Nevertheless,
remembering his own history, he pitied the poor boy exceedingly. He
loved him as his own child, for his father's sake, and loved him all
the more for an experience so nearly resembling another which he
recollected too well.
"How is it Mr. Bradshaw is not preaching to-day?" said George.
"He is ill; I am afraid he is breaking up; and latterly he has been
worried by the small attacks made upon him by people who are afraid
to say anything distinctly."
"What kind of attacks?"
"Well, they insinuate that he is Arian."
"What is that?"
Zachariah explained the case as well as he could, and George was much
interested.
"Arian or not, I tell you one thing, Mr. Coleman, that Mr. Bradshaw,
whenever I have heard him, seems to help me as Mr. Broad never does.
I never think about what Mr. Broad says except when I am in chapel,
and sometimes not then."
"Bradshaw speaks from himself. He said a thing last Sunday which
stuck by me, and would have pleased a country lad like you more than
it did three parts of his congregation, who are not so familiar with
country life as he is. He told us he was out for a holiday, and saw
some men hoeing in a field--'Hoeing the charlock,' he said to
himself; but when he came nearer he found they were hoeing turnips--
hoeing up the poor plants themselves, which lay dying all around;
hoeing them up to let the other plants have room to grow.
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