Things I Would Not Choose
If it were all the same to other folks and I might have things managed exactly as I liked, I should not choose to have my homely book pulled to pieces by fellows who have not the honesty to read it, but make up their minds beforehand, as Simple Simon did when they put him on the jury. However, as the rhinoceros said, I have not a very thin skin: and if it amuses others to find fault with me, they are as welcome as they are free. The anvil is not afraid of the hammer. They tell me those London editors cut a page open, and then smell the knife, and fall to praising the book up to the skies, or abusing it without mercy, according as the maggot bites them, or according to what they have had for dinner. John Ploughman hopes the publisher will turn down this leaf when he sends his book to the papers, and he hopes the following word to the wise will be enough: 7” hope my pears won’t fall into pigs’ mouths. I should not choose, if I might have my own way, to see a dozen of these pages brought home wrapped round the butter the next time we send to the shop; but it
(197) is not at all unlikely to happen, so I must put up with it, as Tom Higgs did when he had only turkey and plum pudding for dinner.
I should not choose to plough with two old horses spavined and broken-winded, and altogether past work: pity the poor horses and pity the poor ploughman, and no pity at all for the farmer who keeps such wretched cattle. When I see a man whipping and slashing a poor brute of a horse, I want to kick him, but at the same time I feel glad that Violet and Dapper go well enough with the sound of the whip without needing to be paid like lawyers for all they do. A man who knocks a horse about ought to be put in harness himself, and be driven about by a butcher. There’s a deal to be done with animals with kindness, and nothing with cruelty. He who is unmerciful to his beast is worse than a beast himself.
I should not choose to be a bob-tailed cow in summer-time, nor a servant with a score of masters, nor a minister with half-a-dozen ignorant tyrants for deacons, nor a man who lives with his mother-in-law.
Nor should I like to try the truth of the old saying —
“Two cats and one mouse,
Two women in one house,
Two dogs to one bone,
Will not agree long.”
I had rather not be a dog with a tin kettle tied to his tail, nor a worm on a fisherman’shook, nor an eel being skinned alive, nor a husband with a vixen for his wife. I would much rather not fall into the jaws of a crocodile or the hands of a lawyer; the only suit that lasts too long is a lawsuit, and that would not suit me at all. I would not choose to be gossipped to death by wild washerwomen, or pestered by a travelling bookseller wanting me to take in sixpenny numbers of a book that will run on for ever like old Jimmy’s debts.
I should be very hard up before I should choose to sleep with pigs, or live in some people’s dirty houses. I would not choose to own half the cottages poor laborers are made to live in; no farmer would be so mean as to keep his horses in them; and they are not good enough for dog kennels. Think of father, and mother, and a grown-up son, and two daughters sleeping in the same room! It is a burning shame, and a crying sin on the part of those who drive people to such shifts. It won’t bear to be thought of, and yet it is not at all uncommon. Squires and landlords, how would you like it? If any man defends such a system, half-an-hour’s hanging would be a good thing for him.
To be servant to a miser, to work for a wasp, to be catspaw to a monkey, or toady to a lord without brains, I would not choose; nor to go to the workhouse, nor apply for parish relief; I’d sooner try Grantham gruel, nine grits and a gallon of water. I would not go round with the hat for my own pocket, nor borrow money, nor be a loafer, nor live like a toad under a harrow; no, not for all that ever thawed out of the cold hand of charity.
Bad off as I am, I would not choose to change, unless I could hope to better myself. Who would go under the spout to get out of the rain? What’s the use of travelling to the other end of the world to be worse off than you are? Old England for me, and Botany Bay for those who like to transport themselves.
I would not choose to drive a pig, nor to manage a jibbing nag, nor try to persuade a man with a wooden head; nor should I like to be a schoolmaster with unruly boys, nor a bull baited by dogs, nor a hen who has hatched ducks. Worse off still is a preacher to drowsy hearers; he hunts with dead dogs and drives wooden horses. As well hold a service for sleeping swine as sleeping men.
I would not buy a horse of a horsedealer if I could help it, for the two or three honest ones nobody ever heard of. A very honest horsedealer will never cheat you if you don’t let him; an ordinary one will draw your eye-tooth while your mouth is shut. Horses are almost as hard to judge of as men’s hearts; the oldest hands are taken in. What with bone-spavin, ringbone and splints; grease, crown-scab and rat -tail, wind-galls and cankers, colic and jaundice, sandcracks and founders, mallenders and sallenders, there is hardly a sound horse in the world. It’s a bad thing to change horses at all; if you have a good one keep it, for you will not get a better; if you have a bad one keep it, for ten to one you will buy a worse.
