A SERMON PREACHED IN THE PARISH CHURCH OF BOLDRE IN HAMPSHIRE, AT THE FUNERAL OF WILLIAM BAKER, MAY 18, 1791. TO WHICH IS ADDED A SHORT ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE.
By WILLIAM GILPIN, MINISTER OF THE PARISH.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR R. BLAMIRE, IN THE STRAND.
M.DCC.XCI.
IT is the happineſs of our religion, that all mankind, poor and rich, are equally able to pleaſe God. The loweſt may be as ac⯑ceptable in his Maker's ſight, as the higheſt: nor are any man's ſervices ſo mean, as to be overlooked by his great Maſter. Before chriſtianity indeed, men were too apt to think, that ſuch only as had the powerful means of doing good, could obtain the favour of God—and that low people could do little to pleaſe him. But the goſpel informs us, that God does not regard the action without the heart, from which the action proceeds: and that the willing mind, tho unaccompanied by the action, is as pleaſing in God's ſight, [2] as the action itſelf. So that, you ſee, the rich and poor are all equally in God's favour. Let each of us only do his duty in his pro⯑per ſtation, as to the Lord, and not unto man —that is, with a deſire to pleaſe God, who has placed us in our ſeveral ſtations, and the loweſt of us ſhall be among thoſe, to whom the text is applied; Well done, good and faithful ſervant: thou haſt been faithful over a few things; I will make thee ruler over many things. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.
But now, my brethren, among the duties of our ſeveral ſtations, there are ſome, which equally belong both to rich, and poor; and there are ſome, which belong to one ſtation, rather than the other.—Let me explain my meaning to you.
Among the duties, which belong to both, may be reckoned thoſe duties, which we owe to God—love, truſt, reverence, prayer. Such alſo are the duties of reading, and me⯑ditating on ſcripture—of obſerving the ſab⯑bath—of faith in our Redeemer—of attend⯑ing the Lord's ſupper. Such alſo are humility —honeſty—a deſire to ſerve our neighbour, as far as we can—the care of our families —and other duties, that might be mention⯑ed. All theſe are equally required from the poor and rich; becauſe the poor may perform them as well as the rich.
[3]But there are other duties, which are not thus equally required. As the rich man abounds in the things of this world, it is required of him to be generous, and charitable; becauſe God hath enabled him to be ſo. But as the poor man cannot be generous, and charitable, like the rich man; it is rather required of him to be induſtrious, and frugal.
On the preſent occaſion therefore I ſhall make the duties of induſtry, and frugality the ſubject of my diſcourſe. I mention them together, becauſe they muſt always keep company, to be of any uſe. Frugality can do little without induſtry: and induſtry as little without frugality.—I ſhall give you the chief reaſons, which ſhould incline you to the practice of theſe duties.
In the firſt place, I would have you con⯑ſider what the ſcripture ſays on this ſubject. It is often touched upon: but one of the moſt remarkable paſſages, is that of St. Paul to the Theſſalonians. When we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither ſhould he eat: for we hear there are ſome among you, which walk diſ⯑orderly; working not at all. Now ſuch we command, and exhort by our Lord Jeſus Chriſt, that with quietneſs they work, and eat their own bread.—Now this command that we ſhould all eat our own bread, is plainly found⯑ed on this reaſon, that nobody has a right [4] to eat the bread of others, if he be able to procure his own.—In ſome caſes, no doubt, the pariſh-allowance is a neceſſary relief—as when the father of a family is taken off, while his children are yet young —or when a family perhaps is greatly viſited by ſickneſs—or when a family is uncom⯑monly large. But how many are there, who ſhamefully run to the pariſh for relief, without any neceſſity of this kind? Theſe are people, who either want induſtry in pro⯑viding for their families—or frugality, in not making the beſt uſe of what they pro⯑vide. They frequent the ale-houſe; or they ſpend what they have, in good eating; or in other things, which are not neceſſary. Let them conſider, how directly they break a ſcripture-command, by eating other mens bread for nought; and by becoming chargeable without neceſſity.
It may be hoped, that with chriſtians a ſcripture-command may have ſufficient weight. However I ſhall endeavour to ſhew you more at large, on what reaſons this ſcripture-com⯑mand is founded.
