Part 2

When he got back to his own house, he was loud in expressing his ill humour against Mr. Hale, and the whole bench of justices: and uttered against them the most dreadful curses. "Come, come, Stephen," said old Truman, his father-in-law, who was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, "come, come, you are going a little too far; I am sorry for many reasons that you have got into this scrape, and don't wonder at your being vexed; but what right have you to cry out so against Mr. Hale?"--"Right!" said Tomkins, "right enough, I think. Why, has'nt he fined me fifteen pounds?"--"Yes; but could he do otherwise? Every magistrate, you know, is sworn to execute the laws to the best of his judgment. If, after such clear evidence, he had let you off, he would have broken his oath, and have acted ill towards the public at large, and unjustly towards those who are entitled to receive the money. Besides, Stephen, you don't suppose, because a magistrate punishes you as an _offender_, that he bears any ill will to you as a _man_. Excepting on licensing-day, he probably never saw you before, and never thought about you one way or the other."--"Well then," said Tomkins, "I hate him for being a magistrate at all."--"Now there you're wrong again," said the old man; "I'm sure we all ought to be very thankful to those gentlemen, who will undertake such a troublesome office, especially as they get nothing by it. There are few people in these days that will work without pay. The judges get some thousands a year, and a pension when they are too old for service. I do not wish them one farthing less, for they deserve richly all they get, and are, generally speaking, an honour to the country. The attorneys too, if you have any dealings with them, come pretty quick upon you with their three-and-fourpences, and their six-and-eightpences; and the counsellors seldom open their mouths under a guinea or two. Tho' here again I must say, that I don't think either of these sorts of lawyers over-paid, when you consider how many years most of them work before they get any thing, (many, I believe, never get any thing at all.) The gentlemen, however, who act as justices, give their time and attention for nothing, and run the risk of giving offence to many of their neighbours into the bargain. No one, I'm sure, will undertake the office, who values his own ease, and quiet, and comfort, at a higher rate than the being of use to his neighbours and the public."--"I wish," said Tomkins peevishly, "there were no such things as laws or magistrates in the world."--"Like enough, like enough," replied Truman, "men are apt to quarrel with the laws when the laws are too hard for 'em. You don't often look into the Bible, Stephen, but that would tell you, that the magistrate _beareth not the sword in vain, but is an avenger to execute wrath upon every soul that doeth evil_. It is, therefore, natural for a man, who has done evil, or who means to do evil, to wish that there was no such check upon him. But those who, instead of doing evil, wish to lead quiet and peaceable lives in an honest way, are glad to have the laws to protect them from evil doers, and are thankful to those who duly execute them."

Tomkins did not much like Truman's lecture, and instead of being benefited by it, retained in his heart all his ill-will against Mr. Hale. In this he was not only very wrong, but, I am disposed to think, more unreasonable than the generality of men who may be in the same unlucky circumstances with himself. For men, who are convicted upon sufficient evidence, have generally the sense to see that the magistrate who convicts them, merely does his bounden duty. Tomkins put common sense and reason out of the question, and determined to do something by way of revenge. Mr. Hale's house was situated about seven miles off. It stood at the extremity of a rather extensive paddock, at the other end of which was a large fish pond, well stored with jack and perch. Tomkins knew the pond well, and took it into his head, that he would make it refund part of his fifteen pounds. He communicated his plan to Will Atkins, young Wildgoose, and Mike Simmons, who readily entered into it. They heard that Mr. Hale was from home for a few days, and determined to execute their plan without delay. They accordingly furnished themselves with a large net, and in the dusk of the evening proceeded to a barn, at a little distance from Mr. Hale's grounds. Here they concealed themselves till towards twelve o'clock at night. They then got over the pales, and were just beginning to open their net, when they were alarmed by the sound of horses coming swiftly along the road. They thought themselves safe from the owner of the pond, but were of course afraid of being seen at that time of night by any one else, and crouched down to avoid observation. In this they did not succeed. It was a cloudy night, but still the moon gave some light, and the horsemen, who proved to be Mr. Hale, (who had been unexpectedly called home,) his brother the Captain, and a servant, caught a glimpse of them. The gentlemen directly gave their horses to the servant, and jumping over the pales hastened towards the pond. The plunderers immediately ran off, and three of them were soon lost in the plantations. Wildgoose, however, in the hurry set his foot in a drain, threw himself down, and was taken.

