CHAPTER II.
"There has never been occasion to use them since I've been in the
parish," said Parson Dale.
"What does that prove?" quoth the squire, sharply, and looking the parson
full in the face.
"Prove!" repeated Mr. Dale, with a smile of benign, yet too conscious
superiority, "what does experience prove?"
"That your forefathers were great blockheads, and that their descendant
is not a whit the wiser."
"Squire," replied the parson, "although that is a melancholy conclusion,
yet if you mean it to apply universally, and not to the family of the
Dales in particular; it is not one which my candour as a reasoner, and my
humility as a mortal, will permit me to challenge."
"I defy you," said Mr. Hazeldean, triumphantly. "But to stick to the
subject (which it is monstrous hard to do when one talks with a parson),
I only just ask you to look yonder, and tell me on your conscience--I
don't even say as a parson, but as a parishioner--whether you ever saw a
more disreputable spectacle?"
While he spoke, the squire, leaning heavily on the parson's left
shoulder, extended his cane in a line parallel with the right eye of that
disputatious ecclesiastic, so that he might guide the organ of sight to
the object he had thus unflatteringly described.
"I confess," said the parson, "that, regarded by the eye of the senses,
it is a thing that in its best day had small pretensions to beauty, and
is not elevated into the picturesque even by neglect and decay. But, my
friend, regarded by the eye of the inner man,--of the rural philosopher
and parochial legislator,--I say it is by neglect and decay that it is
rendered a very pleasing feature in what I may call 'the moral topography
of a parish.'"
The squire looked at the parson as if he could have beaten him; and,
indeed, regarding the object in dispute not only with the eye of the
outer man, but the eye of law and order, the eye of a country gentleman
and a justice of the peace, the spectacle was scandalously disreputable.
It was moss-grown; it was worm-eaten; it was broken right in the middle;
through its four socketless eyes, neighboured by the nettle, peered the
thistle,--the thistle! a forest of thistles!--and, to complete the
degradation of the whole, those thistles had attracted the donkey of an
itinerant tinker; and the irreverent animal was in the very act of taking
his luncheon out of the eyes and jaws of--THE PARISH STOCKS.
The squire looked as if he could have beaten the parson; but as he was
not without some slight command of temper, and a substitute was luckily
at hand, he gulped down his resentment, and made a rush--at the donkey!
Now the donkey was hampered by a rope to its fore-feet, to the which was
attached a billet of wood, called technically "a clog," so that it had no
fair chance of escape from the assault its sacrilegious luncheon had
justly provoked. But the ass turning round with unusual nimbleness at
the first stroke of the cane, the squire caught his foot in the rope, and
went head over heels among the thistles. The donkey gravely bent down,
and thrice smelt or sniffed its prostrate foe; then, having convinced
itself that it had nothing further to apprehend for the present, and very
willing to make the best of the reprieve, according to the poetical
admonition, "Gather your rosebuds while you may," it cropped a thistle in
full bloom, close to the ear of the squire,--so close, indeed, that the
parson thought the ear was gone; and with the more probability, inasmuch
as the squire, feeling the warm breath of the creature, bellowed out with
all the force of lungs accustomed to give a View-hallo!
"Bless me, is it gone?" said the parson, thrusting his person between the
ass and the squire.
"Zounds and the devil!" cried the squire, rubbing himself, as he rose to
his feet.
"Hush!" said the parson, gently. "What a horrible oath!"
"Horrible oath! If you had my nankeens on," said the squire, still
rubbing himself, "and had fallen into a thicket of thistles, with a
donkey's teeth within an inch of your ear--"
"It is not gone, then?" interrupted the parson.
"No,--that is, I think not," said the squire, dubiously; and he clapped
his hand to the organ in question. "No! it is not gone!"
"Thank Heaven!" said the good clergyman, kindly. "Hum," growled the
squire, who was now once more engaged in rubbing himself. "Thank Heaven
indeed, when I am as full of thorns as a porcupine! I should just like
to know what use thistles are in the world."
"For donkeys to eat, if you will let them, Squire," answered the parson.
"Ugh, you beast!" cried Mr. Hazeldean, all his wrath reawakened, whether
by the reference to the donkey species, or his inability to reply to the
parson, or perhaps by some sudden prick too sharp for humanity--
especially humanity in nankeens--to endure without kicking. "Ugh, you
beast!" he exclaimed, shaking his cane at the donkey, which, at the
interposition of the parson, had respectfully recoiled a few paces, and
now stood switching its thin tail, and trying vainly to lift one of its
fore-legs--for the flies teased it.
"Poor thing!" said the parson, pityingly. "See, it has a raw place on
the shoulder, and the flies have found out the sore."
"I am devilish glad to hear it," said the squire, vindictively.
"Fie, fie!"
"It is very well to say 'Fie, fie.' It was not you who fell among the
thistles. What 's the man about now, I wonder?"
The parson had walked towards a chestnut-tree that stood on the village
green; he broke off a bough, returned to the donkey, whisked away the
flies, and then tenderly placed the broad leaves over the sore, as a
protection from the swarms. The donkey turned round its head, and looked
at him with mild wonder.
"I would bet a shilling," said the parson, softly, "that this is the
first act of kindness thou hast met with this many a day. And slight
enough it is, Heaven knows."
With that the parson put his hand into his pocket, and drew out an apple.
It was a fine large rose-cheeked apple, one of the last winter's store
from the celebrated tree in the parsonage garden, and he was taking it as
a present to a little boy in the village who had notably distinguished
himself in the Sunday-school. "Nay, in common justice, Lenny Fairfield
should have the preference," muttered the parson. The ass pricked up one
of its ears, and advanced its head timidly. "But Lenny Fairfield would
be as much pleased with twopence; and what could twopence do to thee?"
The ass's nose now touched the apple. "Take it, in the name of Charity,"
quoth the parson; "Justice is accustomed to be served last;" and the ass
took the apple. "How had you the heart!" said the parson, pointing to
the squire's cane.
The ass stopped munching, and looked askant at the squire. "Pooh! eat
on; he'll not beat thee now."
"No," said the squire, apologetically. "But after all, he is not an ass
of the parish; he is a vagrant, and he ought to be pounded. But the
pound is in as bad a state as the stocks, thanks to your new-fashioned
doctrines."
"New-fashioned!" cried the parson, almost indignantly, for he had a great
disdain of new fashions. "They are as old as Christianity; nay, as old
as Paradise, which you will observe is derived from a Greek, or rather a
Persian word, and means something more than 'garden,' corresponding"
(pursued the parson, rather pedantically) "with the Latin--vivarium,--
namely, grove or park full of innocent dumb creatures. Depend on it,
donkeys were allowed to eat thistles there."
"Very possibly," said the squire, dryly. "But Hazeldeau, though a very
pretty village, is not Paradise. The stocks shall be mended
to-morrow,--ay, and the pound too, and the next donkey found trespassing
shall go into it, as sure as my name's Hazeldean."
"Then," said the parson, gravely, "I can only hope that the next parish
may not follow your example; or that you and I may never be caught
straying."
