The Vicar's Daughter by George MacDonald (funny books to read .TXT) 📖

sooner or later, if his brothers take no interest in his work, and treat him as a being of nature inferior to their own.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Morley, “but is he not on the very supposition inferior to them?”

“Intellectually, yes; morally, no; for he is doing his work, possibly better than they, and therefore taking a higher place in the eternal scale. But granting all kinds of inferiority, his nature remains the same with their own; and the question is, whether they treat him as one to be helped up, or one to be kept down; as one unworthy of sympathy, or one to be honored for filling his part: in a word, as one belonging to them, or one whom they put up with only because his work is necessary to them.”

“What do you mean by being ‘helped up’?” asked Mr. Morley.

“I do not mean helped out of his trade, but helped to make the best of it, and of the intellect that finds its development in that way.”

“Very good. But yet I don’t see how you apply your supposition.”

“For an instance of application, then: How many respectable people know or care a jot about their servants, except as creatures necessary to their comfort?”

“Well, Miss Clare,” said Judy, addressing her for the first time, “if you had had the half to do with servants I have had, you would alter your opinion of them.”

“I have expressed no opinion,” returned Miss Clare. “I have only said that masters and mistresses know and care next to nothing about them.”

“They are a very ungrateful class, do what you will for them.”

“I am afraid they are at present growing more and more corrupt as a class,” rejoined Miss Clare; “but gratitude is a high virtue, therefore in any case I don’t see how you could look for much of it from the common sort of them. And yet while some mistresses do not get so much of it as they deserve, I fear most mistresses expect far more of it than they have any right to.”

“You can’t get them to speak the truth.”

“That I am afraid is a fact.”

“I have never known one on whose word I could depend,” insisted Judy.

“My father says he has known one,” I interjected.

“A sad confirmation of Mrs. Morley,” said Miss Clare. “But for my part I know very few persons in any rank on whose representation of things I could absolutely depend. Truth is the highest virtue, and seldom grows wild. It is difficult to speak the truth, and those who have tried it longest best know how difficult it is. Servants need to be taught that as well as everybody else.”

“There is nothing they resent so much as being taught,” said Judy.

“Perhaps: they are very far from docile; and I believe it is of little use to attempt giving them direct lessons.”

“How, then, are you to teach them?”

“By making it very plain to them, but without calling their attention to it, that you speak the truth. In the course of a few years they may come to tell a lie or two the less for that.”

“Not a very hopeful prospect,” said Judy.

“Not a very rapid improvement,” said her husband.

“I look for no rapid improvement, so early in a history as the supposition implies,” said Miss Clare.

“But would you not tell them how wicked it is?” I asked.

“They know already that it is wicked to tell lies; but they do not feel that they are wicked in making the assertions they do. The less said about the abstract truth, and the more shown of practical truth, the better for those whom any one would teach to forsake lying. So, at least, it appears to me. I despair of teaching others, except by learning myself.”

“If you do no more than that, you will hardly produce an appreciable effect in a lifetime.”

“Why should it be appreciated?” rejoined Miss Clare.

“I should have said, on the contrary,” interposed Mr. Blackstone, addressing Mr. Morley, “if you do less—for more you cannot do—you will produce no effect whatever.”

“We have no right to make it a condition of our obedience, that we shall see its reflex in the obedience of others,” said Miss Clare. “We have to pull out the beam, not the mote.”

“Are you not, then, to pull the mote out of your brother’s eye?” said Judy.

“In no case and on no pretence, until you have pulled the beam out of your own eye,” said Mr. Blackstone; “which I fancy will make the duty of finding fault with one’s neighbor a rare one; for who will venture to say he has qualified himself for the task?”

It was no wonder that a silence followed upon this; for the talk had got to be very serious for a dinner-table. Lady Bernard was the first to speak. It was easier to take up the dropped thread of the conversation than to begin a new reel.

“It cannot be denied,” she said, “whoever may be to blame for it, that the separation between the rich and the poor has either been greatly widened of late, or, which involves the same practical necessity, we have become more aware of the breadth and depth of a gulf which, however it may distinguish their circumstances, ought not to divide them from each other. Certainly the rich withdraw themselves from the poor. Instead, for instance, of helping them to bear their burdens, they leave the still struggling poor of whole parishes to sink into hopeless want, under the weight of those who have already sunk beyond recovery. I am not sure that to shoot them would not involve less injustice. At all events, he that hates his brother is a murderer.”

