The Crock of Gold | Page 2

and somehow has contrived to amass a fund of
information for which few would give him credit from his common
looks; and he joins to that stock of facts a natural shrewdness to use his
knowledge wisely. Though with little of what is called sentiment, or
poetry, or fancy in his mind (for harsh was the teaching of his
childhood, and meagre the occasions of self-culture ever since), the
beauty of creation is by no means lost upon him, and he notices at
times its wisdom too. With a fixed habit of manly piety ever on his lips
and ever in his heart, he recognises Providence in all things, just, and
wise, and good. More than so; simply as a little child who endures the
school-hour for the prospect of his play-time, Roger Acton bears up
with noble meekness against present suffering, knowing that his work
and trials and troubles are only for a little while, but his rest and his
reward remain a long hereafter. He never questioned this; he knew right
well Who had earned it for him; and he lived grateful and obedient,
filling up the duties of his humble station. This was his faith, and his
works followed it. He believed that God had placed him in his lot, to be
a labourer, and till God's earth, and, when his work is done, to be sent
on better service in some happier sphere: the where, or the how, did not
puzzle him, any more than divers other enigmatical whys and
wherefores of his present state; he only knew this, that it would all
come right at last: and, barring sin (which he didn't comprehend),
somehow all was right at present. What if poverty pinched him? he was
a great heir still; what if oppression bruised him? it would soon be over.
He trusted to his Pilot, like the landsman in a storm; to his Father, as an
infant in the dark. For guilt, he had a Saviour, and he thought of him in
penitence; for trouble, a Guardian, and he looked to him in peace; and
as for toil, back-breaking toil, there was another Master whom he
served with spade, and mattock, and a thankful heart, while he only
seemed to be working for the landlord or his bailiff.
Such a man then had been Roger Acton from his youth up till now, or,
if sadness must be told, nearly until now; for, to speak truth, his heart at
times would fail him, and of late he had been bitter in repinings and
complaint. For a day or two, in particular, he had murmured loudly. It
was hard, very hard, that an honest, industrious man, as he was, should

so scantily pick a living out of this rich earth: after all said, let the
parson preach as he will, it's a fine thing to have money, and that his
reverence knows right well, or he wouldn't look so closely for his dues.
[N.B. Poor Mr. Evans was struggling as well as he could to bring up six
children, on a hundred and twenty pounds per annum.] Roger, too, was
getting on in years, with a blacker prospect for the future than when he
first stood behind a plough-tail. Then there were many wants
unsatisfied, which a bit of gold might buy; and his wife teased him to
be doing something better. Thus was it come at length to pass, that,
although he had endured so many years, he now got discontented at his
penury;--what human heart can blame him?--and with murmurings
came doubt; with doubt of Providence, desire of lucre; so the sunshine
of religion faded from his path;--what mortal mind can wonder?
CHAPTER II.
THE FAMILY; THE HOME; AND MORE REPININGS.
NOW, if Malthus and Martineau be verily the pundits that men think
them, Roger had twice in his life done a very foolish thing: he had
sinned against society, statistics, and common sense, by a two-fold
marriage. The wife of his youth (I am afraid he married early) had once
been kitchen-maid at the Hall; but the sudden change from living
luxuriously in a great house, to the griping poverty of a cotter's hovel,
had changed, in three short years, the buxom country girl into an
emaciated shadow of her former self, and the sorrowing husband buried
her in her second child-bed. The powers of the parish clapped their
hands; political economy was glad; prudence chuckled; and a
coarse-featured farmer (he meant no ill), who occasionally had given
Roger work, heartlessly bade him be thankful that his cares were the
fewer and his incumbrance was removed; "Ay, and Heaven take the
babies also to itself," the Herodian added. But Acton's heart was broken!
scarcely could he lift up his head; and his work, though sturdy