Crying for the Light Volume Iii Part 10

'The next day I rose betimes to carry out my well-arranged plans. I slept in the City, that I might better carry them out. In the first place I made my way to see a gentleman in Fenchurch Street. He was out.

Then I made my way to a great manager's office in Bishopsgate Street; he had not arrived. Then I made my way to the great doctor in Manchester Square. I have a liver; it had gone wrong, and I knew, such is my experience of the doctor, that he would set it right in the twinkling of an eye. Alas! the doctor had gone out, and that meant running up there again the next day, and that meant my not being able to hear Henry Melvill's Golden Lecture; a thing on which, in the country, I had set my heart. However, I had a little consolation in reserve. An editor in Paternoster Row owed me a small sum of money. All the years I had known him I had never found him absent from his post. I would call on him, and he would give me a cheque. I did call, and he had gone down to Bournemouth for a week. Close by was another friend, the chairman of a well-known literary club that dine together every Friday evening. I had never dined with them, though repeatedly invited. I would be in town on Friday, and I would spend the evening dining with the club. It is rather dull work sitting in the smoking-room of a hotel of a night.

Accordingly, I called on my friend to inform him of my intention to accept his proffered hospitality, and you can imagine my disappointment when the doorkeeper at my friend's place of business informed me that he was at Folkestone. In my disappointment, I wrote to an old friend living on the Brighton Parade, that I would run down the next day in time for dinner, and pa.s.s the night under his hospitable roof. There was much we had to say to each other, as he was a retired Colonial, with whom I wished to talk over Colonial affairs. As soon as the train had arrived at London-super-Mare, I made my way joyfully to his house, feeling sure of a hearty welcome. All the blinds were suspiciously drawn down. After ringing the bell twice an aged housekeeper came to the door; the family had gone to town for the season. I turned away to a hotel, where the accommodation was moderate; but fortunately the charge was the same. On the Friday, back to town with an empty purse, I made my way to an office where I knew I could get the needful. Alas! the gentleman I wanted to see was out. For the first time in his life, I believe, Mr. W. was away-gone to the Handel Festival.'

'Well, you seem to have been rather unfortunate.'

'And oh, the terrors of that night! I could not get a wink of sleep.

The room was so sultry and confined. I opened the window, and then the noise of cabs at all hours kept me awake. Then I got nervous, and wondered what I should do in case of a fire; and sleep that night was out of the question; in fact, I've been wonderfully seedy all the time I have been in town. But I have more to say if you care to listen.'

'Pray proceed,' said Wentworth. 'I am all attention.'

'Let me record two other experiences. I have a friend who keeps a boarding-house in a certain square not a hundred miles from Holborn. He had often asked me to stay a night with him; he could help me with materials for an article I wanted to write; I would spend my last night there. Of course, I found him out, and the house so full that any bed there was out of the question. One little incident in the course of my troubles is rather amusing and characteristic. A West-End swell lately forced himself on my acquaintance. His talk is all of lords and ladies and people in high life, in whom I take no interest whatever. I even am sick of the woeful t.i.ttle-tattle of the newspapers, and never read it.

But I met my fine gentleman accidentally. He was delighted to see me, inquired most politely after the welfare of my family, hoped I would manage to run up to a certain fas.h.i.+onable exhibition-the most pleasant lounge in town of a summer evening-and then bade me good-morning as coolly as if he had never gone out of his way to beg me to make his house my home the next time I was in London. And this is London life, and a fair ill.u.s.tration of how a countryman gets on when there, and of the utter impossibility of accomplis.h.i.+ng anything there in a reasonable time.

It is wiser-better far-to stay at home and get your business done by writing. Londoners love writing. There is a difficulty I have with a limited liability company in a matter of five s.h.i.+llings, and we are as far from getting it settled as ever, though we have been corresponding on it for half a year. But London, with its worrying days and sleepless nights, is to be avoided by any who regards his health or temper or pocket. I have quite made up my mind that I will never visit London again-at any rate, not till the next time. And there is another thing that disgusted me. I was at a public dinner last night, and had to sit for three hours listening to awful speeches.'

'Well, they are generally tedious,' said Wentworth. 'I have had to attend a good many at one time or other.'