I would not choose to make myself a door-mat nor a poodle, nor a fellow who will eat dirt in order to curry favor with great folks. Let who will tell lies to please others, I’d rather have truth on my side, if I go barefoot. Independence and a clear conscience are better with cold cabbage than slavery and sin with roast beef.
I would not like to keep a toll-gate at the top of a long hill, nor to be a tax-collector, nor the summoning officer, nor a general nuisance, nor a poor postman with half enough to live on and twice as much to do as he ought; better be a gipsy’s horse, and live on the common, with no hay and no oats, but plenty of oak cudgel.
I would not choose to be plucked like a goose, nor to be shareholder in a company; nor to be fried alive, nor to be at the mercy of a Roman Catholic priest.
I would not stand as godfather to anybody’s child, to promise that the little sinner shall keep God’s holy commandments and walk in the same all the days of his life; of the two, I would sooner promise to put the moon into my coat sleeve and bring it out again at the leg of my trousers, or vow that the little dear shall have red hair and a snub nose. Neither would I choose to have lies told over my baby in the hope of getting on the parson’s blind side when the blankets were given away at Christmas. I should not choose to go where I should be afraid to die, nor could I bear to live without a good hope for hereafter. I would not choose to sit on a barrel of gunpowder and smoke a pipe, but that is what those do who are thoughtless about their souls while life is so uncertain. Neither would I choose my lot on earth, but leave it with God to choose for me. I might pick and choose and take the worst, but his choice is always best.
TRY.
“We shall get through it now,’ said Jack to Harry, as they finished up the pudding.” — Page 205.
OF all the pretty little songs I have ever heard my youngsters sing, that is one of the best which winds up —
“If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try, try again.”
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I. recommend it to grown-up people who are down in the mouth, and fancy that the best thing they can do is to give up. Nobody knows what he can do till he tries. “We shall get through it now,” said Jack to Harry as they finished up the pudding. Everything new is hard work, but a little “TRY” ointment rubbed on the hand and worked into the heart makes all things easy.
Can’t do it sticks in the mud, but Try soon drags the wagon out of the rut. The fox said Try, and he got away from the hounds when they almost snapped at him. The bees said Try, and turned flowers into honey. The squirrel said Try, and up he went to the top of the beech tree. The snowdrop said Try, and bloomed in the cold snows of winter. The sun said Try, and the spring soon threw Jack Frost out of the saddle. The young lark said Try, and he found that his new wings took him over hedges and ditches, and up where his father was singing. The ox said Try, and ploughed the field from end to end. No hill too steep for Try to climb, no clay too stiff for Try to plough, no field too wet for Try to drain, no hole too big for Try to mend.
“By little strokes
Men fell great oaks.”
By a spadeful at a time the navvies digged the cutting, cut a big hole through the hill, and heaped up the embankment.
“The stone is hard, and the drop is small, But a hole is made by the constant fall.”
What man has done man can do, and what has never been may be. Ploughmen have got to be gentlemen, cobblers have turned their lapstones into gold, and tailors have sprouted into Members of Parliament. Tuck up your shirt-sleeves, young Hopeful, and go at it. Where there’s a will there’s a way. The sun shines for all the world. Believe in God, and stick to hard work, and see if the mountains are not removed. Faint heart never won fair lady. Cheer, boys, cheer, God helps those who help themselves. Never mind luck, that’s what the fool had when he killed himself with eating suet pudding; the best luck in all the world is made up of joint oil and sticking plaster.
Don’t wait for helpers. Try those two old friends, your strong arms. Self’s the man. If the fox want’s poultry for his cubs he must carry the chickens home himself. None of her friends can help the hare; she must run for herself, or the greyhounds will have her. Every man must carry his own sack to the mill. You must put your own shoulder to the wheel and keep it there, for there’s plenty of ruts in the road. If you wait till all the ways are paved, you will have light shining between your ribs. If you sit still till great men take you on their backs, you will grow to your seat. Your own legs are better than stilts; don’t look to others, but trust in God and keep your powder dry.
