⁵ at Cambridge under the influence of Mr. Simeon. John Newton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals; he would have taken in the “Christian Observer” and the “Record,” if he could have afforded it; his anecdotes²³⁶ were chiefly of the pious-jocose kind, current in dissenting circles; and he thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.
 
But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation²³⁷ was beginning to be felt in backward provincial²³⁸ regions, and the Tractarian satire²³⁹ on the Low-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy¹⁰⁸ had agreed to have a clerical meeting every month, wherein they would exercise their intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly love by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there was provision made for ample friction²⁴⁰ of the clerical mind.
 
Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided⁷⁹ will and opinion of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He would march very determinedly²⁴¹ along the road he thought best; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more than unobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he held opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed with spices; the strong original odour was blended with something new and foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined High Church nostrils²⁴², and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuine onion-eater.
 
We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to-day, because we shall probably want to go thither²⁴³ some day when he will be absent. And just now I am bent²⁴⁴ on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine to-morrow.