“That if you knew his name, it would interest you to hear that he was born in this inn. His parents kept it.”
“And he chose to be a field-preacher!” cried I. “Why, that was coming down in the world, was it not?” (Note 1.)
“It was coming down, in this world,” said he. “But there is another world, Cary, and I fancy it was going up in that. You must remember, however, that he did not choose to be a field-preacher nor a Dissenter: he was turned out of the Church.”
“But why should he have been turned out?”
“I expect, because he would not hold his tongue.”
“But why did anybody want him to hold his tongue?”
“Well, you see, he let it run to awkward subjects. Ladies and gentlemen did not like him because he set his face against fashionable diversions, and told them that they were miserable sinners, and that there was only one way into Heaven, which they would have to take as well as the poor in the almshouses. The neighbouring clergy did not like him because he was better than themselves. And the bishops did not like him because he said they ought to do their duty better, and look after their dioceses, instead of setting bad examples to their clergy by hunting and card-playing and so forth; or, at the best, sitting quiet in their closets to write learned books, which was not the duty they promised when they were ordained. But, as was the case with another Preacher, ‘the common people heard him gladly.’”
“And he was really turned out?”
“Seven years ago.”
“I wonder if it were a wise thing,” said I, thinking.