In the firſt place, how deſirable is it to ſee your little habitations as clean, neat, and well furniſhed as any of your neigh⯑bours—to ſee your children decently cloathed —to give them what little education you can—to have them taught to read, which may be a comfort to them during their lives [5] —to have them taught to ſpin, and work, which may give them early habits of dili⯑gence. But all this cannot be done without great induſtry, and frugality in the parent. —You have a choice therefore before you, whether it is better to do all this—at leaſt, to do it in the beſt manner you can—or to idle away your time; or ſpend your mo⯑ney in drinking at ale-houſes? How often are the children of idle parents ſent to poor-houſes, where their fathers ſins are viſited upon them in all the wretchedneſs, miſery, and neglect, which the poor little ſufferers are too often obliged to undergo.—Much have thoſe parents to anſwer for!—I have myſelf heard ſome of theſe idle parents al⯑ledge, that, as they made their money them⯑ſelves, they had a right to ſpend it as they pleaſed.—To tell ſuch people, that no man has a farther right to any thing, which God has given him, than to make a proper uſe of it, would be to little pur⯑poſe: yet ſurely they muſt ſee the force of this, that if they marry, and have families, their families ſhould be conſidered as a part of themſelves; and have ſurely a right, not only to their maintenance; but to the beſt inſtruction, and care, their parents can be⯑ſtow. Who is the proper perſon to take care of the children, but the parent?
I would have you conſider farther, that induſtry, and frugality are virtues, which [6] have a particular tendency to keep you out of the way of temptation, and miſchief. Where, think you, is lewdneſs, and drunk⯑enneſs, and prophaneneſs, and ſabbath-break⯑ing, and curſing, and ſwearing, and all other wickedneſs, beſt taught? It's beſt ſchool, I believe, is the ale-houſe. The devil tempts you to be idle firſt, and to love drink: then all wickedneſs follows naturally. He cannot ſo eaſily get hold of a frugal, induſtrious man. The induſ⯑trious man is otherwiſe employed. When the day's labour is over, he wiſhes for the night's reſt. Between both he has hardly time to be wicked. I believe, if you will look round your acquaintances, you will find the moſt induſtrious, and the moſt frugal people, to be alſo the beſt.
Conſider farther, that induſtry, and fru⯑gality raiſe your characters in the pariſh; and give you conſequence. You are often inclined to think yourſelves of more con⯑ſequence than you really are. You are often ready to take offence, when you hear any little ſtory told of you, which you think you do not deſerve; tho probably the ſtory may be very true. All this however ſhews you wiſh to preſerve your characters. But you take the wrong way. It is not believ⯑ing yourſelves of conſequence; or deſiring to ſtop peoples mouths, that will give you credit with your neighbours. Leave your [7] neighbours to talk as they will; and do you act as you ought; and you need take no farther care about your characters. Honeſty, induſtry, and frugality will give character, and conſequence to the loweſt among you. He who ſupports himſelf by his own labour, is equal to any body. The richeſt man in the country is not more independent. While his idle neighbour, abject, and baſe-minded, is pitifully going about begging relief of a pariſh-officer; he feels his own conſequence, and is beholden only to his heavenly Maſter: he wants no aſſiſtance, but God's bleſſing, and the uſe of his limbs.
