opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the
dairymaid, of frying the best bacon for the shepherd, when he sat up with
her to 'help brew'; whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always
thought Betty false; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen when
_she_ was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often complained that he 'never
saw the like to women with their maids--he never had any trouble with his
men', avoided listening to this discussion, by raising the question of
vetches with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged:
and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the main object
of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross Farm without waiting
till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders it
incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to fulfil his frequent threat of going.




Chapter 2


It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, like us, overhear
the conversation recorded in the last chapter. Indeed, what mortal is
there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity
of comparing the picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with
the picture they make on the mental retina of his neighbours? We are poor
plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit: alas for us, if
we get a few pinches that empty us of that windy self-subsistence! The
very capacity for good would go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned
orator, suddenly, that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and
that he is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of
thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry