Adam Bede
strengthening of God’s people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard
about, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, before
she was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved
of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many
others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the
ministry. I understand there’s been voices raised against it in the
Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to
nought. It isn’t for men to make channels for God’s Spirit, as they
make channels for the watercourses, and say, ‘Flow here, but flow not
there.’”
“But don’t you find some danger among your people—I don’t mean to say
that it is so with you, far from it—but don’t you find sometimes that
both men and women fancy themselves channels for God’s Spirit, and are
quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit
and bring holy things into contempt?”
“Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among us
who have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive
their own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction to
put a check upon these things. There’s a very strict order kept among
us, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other’s souls as they
that must give account. They don’t go every one his own way and say,
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”
“But tell me—if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing it—how
you first came to think of preaching?”
“Indeed, sir, I didn’t think of it at all—I’d been used from the time I
was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and
sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much
drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach,
for when I’m not greatly wrought upon, I’m too much given to sit still
and keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with
the thought of God overflowing my soul—as the pebbles lie bathed in the
Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great—aren’t they, sir? They seem to
lie upon us like a deep flood; and it’s my besetment to forget where I
am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could
give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of
them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes
it seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and words
were given to me that came out as the tears come, because our hearts
are full and we can’t help it. And those were always times of great
blessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me before a
congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little
children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite
suddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work
that was laid upon me.”
“But tell me the circumstances—just how it was, the very day you began
to preach.”
“It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged man,
one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps—that’s a
village where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines,
and where there’s no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep
without a shepherd. It’s better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so we
set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a
wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where
there’s no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look
smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you
feel the everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton,
brother Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of
falling, for he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and
praying, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as
carrying on his trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village,
the people were expecting him, for he’d appointed the time and the
place when he was there before, and such of them as cared to hear the
Word of Life were assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest,
so as others might be drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn’t stand
up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the first of the
cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people, thinking we’d go
into one of the houses, and I would read and pray with them. But as I
passed along by the cottages and saw the aged and trembling women at
the doors, and the hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their eyes
no more filled with the sight of the Sabbath morning than if they had
been dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement
in my soul, and I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit
entering into my weak body. And I went to where the little flock of
people was gathered together, and stepped on the low wall that was
built against the green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given
to me abundantly. And they all came round me out of all the cottages,
and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord.
That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I’ve preached ever
since.”
Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in
her usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling
treble by which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to
gather up her sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine
was deeply interested. He said to himself, “He must be a miserable prig
who would act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the
trees for growing in their own shape.”
“And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth—that
you are a lovely young woman on whom men’s eyes are fixed?” he said
aloud.
“No, I’ve no room for such feelings, and I don’t believe the people
ever take notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence
felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any
heed what sort of bush it was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord.
I’ve preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages
about Snowfield—men that looked very hard and wild—but they never said
an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for
me to pass through the midst of them.”
“_That_ I can believe—that I can well believe,” said Mr. Irwine,
emphatically. “And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?
Did you find them quiet and attentive?”
“Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them,
except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart
yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given
up to folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her
afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I’ve noticed that in
these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green
pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the
cattle, there’s a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be
from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy
woman who preaches there. It’s wonderful how rich is the harvest of
souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a
prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil. I
think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is so
dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at
ease.”
“Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take life
almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent
workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by,
is a Methodist.”
“Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a
gracious young man—sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the
patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he
shows to his brother and his parents.”
“Perhaps you don’t know the trouble that has just happened to them?
Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last
night, not far from his own door. I’m going now to see Adam.”
“Ah, their poor aged mother!” said Dinah, dropping her hands and
looking before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her
sympathy. “She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she’s of an
anxious, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help.”
As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne,
having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the
milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine
now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and
said, “Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not be
the last visit you will pay your aunt—so we shall meet again, I hope.”
His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser’s anxieties at rest,
and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, “I’ve never asked
after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they’re as well as
usual.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad
headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you
sent us—my mother especially.”
“I’m very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I
remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of ’em. Please to give my duty to her,
and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They’ve never been to look at my
poultry this long while, and I’ve got some beautiful speckled chickens,
black and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers.”
“Well, I’ll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye,” said the
rector, mounting his horse.
“Just ride slowly on, Irwine,” said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also.
“I’ll overtake you in three minutes. I’m only going to speak to the
shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I
shall come and have a long talk with him soon.”
Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had
disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the
pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the
bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to
threaten the breaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy
exit; it was a fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well
guarded, and that no loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not
until the gate had closed behind the captain that she turned into the
kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting
to speak to her aunt, before she set out for Lisbeth Bede’s cottage.
Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking
on it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine’s
behaviour.
“Why, Mr. Irwine wasn’t angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?
Didn’t he scold you for preaching?”
“No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite
drawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thought
of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the
morning sunshine.”
“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but pleasant?” said
Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. “I should think his
countenance _is_ pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and’s got a
mother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such
another woman turned sixty-six. It’s summat-like to see such a man as
that i’ the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it’s like looking at
a full crop o’ wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o’ cows in it; it
makes you think the world’s comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs
as you Methodisses run after, I’d as soon go to look at a lot o’
bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what’s