Laſtly, I ſhould wiſh you to conſider, that induſtry and frugality are the beſt means of making you happy. I might ſay this with re⯑gard to the next world (for all virtues are gene⯑rally, more or leſs, linked together) but I am ſpeaking now only of the happineſs of this life. With what pleaſure may a poor man look round him, and ſee all his family out in the world, and by the bleſſing of God, doing well through his precepts, and example; and himſelf with ſome little matter ſtill before him, if God ſhould lengthen out his time a little longer? There are many caſes, no doubt, where it is impoſſible, that any thing can be ſaved: but in many families, even in this pariſh, I know, ſomething might. If people would only ſave what they ſpend at ale-houſes, or in things unneceſſary, ſome⯑thing [8] might be laid by againſt a fit of ſick⯑neſs; or (if God ſhould bleſs them with health) againſt old age.—And is the pleaſure, think you, of ſotting at an ale-houſe equal to this comfortable independence? I know there are many who reaſon with themſelves, that if they can maintain their families, while they are well, it is all they deſire: when they are ſick, or old, the pariſh is obliged to maintain them. It may be a perſon's misfortune to come to the pariſh: but when a man in the prime of his ſtrength reaſons in this way, I dare take upon me to ſay, he is, at the bot⯑tom, an idle, good-for-nothing fellow; and his reaſoning is only an excuſe for drinking, or ſome other extravagance. In general, ſuch people go on in a regular progreſs to ruin. At firſt they get a love for liquor. They will ſit whole days, and nights in ale-houſes. They next get into debt. If they have farms to manage, their affairs go wrong. If they are labourers, their families want bread: their children are half-ſtarved, and half-naked. I need not point out theſe people to you: they point out themſelves. You ſee them loitering about the pariſh, languid, infeebled wretches, with faces ſodden, pale, and dropſical, the objects equally of pity, and contempt. — Many, no doubt, frequent ſotting houſes, who have not yet gone this length: but they are in the high way towards it: let them take care in time; their ruin is coming on.— [9] There is no real happineſs, my neighbours, you may depend upon it, in ſuch a life as this. However you may be inticed by the pleaſures of idleneſs, profligacy, and drinking, (which laſt is commonly the beginning of all miſchief) you may be aſſured, that all theſe things bring their bitter moments, not only at laſt, but continually; and that nothing can make a man ſo happy, as living in his ſtation as he ought, with honeſty, ſobriety, induſtry, and frugality. No man can live happily, who lives at the will, and under the controul of others. Theſe virtues allow a man to live, independent of others, and in the manner he wiſhes to live himſelf.
Such was the life of our very reſpectable neighbour, whoſe remains lie before us. His ſtation in life, you know, was only that of a common day-labourer: but, as far as I could judge, he ſet juſt ſuch an example in that ſtation; and behaved exactly, as he ought to have done. He had that generous, independent ſpirit, which I have been recom⯑mending to you, that ſcorned to live upon the labours of others; and ſeemed to lay it down as a principle from the beginning of his life, to be obliged, under God, only to his own labour. By this alone he bred up a large family, without receiving a ſingle farthing from the pariſh. But this could not have been done without great induſtry, and frugality. He worked hard; he lived hard; [10] denying himſelf every indulgence in eating and drinking, that he might not be a burden to others.—When his family was off his hands, he thought, for the ſame reaſon, it was proper for him, to lay up a little for his old age. While he could therefore, he con⯑tinued ſtill to work; and lived in the ſame hard manner; which was now become quite eaſy, and habitual to him.—It pleaſed God to bleſs his labour; he laid up ſo much as maintained him, during his old age; and he has left ſomething behind him to be a comfort to his children, if they make a right uſe of it. He never could be ſaid to be wholly paſt his labour. Till within a few weeks of his death, he every day worked a little; and it became an agreeable amuſement to him. He had, all his life, been uſed to laborious working. Many a time I have heard him ſay, that, in general, labourers now did not know what it was to work: and I have heard others ſay, who knew him better than I did, that he would have done as much in one day, as many people do in two.
I have heard ſome of his neighbours tax him with being a miſer, and covetous; and ſay, that as he might have lived more com⯑fortably in his old age, his hard living could be owing only to a covetous temper. He might, it is true, have lived more comfor⯑tably in his old age, as they may think, who accuſe him—and who are fonder of indulgence [11] than he was: but he could not have lived more comfortably to himſelf, than he did; and I am perſuaded no man had ever leſs of the miſer in his heart.— But let me defend the character of my good, old neighbour in this particular: let me ſhew you the dif⯑ference between his temper, and that of a miſer.
A miſer hoards money for it's own ſake. He does not conſider the uſe it is to anſwer; nor indeed puts it to any uſe at all. Hoarding it up is all he has in view. He loves money. You remember an inſtance of a perſon, not many years ago, in this pariſh, who expired graſping his purſe, under his bed-cloaths, to his heart. Perhaps he meant to ſecure it, if he ſhould recover: but it plainly appeared to be his firſt care; and if any one ſhould charge him with a love of money, I ſhould not know how to defend him.