'Yes, but there was such a waste of time; all sorts of irrelative toasts obviously introduced merely for the purpose of affording mediocre aldermen and M.P.'s a chance of airing their vocabulary. But worst of all,' said the minister, 'was the awful amount of guzzling and feeding.

Everyone seemed only intent on getting as many of the good things on his plate as he could. And as to the champagne, the gentlemen, as they called themselves, seemed as if they had never tasted any before, and as if they would never have the chance again. Many of them were quite drunk, and the whole affair soon resolved itself into a drunken orgy. I was quite disgusted with my species. No one who would wish to think well of humanity ought to attend a public dinner. The wine being provided, they seemed as if they could not have enough of it. It was positively sickening.'

'And yet Thomas Walker advocates the public dinner. Indeed, he goes so far as to say that to ensure good parochial government, good dinners should be provided for the authorities. The aim should be, he tells us, to procure the best services at the cheapest rate, and in the most efficient way, and there is no system so cheap or efficient as that of the table. The Athenians, in their most glorious days, rewarded their citizens who had deserved well of the State by maintaining them at the public expense in Prytaneum or Council Hall. The table also is a mode of payment for services to be performed which goes further than any other, and will command greater punctuality, greater attention, and greater regularity. When properly regulated it is the bond of union and harmony, the school for the improvement of manners and civilization, the place where information is elicited and corrected better than anywhere else; and I believe, after all,' said Wentworth, 'old Walker was right.'

'And pray who was Walker?'

'Thomas Walker was the author of "The Original," a book highly popular with our forefathers and well worthy to be read by their sons. Walker was a police magistrate in London. "The Original" appeared in twenty-nine parts. Since then it has been republished in a volume. The first number appeared in May, 1835. He was ill when he commenced it, and died before it was completed. Almost his last essay in it was on "The Art of attaining High Health." It is curious to reflect that it was written by a man at whose door death was already knocking. He died suddenly in Brussels, the early age of fifty-two. By all means, I repeat, read Walker.'

'So I will. I am quite aware there are two sides to every question.'

'According to Walker, City feasting has many advantages. He is of opinion that it creates a good deal of public spirit; as long as men are emboldened by good cheer, they are in no danger of becoming slaves. The City Halls, with their feasts, their music, their a.s.sociations, are, he says, so many temples of liberty; and I believe that after all Walker was right I speak from experience; and yet there are evils connected with the system.'

'Evils!' exclaimed indignantly his ascetic friend, 'I believe there are.

And last night I saw what I never saw before, and never wish to see again: men dressed in evening costume-respectable people, apparently-all eating and drinking to excess. I hope they all got home, but they could scarcely find their way after dinner to the room where tea and coffee were served up; utterly unable to take a part in any rational conversation.'

'Ah, again let me quote Walker!' exclaimed Wentworth. '"Anybody can dine, but few know how to dine so as to ensure the greatest quant.i.ty of health and enjoyment." I am coming to believe that aristology, or the art of dining, has yet to be discovered. When ladies are admitted to these banquets there will, at any rate, be less of that eating and drinking to excess which so disgusted you last night.'

'Well, the sooner that good time comes the better,' said Wentworth's friend; 'but we have female feasts in Sloville which do a great deal of harm.'

'You amaze me,' said Wentworth. 'What do you call the feast?'

'The Dorcas. It is a society made up of ladies who belonged to the congregation, and who worked at useful articles to be distributed among the poor, the ladies paying half a crown each to buy the material, and putting threepence into the plate handed round at each meeting, to be devoted to the same purpose. On the night when my wife attended, there was an unusually large attendance. The grocer's wife believed in a good cup of tea, and b.u.t.ter which was not margarine, and in other dainties which her guests were not slow to appreciate. To her credit be it said that at no other house had the members such a really good tea. On these occasions a good deal of talk took place.

'Said one, "Where is that Jane Brown?"

'"Oh," said another, "she said she could not leave her mother."

'"A pretty excuse," said another. "I'll be bound to say that if there was any entertainment going on she could manage to leave her mother for that."

'"Ah!" said another old lady, with a shake of her head, "girls are not what they used to be. I don't know what we are coming to."

'"Oh, you may well say that," said the deacon's wife. "We are living in sad times. It quite grieved me to hear our minister say on Sunday that people believed in Christ. They never did, and they never will. The world will always hate Christ, because of its wickedness. It is only the elect that can be saved. The world, or rather the carnal heart, is always at emnity with G.o.d."

'"Yes, dear," repeated the old lady, "you are right there; the wicked won't come to Christ. It is not to be expected as they should."

'Then another interrupted with the remark: "That girl Smith is never seen in the chapel now."

'"Oh no! she takes herself off to Church. She says her mother has been very poor and bad, and no one came near her but the Rector and his wife, who were very kind."

'"Ah, there it is again," said the old lady; "the loaves and fishes."

'"For my part, I think we're well rid of such people. We don't want 'em, and the Church is quite welcome to 'em. There's that man Brown, who fell off the ladder when he was at work. The Rector called on him, and sent him a bottle of wine and some cold meat, and he has never been to meetin'

since. And now I hear he has sent his children to the Church Sunday-school."

'"Well, what can you expect?" replied the old lady. "It is my opinion that that man Brown never had the root of the matter in him at all, and yet I can remember when he used to come to meetin' regular. It is very shocking when people behave like that. The men in the town are getting worse and worse. They tell me there is a lot of low Sunday papers from London come into the town, and the men read 'em all day long."

'"Yes," said a gus.h.i.+ng girl who was present, and who could keep silence no longer, "that's quite true. When I go round with the tracts they refuse to take them in; and such nice tracts too, it quite breaks my heart. And then there is our new supply; he takes the men's part. He took up one of my tracts the other day and asked me if I really thought working men could stand such reading. I asked him if he read the tracts, and he said no; he thought he could employ his time much better."

'"And yet," said the old lady, "our dear old minister used to say one tract may save a soul; but lor', the young men they send us from the colleges, as they call them, think very little of saving souls."

'"I fear that's too true," said the deacon's wife. "People don't preach the Gospel as they used to."

'And that is true,' said the Presbyterian parson to Wentworth. 'They say I am a Unitarian; but the orthodox certainly are much nearer to me than they were. It did them good to hear d.a.m.nation dealt out to others who did not think as they did. G.o.d the Father, Christ the Elder Brother, were little in their thoughts. It was G.o.d the Angry Judge, it was Christ saying, "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting torment," of whom it did them good to hear. They quite relished the torments-the endless torments of the lost. Not to dwell on them in a sermon was not to preach the Gospel. Hard, stern, unforgiving were these ladies of the Dorcas. It is to be hoped that their charities at Christmas-time to the poor of the meeting, in the shape of flannel and other garments, did good. Charity covers a mult.i.tude of sins, and if they talked scandal, why, do not others do the same? A sister with more brains than the rest, and of equal piety, does now and then make a sensible remark. But at any rate, my wife said she would never go to one of their meetings again.'

'I have heard of it,' said Wentworth; 'but I have never attended one.'

'Be thankful you have not.'

'Why, I thought, in my ignorance, they were gatherings of benevolent ladies, to work for benevolent ends!'

'Ah, that is what they pretend to be, but things are not what they seem.

Believe me, Mr. Wentworth, that the Dorcas as it is conducted in country towns is a mockery, a delusion and a snare.'

Wentworth shook his head and groaned.

'Yes, that is so; my wife went to one, as I have said. It was her first attendance and her last. The professed object was work for the poor, the real one scandal. The women talked of all the other women in the town; how this one went on when her husband was away; how forward was one young miss, and how sly another; how mean was this man, how extravagant that.

There was a good deal more talking than working, and the over-righteous were the worst of all, and the most uncharitable. Never was there a more unpleasant display of feminine littleness. But, bless me, I am gossiping myself, when I came here on a very pressing occasion. And now, after this preliminary remark, let us proceed to business. It is one which you can help most materially.'

'Pray proceed,' again remarked Wentworth.

'It is one that requires a good deal of thinking about.'

'So much the better. I always love to have a nut to crack.'

'We have an old woman in Sloville Workhouse who says there is an heir to the Strahan estates.'

'I know it,' said Wentworth.

'Well, this old woman has told her story all over the town, and everyone believes it.'

'But why did she not tell her story before?'