Subscriptions
Mrs. Jones, who had secured large subscriptions from the gentry, was desirous of getting the help and countenance of the farmers and trades-people, whose duty and interest she thought it was to support a plan calculated to improve the virtue and happiness of the parish. Most of them subscribed, and promised to see that their workmen sent their children. She met with little opposition till she called on farmer Hoskins. She told him, as he was the richest farmer in the parish, she came to him for a handsome subscription. “Subscription!” said he, “it is nothing but subscriptions, I think; a man, had need be made of money.” “Farmer,” said Mrs. Jones, “God has blessed you with abundant prosperity, and he expects you should be liberal in proportion to your great ability.” “I do not know what you mean by blessing,” said he: “I have been up early and late, lived hard while I had little, and now when I thought I had got forward in the world, what with tithes taxes, and subscriptions, it all goes, I think.” “Mr. Hoskins,” said Mrs. Jones, “as to tithes and taxes, you well know that the richer you are the more you pay; so that your murmurs are a proof of your wealth. This is but an ungrateful return for all your blessings.” “You are again at your blessings,” said the farmer; “but let every one work as hard as I have done, and I dare say he will do as well. It is to my own industry I owe what I have. My crops have been good, because I minded my plowing and sowing.” “O farmer!” cried Mrs. Jones, “you forget whose suns and showers make your crops to grow, and who it is that giveth strength to get riches. But I do not come to preach, but to beg.”
“Well, madam, what is the subscription now? Flannel or French? or weavers, or Swiss, or a new church, or large bread, or cheap rice? or what other new whim-wham for getting the money out of one’s pocket?” “I am going to establish a Sunday School, farmer; and I come to you as one of the principal inhabitants of the parish, hoping your example will spur on the rest to give.” “Why, then,” said the farmer, “as one of the principal inhabitants of the parish, I will give nothing; hoping it will spur on the rest to refuse. Of all the foolish inventions, and new fangled devices to ruin the country, that of teaching the poor to read is the very worst.” “And I, farmer, think that to teach good principles to the lower classes, is the most likely way to save the country. Now, in order to this, we must teach them to read.” “Not with my consent, nor my money,” said the farmer; “for I know it always does more harm than good.” “So it may,” said Mrs. Jones, “if you only teach them to read, and then turn them adrift to find out books for themselves.7 There is a proneness in the heart to evil, which it is our duty to oppose, and which I see you are promoting. Only look round your own kitchen; I am ashamed to see it hung round with loose songs and ballads. I grant, indeed, it would be better for young men and maids, and even your daughters, not to be able to read at all, than to read such stuff as this. But if, when they ask for bread, you will give them a stone, nay worse, a serpent, yours is the blame.” Then taking up a penny-book which had a very loose title, she went on: “I do not wonder, if you, who read such books as these, think it safer that people should not read at all.” The farmer grinned, and said, “It is hard if a man of my substance may not divert himself; when a bit of fun costs only a penny, and a man can spare that penny, there is no harm done. When it is very hot, or very wet, and I come in to rest, and have drunk my mug of cider, I like to take up a bit of a jest-book, or a comical story, to make me laugh.”
“O, Mr. Hoskins!” replied Mrs. Jones, “when you come in to rest from a burning sun or shower, do you never think of Him whose sun it is that is ripening your corn? or whose shower is filling the ear, or causing the grass to grow? I could tell you of some books which would strengthen such thoughts, whereas such as you read only serve to put them out of your head.”
Mrs. Jones having taken pains to let Mr. Hoskins know that all the genteel and wealthy people had subscribed, he at last said, “Why, as to the matter of that, I do not value a crown; only I think it may be better bestowed; and I am afraid my own workmen will fly in my face if once they are made scholars; and that they will think themselves too good to work.” “Now you talk soberly, and give your reasons,” said Mrs. Jones; “weak as they are, they deserve an answer. Do you think that either man, woman, or child, ever did his duty the worse, only because he knew it the better?” “No, perhaps not.” “Now, the whole extent of learning which we intend to give the poor, is only to enable them to read the Bible; a book which brings to us the glad tidings of salvation, in which every duty is explained, every doctrine brought into practice, and the highest truths made level to the meanest understanding. The knowledge of that book, and its practical influence on the heart, is the best security you can have, both for the industry and obedience of your servants. Now, can you think any man will be the worse servant for being a good Christian?” “Perhaps not.” “Are not the duties of children, of servants, and the poor, individually and expressly set forth in the Bible?” “Yes.” “Do you think any duties are likely to be as well performed from any human motives, such as fear or prudence, as from those religious motives which are backed with the sanction of rewards and punishments, of heaven or hell? Even upon your own principles of worldly policy, do you think a poor man is not less likely to steal a sheep or a horse, who was taught when a boy that it was a sin, that it was breaking a commandment, to rob a hen-roost, or an orchard, than one who has been bred in ignorance of God’s law? Will your property be secured so effectually by the stocks on the green, as by teaching the boys in the school, that for all these things God will bring them in to judgment? Is a poor fellow who can read his Bible, so likely to sleep or to drink away his few hours of leisure, as one who can not read? He may, and he often does, make a bad use of his reading; but I doubt he would have been as bad without it; and the hours spent in learning to read will always have been among the most harmless ones of his life.”
