"'For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment, an' yo' hav' respec' to him 'at weareth the gay clothin', an' say unto him, sit yo' here in a guid place; an' say to th' poor, stan' yo' theer, or sit under my fooitstooil.' Well, lad, tha's bin a Workhus lad thissen, an' yo' know weel enough wheer they towd yo' to sit."
Tom did know, and reflected that on the whole he had very much preferred the dark corners of the gallery to the chief places in the synagogue; but he had the sense to know his reasons were not of grace.
"Aye, an' it's th' same all through," went on the little hand-loom weaver, growing excited and warming to his topic. "It's th' same all through. They're all tarred wi' th' same brush, or welly (well-nigh) all on 'em. They uphowd th' rich, an' they patronize th' poor, aw' most to a man. Why, see yo', we'n been feightin' for th' Factory Act i' this district ivver sin Sir Oastler tuk his coit off an' put his neck to th' collar i' 1830, afore yo' were born. How many o'th' parsons i' this district, dun yo' think, has sided wi' th hand agen th' maisters? Ther' wer th' Reverend Madden, o' Woodhouse, _he_ com' aat like a man, but he had to dare to be a Daniel an' dare to stand alone, as th' hymn says. Yo'st take all th' progress 'at's bin made i'th' world sin th' days o' Adam, an' tak' it broadly speikin' yo'll find 'at th' parsons ha' bin agen it. There's Stephen's th' Wesleyan minister an' Chartist he cam' to Huddersfield wheer had he to talk do'st think? I'th' Parish Church? Not he, faith. I'th' Wesleyan Chapel? Not he. I'th Hall 0' Science, man, i' Bath Buildings, a infidel shop, th' bigots ca'ad it."
"But surely, Ben, you believe in something. You say you believe in God. You believe in Christ too, don't you?"
"Aye i' th' _natural_ Christ, but nooan i'th' travesty o' Jesus o' Nazareth 'at th' owd monks twisted an' fashioned out o' th' natural man till his own mother wouldn't ha' known him. _Aw_ believe in him, but th' parsons don't."
"Nay, nay, Ben," expostulated Tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested.
"They dooan't. They sen they do, an' they happen think they do, for it's wonderful, just fair cappin', how folk can cheeat their own sen. Nah! Aw'll just ax yo' if yo' wer to steal th' vicar's cooat, or poise his shins for 'im, wheer do'st think tha'd sleep to-neet? I' th' towzer,[1] wouldn't ta."