But this is a digression. I now return to the Hodge of half a century ago.
It was late that night before the villagers went to bed, everyone had so much to say. There had not been such an excitement there since old Campbell, missionary to Africa, had told the people all about the poor Hottentots.
Half-way down the High Street stood the Spread Eagle—as times went, a respectable public-house, licensed to let post-horses, and warranted to provide suitable accommodation for man or beast. It is true, on the outside was painted a fierce creature, intended for a bird, with an eye and a beak enough to frighten anyone, but all was peace and harmony within. The landlady had a way of serving up mulled porter at all hours which seemed particularly attractive to her customers, especially in winter, and as the coach to London changed horses there, a good many people were in the habit of dropping in ‘quite promiscuous,’ as some of us say. On the evening of the sermon, the bar-parlour was unusually full. The landlady’s niece had been to hear the young divine, and her verdict was favourable.
‘Here’s a pretty go,’ said the Rector, who had dropped in quite accidentally, as he joined the group: ‘that young Wentworth is going to drive the people crazy. As I came past I saw all the parish there. I am sure Sir Thomas’ (the owner of the next village) ‘will be very angry when he hears of it.’
‘Right you are!’ cried the surgeon; ‘but the young fellow won’t stop here long, you may depend upon it. He is far too good for the meetingers.’
‘I wish the whole pack of them would clear off,’ continued the Rector; ‘they give me no end of trouble. If I go into a cottage, I find they have been there before me. It is just the same with the schools; they get all the children. My predecessor did not mind it, but I do.’
‘Ah,’ said the landlady, ‘I’ve heard my mother speak of him. He and the clerk had always a hot supper here on a Sunday night. Ah, he was a gentleman, and behaved as such.’
‘Rare times, them was,’ said an old farmer, joining in the conversation. ‘I remember how we used to pelt them meetinger parsons with rotten eggs. It was rare fun to break their windows while they were preaching, and to frighten the women as they came out. One day we were going to burn the parson’s house down.’
‘And why did you not?’ asked the surgeon.
‘Because the Rector’s wife was ill,’ was the reply, ‘and the Rector asked us not to make a noise near the house. But I was sorry we did not then finish the job outright. They’d all have gone. Says I, if you want to get rid of the wasps, burn their nests. I’ve no patience with a lot of hypocrites, professing to be better than other people.’