With covetouſneſs, or a love of money, there is often mixed—indeed, I believe, generally —a little knavery. If he who loves money do not openly cheat, he has many ways of prac⯑tiſing little under-hand, dirty tricks, which an upright man would hardly call honeſt. —I give you the beſt ſide of him, for the miſer is generally a very wicked character. The apoſtle indeed tells us, that the love of money is the root of all evil.
Had our worthy, deceaſed neighbour theſe ſigns of a miſer about him? As to his inte⯑grity, [12] I dare take upon me to ſay, a more upright, honeſt man never lived. Many diſ⯑honeſt practices, I have heard of in the pariſh —many little knaviſh tricks, I have ſeen, to take advantages, and get money; but I never heard of one action in the whole, long life of our deceaſed neighbour, that was not fair, and honeſt, and upright in the higheſt degree: and I doubt not, but you can all join with me in bearing this teſtimony. So far then you will allow, that nothing of the temper of a miſer yet appears. — How ſhould there? There was no foundation for it. He had no love for money, merely for it's own ſake; but as it might be the means of carrying him independently to the end of his life—and if he did not ſpend it all, that the remainder might be of ſome little uſe to his family. I have known him do what in his circumſtan⯑ces were even generous things. Where he thought it neceſſary to ſpend his money, he ſpent it freely. He lived hard indeed: but whom did that hurt? It enabled him to do many a kind thing: but nobody ever ſuffered from it, but himſelf. It is not living hard— it is not laying up money, that makes a man a miſer; but it is the intention, with which he lives hard—it is the intention with which he lays up money. Our late neighbour's intention was merely that of an independent ſpirit, which could not bear to be ſupported by other people's labour. He lived hard [13] himſelf, leſt, if he had indulged himſelf, he ſhould afterwards have been obliged to live on the labours of others.—And is there any thing in this like a love for money? He had no love for money, that interfered, I dare take upon me to ſay, with any one duty that belonged to his ſtation. — How little he valued it for it's own ſake, I had many op⯑portunities of ſeeing, as moſt of his money paſſed through my hands. Some years ago, you remember his houſe was broken open: he mentioned his loſs to me, not like a miſer; but as far as his money was concerned, with chriſtian indifference. His chief diſtreſs was for thoſe, who had done the deed. To him, he ſaid, they had done little injury. By the bleſſing of God, he doubted not but he had enough to ſupport him, while he lived: and it was owing, I believe, more to his lenity, and ſcruples, than to the want of evidence, that the thieves were not convicted. So far from having any thing covetous about him, he appeared always to me entirely diſengaged from all worldly thoughts; ſtrongly impreſſed with a ſenſe of religion; and ready to leave all behind him with the utmoſt indifference, and begin his great journey to eternity at a moment's warning, whenever it ſhould pleaſe God to call him. He uſed to talk of death, juſt as he would of one of the commoneſt events of life; and left with me a few direc⯑tions about carrying his body to the grave, [14] with as much indifference, as a farmer would give directions about carrying a load of corn to his barn.
Thus, through a very long life he paſſed innocently, religiouſly, inoffenſively, and quietly to that grave, to which we now con⯑ſign him. — Let me earneſtly exhort all you, who this day follow his corps thither, to follow alſo his example—that, when it becomes your turn to be brought dead into the church, your neighbours may point out your example, as they may his, for others to follow; and apply to you, as I hope we may with juſtice apply to him, Well done, good and faithful ſervant, thou haſt been faith⯑ful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.
WILLIAM Baker was born in the year 1710, in the pariſh of Boldre, near Lymington, in Hampſhire. His father dying when he was two years old, left him, and a ſiſter to the care of his widow; who by taking in waſhing, maintained her two children without any relief from the pariſh. —In theſe days ſuch induſtry would exceed belief.
At ſeven years of age young Baker began that life of labour, which he continued with unremitting perſeverance through the ſpace of ſeventy years afterwards. He worked firſt for a penny a day in the vicarage-garden: but ſoon thought himſelf equal to more pro⯑fitable labour. He uſed to ſay, he always conſidered himſelf as a poor friendleſs lad; and from the beginning depended only on himſelf.