When told his name and place of abode, Mr. Hale said, that "he remembered his father as an honest and industrious man:" indeed the sad accident by which he lost his life, had made his name known throughout the neighbourhood. And then addressing himself to his prisoner, "Young man," said he, "I respected your father, and have heard that your mother bears an excellent character; I am therefore, heartily sorry to find that their son has taken to such bad practices. It is well for you that I did not come up a little later, after you had carried your scheme into execution. Had that been the case, you might have been transported." "Transported!" said Wildgoose in astonishment, "what, transported for taking a few fish!" "Yes, transported," replied the magistrate; "if a man steals fish from a pond in any inclosed ground, he is, upon conviction before one Justice, to be sentenced to pay five pounds: but if he enters into any park, or paddock, or garden adjoining to a house, and steals fish from any river, or pond in it, he is liable to be indicted at the Assizes, and transported for seven years[c]. The law often finds it necessary to protect, by a severe penalty, property that is much exposed; and when a man is daring enough to carry on his depredations in the very homestead of his neighbour, he requires a severe punishment. In the present case, though your intention is sufficiently clear, I have no wish, and do not feel bound, to prosecute you. Nor shall I (as I might do) sue you for the trespass. Go home to your mother, and never again allow yourself to be led by bad advisers into the like crime."

[Footnote c: See Note [C.]]

Jack had told his mother that he was going to a friend at a distance, and should not return home that night. This made her sadly anxious; but she knew by experience that persuasion was lost upon him. When he returned home in the morning, she was confirmed in the suspicion that something was wrong. From his intimacy with Will Atkins she concluded he had been upon some poaching scheme; and determined, as she could do nothing herself, to try what effect Mr. Hooker could produce upon her son. It was not long before a good opportunity offered. Just as Jack left Mr. Hale's paddock, a heavy rain had come on, which soon soaked his clothes. Wet as he was, he got into a shed, partly for shelter, and partly to fill up the time, till his mother was up in the morning to let him in. The consequence was, that he caught a severe cold, attended with so much fever and head-ache, that he was unfit to go to work. Mr. Hooker called, and having kindly enquired after his health, began giving some hints on the subject of poaching. Jack sulkily answered, that "no one had a right to consider him as a poacher, until he was caught." Mr. Hooker, however, who had had some communication with Sir John's keeper, soon let him know that he had good ground for what he said; and endeavoured to make him sensible of the criminality and danger of his conduct. Jack would not acknowledge that poaching was wrong. Stealing he knew was disgraceful and sinful. To carry off a sheep, or to rob a henroost, deserved, he allowed, to be severely punished; "but," said he, "I cannot see the harm of _poaching_: animals that run wild by nature belong to nobody, and any body that can has a right to catch them. I don't know why it is more wrong to kill a partridge than it is to kill a crow or a sparrow; or why catching a hare is worse than knocking down a squirrel." "The laws of the land," said Mr. Hooker, "have made a difference between those animals, and it is the duty of every man to obey the laws of the country in which he lives." "Not," answered Jack, "if the laws are hard or unfair." "Our duty," replied Mr. Hooker, "is to obey the laws as we find them. If every one were at liberty to reject such laws as he disliked, we might almost as well have no laws at all. The thief would cast off the laws against stealing; the drunkard those against drunkenness; and of course the poacher would have no laws against poaching. The Scriptures teach us _to submit ourselves to every ordinance of man_; why? _for the Lord's sake_:--as a matter of religious duty. They bid us to be subject not only for wrath, for fear of punishment, but _for conscience sake_. They teach us _to obey magistrates_: to be dutiful _to the king as supreme, and to magistrates as to them that are sent by him for the punishment of evil doers, and the praise of them that do well_. Remember, therefore, that quiet obedience to the laws of the land is a Christian duty. We are to obey the laws, whether we approve of them or not: but perhaps, after all, the laws against poaching are not so unreasonable as you take them to be. Upon what do the hares, and pheasants, and partridges feed?" "Why, upon a number of things; chiefly upon the grass and corn, and such like; and a deal of mischief they do." "Well then, being supported by the produce of the land, they ought in some way to belong to the land; but as from their wildness they move about from place to place, it is for the law to say in what manner they shall belong to it; and the law does this by making a certain property in land the principal qualification for killing game. Perhaps I may think that some alteration in the qualification might be an advantage; but I am not a lawgiver, Jack, any more than you; and as I said before, we are to obey the laws as we find them." "It's very well," said Jack, sulkily, "for a gentleman like you to talk about obedience to the laws, but I don't know what good the laws do to such a poor fellow as I am." Mr. Hooker did not immediately notice this, but, seeming to change the conversation, said, "By the bye, John, I was sorry to hear of your quarrel with Tom Nutman, the blacksmith at Ratton. I'm told that he threatens to break every bone in your skin. Are you not afraid of meeting him?" "Afraid," said Jack, "let him touch me if he dare." "Why, do you think that he is prevented by any sense of religion from putting his threat in execution?" "Religion! he has no more religion than a dog." "Oh! then you think that he is afraid of you, and that you are more than a match for him?" "Why no, I can't say that:--he's much the strongest man of the two, and is a noted prize fighter." "Then why should he not dare to touch you?" "Because he knows, that if he should strike me, I should get a warrant against him, and have him off to prison before he was a day older." "Oh! that is what you mean, is it? it seems then that the law is of some use to you, poor as you are. And as you say that he is not influenced by the fear of God, what is there that prevents his coming to-morrow, with half a dozen of the Ratton men, carrying off every thing in your mother's shop, and breaking your head if you said a word against it?--The laws of the land certainly, which he knows would severely punish his wrong doing." John was forced to acknowledge, that even the poor had an interest in the protection afforded by the law to persons and property.