“But there is no question of hating here,” objected Mr. Morley.

“I am not certain that absolute indifference to one’s neighbor is not as bad. It came pretty nearly to the same thing in the case of the priest and the Levite, who passed by on the other side,” said Mr. Blackstone.

“Still,” said Mr. Morley, in all the self-importance of one who prided himself on the practical, “I do not see that Miss Clare has proposed any remedy for the state of things concerning the evil of which we are all agreed. What is to be done? What can I do now? Come, Miss Clare.”

Miss Clare was silent.

“Marion, my child,” said Lady Bernard, turning to her, “will you answer Mr. Morley?”

“Not, certainly, as to what he can do: that question I dare not undertake to answer. I can only speak of what principles I may seem to have discovered. But until a man begins to behave to those with whom he comes into personal contact as partakers of the same nature, to recognize, for instance, between himself and his tradespeople a bond superior to that of supply and demand, I cannot imagine how he is to do any thing towards the drawing together of the edges of the gaping wound in the social body.”

“But,” persisted Mr. Morley, who, I began to think, showed some real desire to come at a practical conclusion, “suppose a man finds himself incapable of that sort of thing—for it seems to me to want some rare qualification or other to be able to converse with an uneducated person”—

“There are many such, especially amongst those who follow handicrafts,” interposed Mr. Blackstone, “who think a great deal more than most of the so-called educated. There is a truer education to be got in the pursuit of a handicraft than in the life of a mere scholar. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Morley.”

“Suppose,” resumed Mr. Morley, accepting the apology without disclaimer,—“Suppose I find I can do nothing of that sort; is there nothing of any sort I can do?”

“Nothing of the best sort, I firmly believe,” answered Miss Clare; “for the genuine recognition of the human relationship can alone give value to whatever else you may do, and indeed can alone guide you to what ought to be done. I had a rather painful illustration of this the other day. A gentleman of wealth and position offered me the use of his grounds for some of my poor friends, whom I wanted to take out for a half-holiday. In the neighborhood of London, that is a great boon. But unfortunately, whether from his mistake or mine, I was left with the impression that he would provide some little entertainment for them; I am certain that at least milk was mentioned. It was a lovely day; every thing looked beautiful; and although they were in no great spirits, poor things, no doubt the shade and the grass and the green trees wrought some good in them. Unhappily, two of the men had got drunk on the way; and, fearful of giving offence, I had to take them back to the station.—for their poor helpless wives could only cry,—and send them home by train. I should have done better to risk the offence, and take them into the grounds, where they might soon have slept it off under a tree. I had some distance to go, and some difficulty in getting them along; and when I got back I found things in an unhappy condition, for nothing had been given them to eat or drink,—indeed, no attention, had been paid them whatever. There was company at dinner in the house, and I could not find any one with authority. I hurried into the neighboring village, and bought the contents of two bakers’ shops, with which I returned in time to give each a piece of bread before the company came out to look at them. A gayly-dressed group, they stood by themselves languidly regarding the equally languid but rather indignant groups of ill-clad and hungry men and women upon the lawn. They made no attempt to mingle with them, or arrive at a notion of what was moving in any of their minds. The nearest approach to communion I saw was a poke or two given to a child with the point of a parasol. Were my poor friends likely to return to their dingy homes with any great feeling of regard for the givers of such cold welcome?”

“But that was an exceptional case,” said Mr. Morley.

“Chiefly in this,” returned Miss Clare, “that it was a case at all—that they were thus presented with a little more room on the face of the earth for a few hours.”

“But you think the fresh air may have done them good?”

“Yes; but we were speaking, I thought, of what might serve towards the filling up of the gulf between the classes.”

“Well, will not all kindness shown to the poor by persons in a superior station tend in that direction?”

“I maintain that you can do nothing for them in the way of kindness that shall not result in more harm than good, except you do it from and with genuine charity of soul; with some of that love, in short, which is the heart of religion. Except what is done for them is so done as to draw out their trust and affection, and so raise them consciously in the human scale, it can only tend either to hurt their feelings and generate indignation, or to encourage fawning and beggary. But”—

“I am entirely of your mind,” said Mr. Blackstone. “But do go on.”

“I was going to add,” said Miss Clare, “that while no other charity than this can touch the sore, a good deal might yet be effected by bare justice. It seems to me high time that we dropped talking about charity, and took up the cry of justice. There, now, is a