“But surely, Ben, you believe in something. You say you believe in God. You believe in Christ too, don’t you?”
“Aye i’ th’ natural Christ, but nooan i’th’ travesty o’ Jesus o’ Nazareth ’at th’ owd monks twisted an’ fashioned out o’ th’ natural man till his own mother wouldn’t ha’ known him. Aw believe in him, but th’ parsons don’t.”
“Nay, nay, Ben,” expostulated Tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested.
“They dooan’t. They sen they do, an’ they happen think they do, for it’s wonderful, just fair cappin’, how folk can cheeat their own sen. Nah! Aw’ll just ax yo’ if yo’ wer to steal th’ vicar’s cooat, or poise his shins for ’im, wheer do’st think tha’d sleep to-neet? I’ th’ towzer,* wouldn’t ta.”
Tom thought this highly likely.
“But that’s nooan what Jesus towd folk. An’ what abaat heeapin’ up stores o’ riches i’ this world wheer moth an’ rust doth corrupt an’ thieves break through an’ steal? Weel, if there’s a chap i’ all this valley at’s keener after brass nor some o’th’ parsons aw know an’ some o’th’ deacons yo’ kno, aw dooant want to have ony truck wi’ ’em for one.”
Tom thought of Ephraim Thorpe, and was mute.
“But that’s nooan th’ warst aw han agen th’ parsons. They’re nobbud men, though they set thersen up for saints, an’ there’s good an’ bad amang ’em same as there is amang other folk, aye, an’ allus will be as long as th’ world goes round, but ther’s just one doctrine ’at sticks i’ my gizzard waur nor all th’ others.”
Tom thought it must be a particularly lumpy doctrine, if this were so, for Ben seemed to have a narrow and constricted throat.
“Yo’ heard th’ parson tell folk to be content wi’ that station i’ life to which it has pleased Providence to call ’em.”