In the mean time his mother grew old, and infirm. Her legs ſwelled, and ſhe could no longer ſtand at her waſh-tub. But no⯑thing hurt her like the thoughts of going to the poor-houſe, or living on alms.
Her ſon was now about eighteen. He was healthy, and ſtrong; and aſſured his mother, that while he was able to work for her, ſhe ſhould be obliged to nobody. He took a little cottage therefore on the edge of [16] the foreſt; carried her to it; and got into the ſervice of a farmer in the neighbourhood, as a day-labourer. His mother lived nine years after this; during which time he main⯑tained her with great chearfulneſs, and kindneſs: nor had ſhe ever aſſiſtance from any other perſon. He denied himſelf every little indulgence, which young fellows of that age often take, that he might maintain his mother.—We do not often ſee ſuch an in⯑ſtance of goodneſs in a poor lad. It marked his character as ſomething uncommon. He might, if he had pleaſed, have had her main⯑tained by the pariſh.
About the time of his mother's death he thought of marrying. At a little diſtance from him, under the hill, lived a labourer of the name of Brooks. His daughter Joanna was the perſon, whom Baker fixed on for a wife; and no objection being made, he mar⯑ried her, and brought her to his cottage. Joanna had lived under a careful mother, juſt in the way in which he himſelf had always lived; and with the ſame notions of induſtry and frugality. She entered there⯑fore into all her huſband's intentions. What he gained, ſhe put to the beſt uſe. We both pulled the rope, he uſed to ſay, by the ſame end; and ſo we compaſſed many things, which they cannot do, who pull it at different ends.
In the mean time, his family increaſed; and his induſtry increaſed with it. He now never worked by the day, if he could help it: [17] but took the hardeſt taſk-work he could get, by which the moſt money was to be earned. —And that he might never be idle, he took, at a ſmall rent, of Mrs. John Burrard of Lymington, a piece of rough ground, about nine or ten acres, on which he might employ his leiſure. Many a time he was ſeen work⯑ing in it before ſun-riſe; and if his day's-work had not been hard, in an evening by moon-light. In a few years he made it worth much more, than when he took it; and he found it of great uſe to his family in furniſh⯑ing him ſometimes with a crop of potatoes— or a little corn — or a few loads of hay; which enabled him to keep two or three cows, and as many foreſt-colts. — Some years after, his good land-lady died; and this piece of land fell into the hands of Mr. Brailsfield of Kentiſh-town; who finding it was tenanted by a man, who had taken ſo much pains to improve it, promiſed neither to raiſe his rent, nor to take it from him; which I mention to his honour. — Thus a kind providence bleſſed all Baker's deſigns; and he was richer, than many a man, who is born to thouſands. There are few men, who may not live comfortably, if they live according to their ſtation: and if they do not, the higheſt ſtations will not ſecure them from difficulties. I have often heard Baker ſay, he never knew what want was: but then he never relaxed his uſual frugality. When [18] wheat was dear, to make all ends meet, he lived on barley; and when he could not with convenience compaſs a buſhel of malt, he contented himſelf with milk, or water.
He had now five children, who were a conſtant claim upon all his induſtry, and frugality. But he had other claims. He had been kind to his ſiſter, tho her behaviour did not intirely pleaſe him: and he was now called on from a quarter, he did not expect. His wife's father, grown old, applied to him for aſſiſtance. Of this man he never had a high opinion; but for his mother-in-law he had always the greateſt eſteem. She was as good a woman, he uſed to ſay, as his wife; and he could not ſay more for any woman on earth. However, tho he could not pretend, with the incumbrance of ſo large a family, to maintain them intirely, he agreed with the overſeers of the pariſh, that if they would pay them a ſhilling a week, he would do the reſt. Accordingly he built them a little cot⯑tage; and was as kind to them as he could. Soon after, on the old man's death, he took his mother-in-law into his own houſe, and kept her till ſhe died; tho ſhe lived till ſhe was upwards of ninety; and was blind many years.