“Well, madam,” said the farmer, “if you do not think that religion will spoil my young servants, I do not care if you do put me down for half a guinea. What has farmer Dobson given?” “Half a guinea,” said Mrs. Jones. “Well,” cried the farmer, “it shall never be said I do not give more than he, who is only a renter. Dobson half a guinea! Why, he wears his coat as threadbare as a laborer.” “Perhaps,” replied Mrs. Jones, “that is one reason why he gives so much.” “Well, put me down a guinea,” cried the farmer; “as scarce as guineas are just now, I’ll never be put upon the same footing with Dobson, neither.” “Yes, and you must exert yourself beside, in insisting that your workmen send their children, and often look into the school yourself, to see if they are there, and reward or discourage them accordingly,” added Mrs. Jones. “The most zealous teachers will flag in their exertions, if they are not animated and supported by the wealthy; and your poor youth will soon despise religious instruction as a thing forced upon them, as a hardship added to their other hardships, if it be not made pleasant by the encouraging presence, kind words, and little gratuities, from their betters.”
Here Mrs. Jones took her leave; the farmer insisted on waiting on her to the door. When they got into the yard, they spied Mr. Simpson, who was standing near a group of females, consisting of the farmer’s two young daughters, and a couple of rosy dairy-maids, an old blind fiddler, and a woman who led him. The woman had laid a basket on the ground, out of which she was dealing some songs to the girls, who were kneeling round it, and eagerly picking out such whose title suited their tastes. On seeing the clergyman come up, the fiddler’s companion (for I am sorry to say she was not his wife) pushed some of the songs to the bottom of the basket, turned round to the company, and, in a whining tone, asked if they would please to buy a godly book. Mr. Simpson saw through the hypocrisy at once, and instead of making any answer, took out of one of the girls’ hands a song which the woman had not been able to snatch away. He was shocked and grieved to see that these young girls were about to read, to sing, and to learn by heart such ribaldry as he was ashamed even to cast his eyes on. He turned about to the girl, and gravely, but mildly said, “Young woman, what do you think should be done to a person who should be found carrying a box of poison round the country, and leaving a little at every house?” The girls agreed that such a person ought to be hanged. “That he should,” said the farmer, “if I was upon the jury, and quartered too.” The fiddler and his woman were of the same opinion, declaring, they would do no such a wicked thing for the world, for if they were poor they were honest. Mr. Simpson, turning to the other girl, said, “Which is of most value, the soul or the body?” “The soul, sir,” said the girl. “Why so?” said he. “Because, sir, I have heard you say in the pulpit, the soul is to last forever.” “Then,” cried Mr. Simpson, in a stern voice, turning to the fiddler’s woman, “are you not ashamed to sell poison for that part which is to last forever? poison for the soul?” “Poison?” said the terrified girl, throwing down the book, and shuddering as people do who are afraid they have touched something infectious. “Poison!” echoed the farmer’s daughters, recollecting with horror the ratsbane which Lion, the old house-dog, had got at the day before, and after eating which she had seen him drop down dead in convulsions. “Yes,” said Mr. Simpson to the woman, “I do again repeat, the souls of these innocent girls will be poisoned, and may be eternally ruined by this vile trash which you carry about.”
“I now see,” said Mrs. Jones to the farmer, “the reason why you think learning to read does more harm than good. It is indeed far better that they should never know how to tell a letter, unless you keep such trash as this out of their way, and provide them with what is good, or at least what is harmless. Still, this is not the fault of reading, but the abuse of it. Wine is still a good cordial, though it is too often abused to the purpose of drunkenness.”
The farmer said that neither of his maids could read their horn-book, though he owned he often heard them singing that song which the parson thought so bad, but for his part it made them as merry as a nightingale.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Jones, “as a proof that it is not merely being able to read which does the mischief, I have often heard, as I have been crossing a hay-field, young girls singing such indecent ribaldry as has driven me out of the field, though I well knew they could not read a line of what they were singing, but had caught it from others. So you see you may as well say the memory is a wicked talent because some people misapply it, as to say that reading is dangerous because some folks abuse it.”
While they were talking, the fiddler and his woman were trying to steal away unobserved, but Mr. Simpson stopped them, and sternly said, “Woman, I shall have some further talk with you. I am a magistrate as well as a minister, and if I know it, I will no more allow a wicked book to be sold in my parish than a dose of poison.” The girls threw away all their songs, thanked Mr. Simpson, begged Mrs. Jones would take them into her school after they had done milking in the evenings, that they might learn to read only what was proper. They promised they would never more deal with any but sober, honest hawkers, such as sell good little books, Christmas carols, and harmless songs, and desired the fiddler’s woman never to call there again.
This little incident afterward confirmed Mrs. Jones in a plan she had before some thoughts of putting in practice. This was, after her school had been established a few months, to invite all the well-disposed grown-up youth of the parish to meet her at the school an hour or two on a Sunday evening, after the necessary business of the dairy, and of serving the cattle was over. Both Mrs. Jones and her agent had the talent of making this time pass so agreeably, by their manner of explaining Scripture, and of impressing the heart by serious and affectionate discourse, that in a short time the evening-school was nearly filled with a second company, after the younger ones were dismissed. In time, not only the servants, but the sons and daughters of the most substantial people in the parish attended. At length many of the parents, pleased with the improvement so visible in the young people, got a habit of dropping in, that they might learn how to instruct their own families; and it was observed that as the school filled, not only the fives-court and public houses were thinned, but even Sunday gossipping and tea-visiting declined. Even farmer Hoskins, who was at first very angry with his maids for leaving off those merry songs (as he called them) was so pleased by the manner in which the psalms were sung at the school, that he promised Mrs. Jones to make her a present of half a sheep toward her first May-day feast. Of this feast some account shall be given hereafter; and the reader may expect some further account of the Sunday School in the history of Hester Wilmot.