“That were a different sort o’ conviction all together, Ben, that were for feightin’, and this aw mean naa is th’ conviction o’ sin.”
“Well, fighting’s a sin,” I said.
“Aw dooan’t know as it is—not if it be for feightin’ such a thing as th’ ostler at th’ Pack Horse for sayin’ Martha’s bow–legged, when aw know better, but aw do believe at aw gat my conviction o’ sin much i’ t’ same way.”
“How does ta’ mean, ’Siah,” I asked, for I saw our teamer was in deadly earnest.
“Why, bi wrastlin’, to be sure. So th’ missis munnot tell me agean there’s no gooid i’ wrastlin’. It were after aw came back fra th’ village last neet. Aw leets o’ Martha an ’oo gav’ me a bit o’ her tongue for makkin’ a swill tub o’ mysen an’ for lettin’ a little chap like th’ ostler at th’ Pack Horse ha’ th’ law on me, an’ so aw went into th’ shippon an’ set by mi’ sen for happen two hours i’ th’ hay at aw’d pulled for th’ beasts. An’ aw said to mi’ sen ’at it were no use tryin’ to be good for aw were clear born to be damned. Aw could ha’ ta’en that hop o’ mi thumb at th’ Pack Horse awmost atween mi finger an’ thumb an’ pinched him i’ two if it hadn’t been at aw were mazed i’ drink. An’ so th’ text com’ into mi head at aw wer reight served for mi fuddlin’ an’ ‘auv made up mi mind to just pay him aat next time aw goa to market, an’ then awst turn religious an’ happen gi’ up drinking, except at th’ Feast an’ Christmas time, an’ mebbe when aw get treated an’ at a chersenin’ or a weddin’ or a wake, an’ mebbe occasional o’ a Saterday, not to lose th’ taste an’ feel on it, an’ i’ th’ way o’ dooty as yo’ may say.”
This was the longest speech I ever heard ’Siah deliver. I thought his resolution a good one, only advising him when he brought the matter off with the man at the Pack Horse to be sure to make his opponent touch a button so as to have law on his side, and if possible to have witnesses that could be relied on to speak the truth, I mean, so as to make it a case of what lawyer Blackburn called provocation.
It was after supper that the momentous consultation about the machines began. Full justice had been done to that evening meal. There had been cold beef and a chine, oatcakes that had been dried on the creel over the big fireplace before which a bullock might have been roasted whole, cheese and apple pie, and, to drink, a quart or more of my mother’s famous home brewed. Mr. Webster, by grace of his office, was privileged to drink his ale out of the large two–handled silver flagon, a hundred years old at the least, that no common lips had ever touched. I do not think the supper was the worse for that we took it in the house instead of the parlour. There was the sanded floor to our feet and the smoked rafters above, and in the sill of the long diamond paned windows were red earth pots of geranium and musk and fuschia, that made the room smell sweet as a nosegay. The spinning wheels were away in the corner, a list hearthrug made by my mother’s own hands stretched before the grate, a cushion whose covering worked by the same tireless fingers imaged the meeting of Jacob and Rebecca at the well, adorned the long oak settle under the window. The walls, washed yellow, were relieved by the framed funeral cards of departed relatives; the calf bound family Bible containing entries of births, marriages and deaths for many generations back, my own birth being at that time last entry of all, tho’ there have been added a goodly list since then, reposed on the chest; a celery glass, highly cut, on the one side and a decanter on the other. A beautiful enamelled tray, with hand–painted roses, was reared behind, and best pictures of all, my father always vowed, and richest ornaments of any room, a prime flitch of bacon and two sturdy hams hung on the hooks near the door, so as to catch the air to keep them sweet. I have been in many a fine room since then, notably when I went to Woodsome Hall to see my Lord Dartmouth and give the tenants’ greeting to his bonnie bride; but for real home feeling and snug comfort never have I seen ought to compare with the old house at Holme when it was tidied up for Sunday.
Supper was over. Mr. Webster was sat in my father’s arm chair, his little legs, with their worsted stockings, hardly reaching the ground, and I make no doubt he would have been more comfortable on the settle, which was lower; but it was a point of civility with my father to surrender the master’s chair to an honoured guest. A long churchwarden sent its reek up the broad chimney, and a little glass of weak gin and water stood by the parson’s right hand convenient on the table. Not that Mr. Webster took much of either ale or strong waters; but this was Sunday, and it is well known that when a minister has preached two sermons, with many a long prayer thrown in, to say nothing of hymns, sing he never so badly, his throat must needs be dry. My father sat opposite Mr. Webster on the other side of the hearth, my mother, in her low rocking chair with the iron rockers, swaying gently to and fro, and fingering her handkerchief for lack of her knitting needles, which must not be used on Sundays. The case reserved, as a lawyer might say, had been put by my father with much aiding and commentary from the mother, who justified her interruption, under a look of remonstrance from both pastor and lord, by saying that a woman could jump over a wall while a man was going round and round seeking for the gate.
“It is no small matter, friend Bamforth,” at length said Mr. Webster, “and one that I doubt not you have taken to the Lord in prayer. Well pleased too am I that you have seen fit to take counsel with me in this weighty business. For it is laid upon me to feed the sheep of our Master’s fold, and tho’ you would not look to me for the bread that perisheth, but rather I to you, for it is written that the labourer is worthy of his hire, and ye may not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn, yet perchance in doubtful and perplexing times a pastor’s counsel may be the more needful nourishment. Now I would have you take heed against the besetting sin of this latter–day and corrupt generation, which I take to be that very making haste to be rich against which the Book doth expressly warn us. You speak of building a mill for these new methods. Hast thou not thought within thyself, like the man in the parable, saying ‘What shall I do, because I have no room where to bestow my fruits? This will I do: I will pull down my barns, and build greater; and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.’ And mark what to that man God said: ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided? So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God.’ And now I ask you, brother Bamforth, can you be rich toward God, if you build up your fortune on the ruin of your fellow men. You say one o’ these new finishing frames will do the work of four, may be of six men. Aye, also is there talk of looms that shall need neither skill nor care. It may be true, I know not. But oh! it will be a sore day for this hillside, and all the country round when that day shall be. What is to become of those who now keep a decent roof over their heads, and tho’ times be bad can still give bit and sup to wife and bairns. You may make new machines but you cannot make new men to order. And see to it that it be not now with thee as in the days of Pharaoh of old, when Aaron’s rod swallowed up the rods of the wise men and the sorcerers, and thy rod too be swallowed up. If that came to pass of which I have read and heard, there will be no room in this valley for men of but moderate means. Yo’ may build a mill, but bigger men will build bigger mills, and the bigger mills will swallow up the less, and thou and thy son, and even Mary yonder may be fain, thou in thy old age and they in their prime, to take wage at another’s hand, and to do a hireling’s task in another’s mill.”
“If I do may I be—”