About the time, that his children were pretty well grown up, a fortunate circum⯑ſtance happened. He received a legacy of ſeventy pounds, and a clock. This money [19] came very happily to ſettle ſome of his children. They had it all, he ſaid, among them: he never had a belly-full of meat out of it himſelf. The clock alone he kept. A clock was the only piece of furniture he ever coveted; and he always intended, if it ſhould be in his power, to have purchaſed one: tho it is probable, if a clock had not been thus thrown in his way, he would alwaps have found ſomething more uſeful for the employment of his money.
Nor was he kind only to his relations. As he got forward in the world, he was very friendly among his neighbours; and lent many a little ſum to aſſiſt them in their diſtreſſes. But as he was a very ſhrewd, intelligent man, he lent only where he ſaw his money could be of uſe. To the ſpend-thrift he would lend nothing: nor to any man, who frequented an ale-houſe. So judi⯑cious was he in theſe loans, that altho he helped many a man out of a difficulty, I have heard him ſay, he never loſt a farthing by lending money in his life. Often indeed he received the worth of what he had lent, in a little corn, a pig, a calf, or ſomething that was more convenient for the borrower to pay with, than money.
He was now advancing into years; and his good Joanna began to feel the effects of age more than he did. Her ailment was a mere decay of nature; but ſhe was ſo intirely [20] weakened, that ſhe could do nothing for herſelf. Her huſband hired a woman into the houſe to attend her near ſeven years, in which ſhe continued in this helpleſs ſtate. Every thing he could do, he did for a woman, who, he ſaid, had been kinder to every body, than herſelf. In the year 1776 ſhe died; and left him greatly afflicted for the loſs of a faithful friend, who had followed cloſe by his ſide, through all his laborious life, for the ſpace of forty years. I have ſeen him ſpeak of her with tears in his eyes, and agitation in all he ſaid, at the age of eighty.
He had now the world, in a manner, to begin again. His children were all married, or diſperſed: and he had nobody with him, on whoſe arm he could lean in deſcending the hill. He thought the wiſeſt thing he could do, was to draw his little matters into as ſmall a compaſs as he could; and rid himſelf, as much as poſſible, of the cares of the world. Accordingly he ſold his cows, and horſes, and a little tenement or two, which he had purchaſed, and brought one hundred and ten pounds to a friend to put to ſome uſe: For as I cannot now, ſaid he, work myſelf, I muſt make my money, as he phraſed it, work for me. His friend made him underſtand, as well as he could, what was meant by the funds; and adviſed him to put his money into the conſolidated an⯑nuities for twenty-eight years from january [21] 1780. As this tranſaction was in the year 1782, when the funds were low, he was made to underſtand, that the intereſt would be conſiderable (about eight pounds a year) but that the whole would be loſt, if he ſhould live twenty-ſix years. However, as he did not look forward to that time, he took his friend's advice. Beſides this property, he had two or three other little ſums put out to intereſt in private hands; and a little tene⯑ment, which he reſerved for himſelf to live in; with two or three patches of ground, which lay near him, and ſerved to employ him.
He had a good opinion of the charitable ſocieties, or clubs, as they are called, in the ſeveral pariſhes around him: but he thought them uſeful chiefly to thoſe, who could not depend upon themſelves. If young fellows could depend on themſelves, and lay the ſame money by, without breaking into it, he thought it might generally be more uſeful to them. Fourpence a week would amount to near a pound in the year. At harveſt ſome little matter might be added to it. And if this practice were begun early in life, in a few years, it might amount to a com⯑fortable ſupport in ſickneſs, or old-age. But few young fellows, he ſaid, looked forward to thoſe times. They never thought of more, than of living from hand to mouth.
