Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above.”

And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above, explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there.

And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. “I do not think,” said she, “from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?⁠—to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form, and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe⁠—the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to ⸻.”

And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, “I thank you,” and that was all.

On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival.

And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often came up to me, and, holding out her hand, said: “Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest.” Then, after looking around her, she said: “It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!”

So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said: “It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop, by means of a less qualification.”

“Very probably,” said Peter; “more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do! as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his Candle for Welshmen:⁠—

“ ‘It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help, but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest.’ ”

“The Church of England is a fine church,” said I; “I would not advise anyone to speak ill of the Church of England before me.”

“I have nothing to say against the church,” said Peter; “all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.”

“It is too proud for that,” said Winifred.

“You are much more of a Methodist,” said I, “than your husband. But tell me,” said I, addressing myself to Peter, “do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries.”

“Oh, the pride of that church!” said Winifred half to herself; “wandering sectaries!”

“We differ in no points of doctrine,” said Peter; “we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the roadside, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker,” he added, smiling; “it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.”

Nothing further passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said: “You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?”

“Many,” said Peter, “it has been my lot to meet with, but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred, being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon’s worship⁠—the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet, retired place; suddenly a voice said to me: ‘Good evening, Pastor’; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it