Don’t be whining about not having a fair start. Throw a sensible man out of a window, he’ll fall on his legs and ask the nearest way to his work. The more you have to begin with the less you will have at the end. Money you earn yourself is much brighter and sweeter than any you get out of dead men’s bags. A scant breakfast in the morning of life whets the appetite for a feast later in the day. He who has tasted a sour apple will have the more relish for a sweet one; your present want will make future prosperity all the sweeter. Eighteenpence has set up many a pedlar in business, and he has turned it over till he has kept his carriage.
As for the place you are cast in, don’t find fault with that. You need not be a horse because you were born in a stable. If a bull tossed a man of mettle sky high he would drop down into a good place. A hard-working young man, with his wits about him, will make money where others do nothing but lose it.
Who loves his work and knows to spare, May live and flourish anywhere.
As to a little trouble, who* expects to find cherries without stones, or roses without thorns? Who would win must learn to bear. Idleness lies in bed sick of the mulligrubs, where industry finds health and wealth. The dog in the kennel barks at the fleas; the hunting dog does not even know they are there. Laziness waits till the river is dry and never gets to market; “Try “swims it and makes all the trade.
Can’t do it couldn’t eat the bread and butter which was cut for him, but Try made meat out of mushrooms.
Everybody who does not get on lays it all on competition. When the wine was stolen they said it was the rats; it’s very convenient to have a horse to put the saddle on. A mouse may find a hole, be the room even so full of cats. Good workmen are always wanted. There’s a penny to be turned at the worst booth in the fair. No barber ever shaves so close but another barber will find something left. Nothing is so good but what it might be better; and he whosells the best wins the trade. We were all going to the workhouse because of the new machines, so the prophets down at the taproom were always telling us; but, instead of it, all these threshing, and reaping, and hay-making machines have helped to make those men better off who had sense enough to work them. If a man has not a soul above clodhopping he may expect to keep poor, but if he opens his sense-box, and picks up here a little and there a little, even Johnny Raw may yet improve. “Times are bad,” they say; yes, and if you go gap- 14 ing about and send your wits wool gathering, times always will be bad.
Many don’t get on because they have not the pluck to begin in right earnest. The first pound laid by is the difficulty. The first blow is half the battle. Over with that beer jug, up with the “Try” flag, then out to your work and away to the savings bank with the savings, and you will be a man yet. Poor men will always be poor if they think they must be. But there’s a way up out of the lowest poverty if a man looks after it early, before he has a wife and half-a-dozen children: after that he carries too much weight for racing, and most commonly he must be content if he finds bread for the hungry mouths and clothes for the little backs. Yet, I don’t know; some hens scratch all the better for having a great swarm of chicks. To young men the road up the hill may be hard, but at any rate it is open, and they who set stout heart against a stiff hill shall climb it yet. What was hard to bear will be sweet to remember. If young men would deny themselves, work hard, live hard, and save in their early days, they need not keep their noses to the grindstone
all their lives, as many do. Let them be teetotalers for economy’s sake; water is the strongest drink, it drives mills. It’s the drink of lions and horses, and Samson never drank anything else. The beer money would soon build a house.
If you want to do good in the world, the little word “Try” comes in again. There are plenty of ways of serving God, and some that will fit you exactly as a key fits a lock. Don’t hold back because you cannot preach in St. Paul’s; be content to talk to one or two in a cottage; very good wheat grows in little fields. You may cook in small pots as well as in big ones. Little pigeons can carry great messages. Even a little dog can bark at a thief, and wake up the master and save the house. A spark is fire. A sentence of truth has heaven in it. Do what you do right thoroughly, pray over it heartily, and leave the result to God.
Alas! advice is thrown away on many, like good seed on a bare rock. Teach a cow for seven years, but she will never learn to sing the Old Hundredth. Of some it seems true that when they were born Solomon went by the door, but would not look in. Their coat of arms is a fool’s cap on a donkey’s head. They sleep when it is time to plough, and weep when harvest comes. They eat all the parsnips for supper, and wonder they have none left for breakfast. Our working people are shamefully unthrifty, and so old England swarms with poor. If what goes into the mash-tub went into the kneading-trough, families would be better fed and better taught. If what is spent in waste were only saved against a rainy day, work houses would never be built.
Once let every man say Tryp
Very few on straw would lie,
Fewer still of want would die;
Pans would all have fish to fry;
Pigs would fill the poor man’s sty;
Want would cease and need would fly;
Wives and children cease to cry;
Poor rates would not swell so high;
Things wouldn’t go so much awry — You’d be glad, and so would I.