[22]His manner now of ſpending his time, was ſomewhat different from what it uſed to be. He worked only a little, every morn⯑ing, in his grounds; or in his garden; or in procuring fuel. The reſt of his time he ſpent in reading, and in devotion. He had always been a ſerious man; but a buſy life had never allowed him much time for any thing but buſineſs. He had now gotten above the world—had his time much to him⯑ſelf—and ſpent a great part of it in reading the bible, which was the only book he did read. He had the uſe of his eyes to the laſt; and generally, tho by himſelf, read out; which he thought made the more impreſſion on his memory. Oftner than once, as I have approached his lonely cottage, I have thought I heard voices: but when I entered, the old man was ſitting alone, with his bible before him. He had as ſtrong natural parts, as I almoſt ever met with; and eaſily underſtood, not only the general meaning, and intention of the goſpel; but many of the more difficult paſſages in it. What our Saviour ſaid, he thought, was very eaſy; and much of what St. Paul ſaid. And he told me, he had a very good book of prayers, in his phraſe, for all intents and purpoſes.
As he grew more, and more infirm, his friends thought it comfortleſs for him to live intirely by himſelf; and endeavoured to per⯑ſuade him to get ſome good old woman to [23] live with him; who might take care of his houſe, and likewiſe of him, if any thing ſhould ail him. Aye, ſaid he, if I could get ſome good old woman: but where is ſhe to be found? He had tried the experiment, he ſaid; but had no incouragement to try it again. People would not, he added, live now, as he lived. Perhaps he had bad luck in his choice; but he found, that a woman now would ſpend as much in junketting in one day, as would ſerve him for two. Then, he ſaid, there was ſuch conſtant goſſipping, and noiſe in his houſe, that he could never have his time at his own diſpoſal. In ſhort, he was obliged to live as they choſe, not as he choſe himſelf. Then fetching a deep ſigh, he would ſay, His good Joanna had ſpoiled him for living with any other woman.
It was then propoſed to him to live with one of his daughters, who was married in the neighbourhood.—He had thought of that, he ſaid: but an old man was always giving offence to one, or another; and one or ano⯑ther was always giving offence to him. Beſides, he ſaid, his daughter had ſeveral children; and ſo much noiſe did not ſuit his quiet way of living. He could now, at his own eaſe, follow his own inclination. In ſhort, it appeared, that while he lived, he wiſhed to live intirely to himſelf; and that it was very indifferent to him, when, and where, and how, he died.
[24]The deſtitute condition however in which he lived, laid him open to the depredations of a diſhoneſt neighbourhood. Many little thefts, when he was watched out of his houſe, were committed. Among other things his pewter-flaggon was ſtolen. It hung over his dreſſer, and contained all his little ſe⯑curities, and promiſſory notes. He had however, with his uſual ſagacity, placed his money in ſuch ſafe hands, that he had on this occaſion no loſs.
But among the petty thefts, which were committed in his houſe, was a robbery of a very ſerious nature. On the day before Lymington-fair the old man had received ſome intereſt money (about five guineas) to purchaſe a few neceſſaries. This being probably known, two men, at midnight, broke into his houſe. His faſtening in⯑deed was only ſuch as a good ſhake might eaſily diſlodge. They ſoon entered; and one of them preſſing a bolſter over his face, pinned him down with his knee; while the other ſought for the money, which was pre⯑ſently found. I heard him ſpeak of the tranſaction the next day; and his behaviour raiſed him in my opinion. He ſpoke with the caution of an honeſt man. The thieves had a dark lantern, he ſaid, with them; and he thought he could ſwear to one of them; but he durſt not venture it, where a man's life, and character were concerned.
[25]From ſeveral circumſtances however it became more probable, that the man, whom Baker ſuſpected, was guilty. And indeed he himſelf ſoon after confirmed the ſuſpicion: for as the neighbours began more to talk of the thing, and to lay facts together, he thought it prudent to leave the country.— Indeed if wicked men would only conſider beforehand the many circumſtances, that lead to diſcovery; and the almoſt impoſſi⯑bility of providing againſt them all, they would be more cautious, on the mere prin⯑ciples of prudence, in committing any deſ⯑perate wickedneſs. One circumſtance which tended to fix the ſuſpicion of the fact on this man, was, that a child accidentally men⯑tioned having ſeen a cut-cheeſe in his houſe the day after the robbery. Baker had loſt a cut-cheeſe; and it was well-known the man had no cheeſe in his houſe before. The other perſon too was ſuſpected: but if either of them had been taken up, it would moſt probably have diſcovered both: for a knave cannot be depended on. And indeed it is probable, that both would have been diſcovered, had it not been for the old man's ſcruples.—I mention all theſe circum⯑ſtances to ſhew, that, in fact, it requires more care, and caution, to commit a wick⯑ed action, than moſt men poſſeſs. It is indeed leſs difficult to be induſtrious, and [26] by that means to make a wicked action unneceſſary.
