My letter was from Archdeacon Williams. I had never met him but had
read his books and been much influenced by them, as I know you have
been. To tell the truth, I hesitated about accepting his invitation
to spend the "week-end," for I feared I might be disappointed!
Authors are like miners: they put the precious metal into their
books, but when one gets to the mine there is apt to be a lot of
"slag" lying about! But it was not so in this case. The books are
the man--he lives as he talks.
England is the land of contrasts. Shropshire seems to belong to
another planet, when one gets into the dark and chilly atmosphere of
the black country. It was most depressing. Instead of the charming
vicarage I had pictured, I found a plain brick house on the street of
the town, and instead of a blooming garden, a few sickly shrubs,
blackened, like everything else, by the smoke from the mills.
But within all was sweetness and light. The house was overflowing
with delightful children, and every one seemed to be at work. Or,
perhaps I should say, every one seemed to have a purpose, for as I
arrived at tea-time, work had been suspended.
There was but one drawback: the archdeacon does not smoke, and does
not seem to have heard that any one else does! I thought that three
days would be more than I could bear. But, indeed, mind and body
were kept so busy that I hardly missed my pipe at all! Can I say
more?
The archdeacon and I sat up until all hours of the night, talking of
the things which are most worth while.
He is an extraordinary man--not only a good classical scholar but
also a notable mathematician. He is quite at home in all the
scientific theories which are the vogue to-day, and insisted that
theology can have no interest for the modern mind until theologians
abandon the mediæval, _a priori_ method for the inductive, and use
words as the symbols of truths which can be verified. Then it will
be found that the "faith" for which the saints contended was the
reality without which man cannot live. He said many things of which
I will tell you when we meet; but one I send you now, for you might
have said it yourself! "Men are forever talking about 'faith' as if
the important thing were the _quantity_ of it, whereas the thing that
matters is its _quality_. The faith which overcame the world is not
the mass of opinion which has accumulated through the ages, but the
deep conviction that God is Spirit, and that the character of that
Spirit has been revealed in the person of Jesus."
The way the man works would, I think, astonish you. This is what we
did on Saturday: breakfast at 8, then prayers in the parish church at
9. He agrees with Bishop Creighton that it is better to have many of
the parish come together for prayers each day than to have family
prayers, with which, I am sure, you will no more agree than I do! At
9.30 he shut himself in his study and did not appear again until 1
o'clock. Then we had dinner, all the family taking part in the talk,
which was good, and I listened. The last you will not believe, but
it is true!
Mrs. Williams is as remarkable in her way as he, and is a real
intellectual companion. When I spoke to him of her, he said: "Think
of the men who are asphyxiated by dull wives!" I did!
The children adore their father, though Rose--a girl of about
twelve--told me they could have a pony if their father did not give
so much to the poor. When I suggested that this was a good way to
use money, she agreed, but added: "It seems a pity there is not
enough for both." In which opinion, no doubt, many will agree.
At 2.30 a large van drove up to the door, and into it we all piled,
except the very little ones, to go to the Sunday-school treat. We
stopped at many a corner to pick up the teachers--all of whom were
workers in the mills--and drove to a grove some miles away, where the
feast was spread.
I sat next a man of about fifty years of age, who, when he learned
that I was an American, "let himself go." He had friends who had
migrated to the "States," and admitted that the wages were much
larger than in England, but added that, as the expense of living was
so much greater, there was not much in it. I did not remind him that
the greater expense meant also better living conditions, for I wanted
to hear him talk. He complained that our people worked longer hours
than they did, and were so tired at the end of the day that they
could not enjoy the rest when it came. He wanted to know if the
tariff helped our trade. I laughed and told him there was great
difference of opinion on that subject, and that I did not pretend to
be an authority, but was inclined to think that the willingness of
the workers to use new machinery had more to do with our prosperity
than anything the government did.
"Ay," said he, "that is what the masters tell us, but we do not heed
them. We know that this new machinery can be speeded up till a man's
heart is broke."
It was not the man's opinion that interested me so much as his
willingness to talk; for I had heard frequent complaints that the
working men would talk freely only with their mates. But I got a new
light on that, for, when we had risen and sung "God Save the King,"
my neighbor turned to me and said: "You will excuse me if I have
talked too free, but this is the first time in my life that I ever
talked with a gentleman."
I could have wept. "But," I said, "you must often have talked to the
vicar?"
"Ay," he replied, "but he is a _man_." And with this cryptic saying
I had to be content!
One other thing he told me that I am sure will interest you. He said
that in the dark days of the cotton famine, during our Civil War, he
could remember as a little boy seeing his father go, with many
others, to receive the food distributed to the poor. "That was the
only time any of my name received anything from the rates, and it was
bitter hard for father. There were men who came up from Liverpool
and told us that if the working men of Lancashire would send a
deputation to Parliament, the war would be stopped, and we could get
cotton to open the mills. But my father was one of those who said
that it was the cause of free labor you were fighting for, and that
if the men would hold on a bit, God would come to our help. He
learned that, I now know, from John Bright. And so the men held out.
But it was hard." Isn't that fine? And doesn't it make Lord John
Russell and Gladstone look cheap?
By some ill chance Rose and I got separated from the rest of the
party, and the van drove off without us. When Rose learned this, she
thought it a huge joke, and said we should have to walk. I said:
"Not on your life!" This familiar saying filled her with delight,
and she cried: "Oh, I say, that is a jolly saying; I must tell that
to Dick, and he can take it back to school!"
"That is all very well," said I, "but what is going to take us back
to home?"
She suggested a "fly." I solemnly remarked that I did not believe
there was a fly big enough to carry us both.
She looked at me for a moment in astonishment and then cried: "Why, I
believe you are thinking of an _insect_!"
I asked what else one could think of. She pondered this a moment and
then said she believed I was making game of her. Nothing, I assured
her, was farther from my thoughts.
"Well," she said, "if you are sure you don't know, I will tell you; a
fly is something that a horse pulls."
I asked if it was a cart. But apparently she had given me up as
hopeless, and taking me by the hand, led me to a livery-stable, where
the proprietor produced a fly and announced that the price would be
ten shillings, and asked if he should "put it down" to the vicar.
Rose looked much alarmed at this, and was proportionately relieved
when I paid the amount.
There was silence for a little space after we started, and then Rose
said, as if to herself: "Daddy would have walked."
"Yes," I replied, "but you must remember he is over six feet tall,
and his stride is about three-foot-three, whereas I step only about
two-foot-six; so you can calculate how much longer it would take me
to walk seven miles than it would him."
"Don't you hate arithmetic?" she exclaimed.