"But," continued Mr. Hooker, "poaching is positively wrong, not only as it is a breach of the laws, but on many other accounts. It is plainly contrary to the great rule of doing as you would be done by. You would not like, if the law gave you a right to any particular thing, to have any man come and take that thing from you: and so, when the proprietor of an estate and manor, like Sir John, is at much expence and trouble in order to preserve the game, which the law gives him a right to preserve, it is clearly wrong, and in opposition to the great rule which I have mentioned, for any man to invade that right. Besides, poaching is apt to bring a man into bad company, which is always most dangerous. The habit of being out at nights makes him familiar with deeds which shun the light; and too often, if he is disappointed of his game, the poacher makes up for it by taking poultry, or any thing else he can lay his hands on. We hear too every day, how poaching leads on to deeds of violence, and even of bloodshed, in the conflicts which it occasions with the men, whose duty it is to protect the game. In short, John, poaching is wrong in itself; it leads a man into a lawless way of life, and frequently is the beginning of all kinds of wickedness."

Young Wildgoose felt that there was much truth in what Mr. Hooker said; and though the pride, or stubbornness of his character would not allow him to acknowledge it at the time, yet when he came to reflect on it after the clergyman was gone, he pretty much determined within himself that he would give up the sinful and dangerous practice into which he had been drawn. Perhaps some private reason came in aid of his good resolution. He stuck to his work; kept away from the Fighting Cocks; and avoided the company of Will Atkins and his old associates. His mother observed the alteration in his conduct with heartfelt pleasure. From the odd temper of her son, she thought it might be prudent not to say much about it: but she was particularly kind in her manner to him, and did all that she could to make his home comfortable. Young Wildgoose felt this as he ought, and for some time every thing went on well.

Unhappily one evening in November, as John was returning from his work, he accidentally fell in with his old companion Atkins: "Why, Jack," cried he, "what have you been doing with yourself? We never see thee among us now; and many a merry night have we had. What has made thee so shy of late?" Wildgoose told him that he was going to turn over a new leaf, and had given up poaching. "Well now, I'm sorry for that; but still that's no reason why you should'nt now and then join a friend or two over a pot of beer; so come along with me to Tomkins's. He'll be quite glad to see thee again." John refused with some steadiness, but Atkins said so much, with a sort of good-humoured raillery, that at last he gave way. In one pot of ale he thought there could be no harm.

At the Fighting Cocks they found four or five of Will Atkins's particular friends sitting round the fire. They had not been drinking much, seemed sociable and friendly, and talked about any thing that came uppermost. Wildgoose soon went beyond the quantity, to which he had stinted himself; when all at once Atkins called out, "Come now, Jack, do tell us what could possess you to give up sporting. You used to take as much pleasure in it as any gentleman in the land." John was taken by surprise, and did not well know what to answer. At length he fairly acknowledged that he gave it up in consequence of what Mr. Hooker had said to him. "Well now, that is too bad," said Will, "I thought that you had been a lad of too much spirit to be talked over by a parson. I concluded that you had some real good reason, and never should have guessed that you had nothing more to say for yourself than that." John replied, that Mr. Hooker spoke very kindly to him; and that in what he said, he seemed to have both sense and Scripture on his side. "Scripture!" exclaimed Bob Fowler, "why sure enough Jack Wildgoose is turned methodist." They all laughed heartily at the joke, and went on for some time bantering Wildgoose upon his being so straight-laced. Jack never could stand being laughed at. He had not resolution enough to hold fast his integrity, when his integrity exposed him to ridicule. He did not remember the words of the prophet, _Fear ye not the reproach of men, neither be afraid of their revilings_: nor those of our Saviour, _Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words_--that is, ashamed of being religious, of being a Christian--_in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he cometh in his glory with his holy angels_. In short, Atkins and his comrades plied Jack Wildgoose so successfully with ale and bantering, that he gave up his good resolutions, and agreed to accompany them on a scheme which they had already planned for making an attack upon Sir John's preserve. They sat drinking till past twelve o'clock at night, and then repaired by different roads to the scene of action.