Notwithſtanding however the old man was thus ſo frequently preyed on by wicked people, he ſtill continued to live alone. As to any farther loſſes, he had one way, he ſaid, of preventing them; and that was, to keep nothing about him, that was worth ſtealing. He faſtened therefore the old bolt upon his door; and went to ſleep in his lonely cottage as quietly, as if he had been in a caſtle.
Tho he had now enough before him, he continued ſtill to live with his uſual fru⯑gality. Many of his neighbours thought he might have indulged his age a little more, as he had the means to do it; and as they themſelves probably would have done in the ſame circumſtances; by which they might have ſpent all they had laid up for their old age, not knowing how long God might have lengthened out their lives. He lived however as he had been accuſtomed to live, in the beſt of his days; for in many parts of his life he had been put to ſhifts. He had always good cheeſe in his houſe, and good bread, which was his common food. He uſed to brew alſo now and then a buſhel of malt; ſo that he was ſeldom without a little caſk of beer. His garden produced him plenty of cabbages, which was the only plant he reared: and every year he bought [27] at Lymington fair, a ſide of bacon; a bit of which he would, now and then, put into his pot with a cabbage. Freſh meat he never taſted; nor were butter, and tea, among his neceſſaries. On this proviſion he never had a day's ſickneſs; and even at thoſe times, when his food was leſs nouriſhing, he was able to do every thing, to which the ſtrength of man is equal.—What can the art of cook⯑ery do more?
He was now near eighty; his limbs be⯑gan to fail; and he was ſubject to rheumatic pains, which ſeized his right leg; and made exerciſe very troubleſome to him. Not⯑withſtanding however this infirmity, and his living a mile from the church, he rarely miſſed taking a painful walk to it every ſun⯑day. The weather muſt have been very bad to prevent him. And tho he was now become very deaf, he did not think even that a reaſon for keeping from church.— What an example did he ſet to thoſe, who, tho in perfect health, inſtead of making the ſabbath a day for obtaining inſtruction, and begging God's bleſſing on the week; pro⯑fane it by making it a day of paſtime, and often a day of drinking, and other wicked⯑neſs.—He was conſtant alſo at the ſacrament; which he always eſteemed a part of his duty.
He was confined to his houſe about ſix weeks before he died. His illneſs was a mere decay of nature. His legs ſwelled; and his conſtitution was broken up. He [28] now ſubmitted to have ſomebody live in his cottage with him. He was preſſed to ſend for a phyſician, as he had the means to pay him: but he was reſolute againſt it. If you could find me a doctor, ſaid he, who would tell me at once, I can do you good— or I cannot do you good, I would ſend for him: but elſe, why ſhould I ſend for a man to be paid for giving me phyſic, when I cannot take victuals?—In ſhort, he knew he was dying, and wiſhed to die with as little moleſtation as he could.
He kept his bed about three days; and was ſenſible to the laſt. He was in con⯑ſiderable pain; but he bore it with that firmneſs, and manlineſs, with which he had ſupported all the hard duties of a perſevering life of induſtry. He died on the 15th day of may, 1791; and deſired that the 51ſt pſalm might be ſung before his corps, as he was carried through the church-yard to his grave. The thought was new; and the decency, and propriety of it had a good effect.
On his death his effects amounted to about four hundred pounds. That a man, in the loweſt ſtation with a conſtant attention to money, ſhould in the courſe of a long life, raiſe that ſum, or a greater, is not wonder⯑ful: but that a man in the loweſt ſtation, ſhould leave ſuch a ſum behind him, after diſcharging all the offices of life with up⯑rightneſs, and propriety, is ſuch an example [29] of an independent ſpirit, and of the force of in⯑duſtry, and frugality, as deſerves to be re⯑corded for the benefit of others. —The following inſcription ſtands over his grave in Boldre-church yard.