It so happened, that the keepers had received some information, which had carried them to the opposite side of the manor. The gang, therefore, carried on their operations for some time without interruption; and when their firing had drawn the keepers towards them, one of the party, who had been posted on the look-out, contrived to give them a signal, so that they got away without difficulty. They returned to their rendezvous loaded with pheasants, for which Tomkins paid them a good price, with some gin into the bargain. They gave Wildgoose more than his fair share of the money by way of encouragement; and agreed to meet again on the following Thursday.

On that day they determined to try their luck in the wood which covers the north side of the hill, just at the outside of Sir John's park. The party consisted of Black Will, Bob Fowler, John Wildgoose, Tom Cade, and one more. Will and Bob were provided with guns; the rest had bludgeons, in order to assist them, in case of any interruption from the keepers. Atkins and Cade entered the wood from the park, and the three others a little lower down. Atkins had just fired at a pheasant, when one of the under keepers jumped up out of the ditch, and calling out, "Holloa! what are you at there?" ran to Atkins, and collared him. Tom, who was at a small distance behind a tree, immediately came to his friend's assistance, and a well aimed blow of his bludgeon laid the assailant at their feet. At this moment the head keeper and several of Sir John's men came up, and secured Tom. The other poachers were brought by the noise to the field of battle, and attempted to rescue their comrade; but as Fowler was aiming a blow at the man who had hold of him, one of Sir John's garden men struck him on the right arm, just above the elbow, with such tremendous force, that the bone was broken. The poachers, who before had begun to find that the keepers were too many for them, immediately ran, leaving Bob wounded, and Tom a prisoner. The former, in consequence of the hurt which he had received, was allowed to return to his family; but Tom was carried off to a magistrate, and then to gaol, in order to take his trial at the ensuing Quarter Sessions. The other three, when they found themselves safe from pursuit, slackened their pace. Will first broke silence, by exclaiming, "A pretty business we have made of it to-night. Well, we can't always manage as we did last week; but I hate to go home empty-handed." They were now passing through the orchard at the back of Farmer Dobson's house, when Will spied some turkeys, which had imprudently chosen to roost in the trees, instead of going into the poultry house. The opportunity was tempting; and for want of other game, Will twitched two of them from their branch, and carried them off so quietly, that the farmer's dog did not utter a single bark. Wildgoose was a good deal shocked at this. In the pursuit of game, though illegal, he thought there was something spirited and manly; but revolted at the idea of _stealing_. What Mr. Hooker had said on the tendency of poaching to lead on to other crimes occurred to him. He ventured to remonstrate; but Will answered, "Why, what's the harm? The old fellow is rich enough, and can well spare a turkey or two. If I had left them, they would only have bought a little more finery for his daughters." John still persisted that stealing was dishonourable, but his comrade replied, "Come, come, let's have no more preaching; in our way of life a man must not mind trifles. To tell you the truth, I have done as much by a sheep before now;--only then, to be sure, I had a little bit of a grudge against the farmer, and I knew he could easily afford it." Wildgoose was more and more staggered. He saw how easily a man, who was in the habit of breaking the laws in one instance, could go on to break them in another, but gave up arguing the point with his companion.

Fowler contrived to get home with his broken arm before the morning. When the surgeon arrived, he found that the fracture was a bad one; and the worse from the severe bruise with which it was accompanied. On the Saturday morning, his wife, who had four small children, went to the overseer for relief. "And so you think," said he, "Nanny, that because your husband has thrown himself out of work, by his own misconduct, he is to be supported out of the pockets of the farmers? We have enough to do to pay rents and taxes, and provide for our own families, without having to provide for the families of poachers. If your husband had met with an accident in an honest way, I'm sure, I for one should have been for giving him all possible assistance; and no farmer in the parish would have said a word against it: but it is very hard that we should be expected to pay for his bad deeds." Nanny Fowler felt the truth of what he said, but replied, "that still they must not starve." "It is true," answered the overseer, "the law does say that nobody shall starve; but you must not expect much more from me than is just necessary to keep you from starving. I'm sorry, Nanny, for you and your children, but when the father of a family breaks the laws, he must expect his family to suffer for it as well as himself. It is in the nature of things that it should be so. You shall have from the parish just what is necessary; but even that you shall receive by way of loan[d], and if your husband recovers the use of his arm, we shall compel him to repay it in the summer. If his arm never gets well again, which I fear may possibly be the case, we can't expect to get the money back; but we shall not maintain him in idleness. We shall set him to do what he can; and if he earns but a little, and is kept but just from starving, he will have no one to blame but himself."

[Footnote d: See Note [D.]]