MR. HAROLD SMITH’S LECTURE.
On the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant, and the
time passed away quickly enough. Mr. Robarts’s chief friend there,
independently of Mr. Sowerby, was Miss Dunstable, who seemed to take
a great fancy to him, whereas she was not very accessible to the
blandishments of Mr. Supplehouse, nor more specially courteous
even to her host than good manners required of her. But then Mr.
Supplehouse and Mr. Sowerby were both bachelors, while Mark Robarts
was a married man.
With Mr. Sowerby Robarts had more than one communication respecting
Lord Lufton and his affairs, which he would willingly have avoided
had it been possible. Sowerby was one of those men who are always
mixing up business with pleasure, and who have usually some scheme
in their mind which requires forwarding. Men of this class have, as
a rule, no daily work, no regular routine of labour; but it may be
doubted whether they do not toil much more incessantly than those who
have.
“Lufton is so dilatory,” Mr. Sowerby said. “Why did he not arrange
this at once, when he promised it? And then he is so afraid of that
old woman at Framley Court. Well, my dear fellow, say what you will;
she is an old woman and she’ll never be younger. But do write to
Lufton and tell him that this delay is inconvenient to me; he’ll do
anything for you, I know.”
Mark said that he would write, and, indeed, did do so; but he did not
at first like the tone of the conversation into which he was dragged.
It was very painful to him to hear Lady Lufton called an old woman,
and hardly less so to discuss the propriety of Lord Lufton’s parting
with his property. This was irksome to him, till habit made it easy.
But by degrees his feelings became less acute, and he accustomed
himself to his friend Sowerby’s mode of talking.
And then on the Saturday afternoon they all went over to Barchester.
Harold Smith during the last forty-eight hours had become crammed
to overflowing with Sarawak, Labuan, New Guinea, and the Salomon
Islands. As is the case with all men labouring under temporary
specialities, he for the time had faith in nothing else, and was
not content that any one near him should have any other faith. They
called him Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his wife, who headed
the joke against him, insisted on having her title. Miss Dunstable
swore that she would wed none but a South Sea islander; and to Mark
was offered the income and duties of Bishop of Spices. Nor did the
Proudie family set themselves against these little sarcastic quips
with any overwhelming severity. It is sweet to unbend oneself at
the proper opportunity, and this was the proper opportunity for Mrs.
Proudie’s unbending. No mortal can be seriously wise at all hours;
and in these happy hours did that usually wise mortal, the bishop,
lay aside for awhile his serious wisdom.
“We think of dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,” said the
facetious bishop; “will that suit his lordship and the affairs of
State? he! he! he!” And the good prelate laughed at the fun.
How pleasantly young men and women of fifty or thereabouts can joke
and flirt and poke their fun about, laughing and holding their sides,
dealing in little innuendoes and rejoicing in nicknames when they
have no Mentors of twenty-five or thirty near them to keep them in
order. The vicar of Framley might perhaps have been regarded as such
a Mentor, were it not for that capability of adapting himself to the
company immediately around him on which he so much piqued himself.
He therefore also talked to my Lady Papua, and was jocose about
the Baron,—not altogether to the satisfaction of Mr. Harold Smith
himself.
For Mr. Harold Smith was in earnest and did not quite relish these
jocundities. He had an idea that he could in about three months talk
the British world into civilizing New Guinea, and that the world of
Barsetshire would be made to go with him by one night’s efforts.
He did not understand why others should be less serious, and was
inclined to resent somewhat stiffly the amenities of our friend Mark.
“We must not keep the Baron waiting,” said Mark, as they were
preparing to start for Barchester.
“I don’t know what you mean by the Baron, sir,” said Harold Smith.
“But perhaps the joke will be against you, when you are getting
up into your pulpit to-morrow and sending the hat round among the
clodhoppers of Chaldicotes.”
“Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones; eh, Baron?”
said Miss Dunstable. “Mr. Robarts’s sermon will be too near akin to
your lecture to allow of his laughing.”
“If we can do nothing towards instructing the outer world till it’s
done by the parsons,” said Harold Smith, “the outer world will have
to wait a long time, I fear.”
“Nobody can do anything of that kind short of a member of Parliament
and a would-be minister,” whispered Mrs. Harold.
And so they were all very pleasant together, in spite of a little
fencing with edge-tools; and at three o’clock the _cortége_ of
carriages started for Barchester, that of the bishop, of course,
leading the way. His lordship, however, was not in it.
“Mrs. Proudie, I’m sure you’ll let me go with you,” said Miss
Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came down the big stone steps.
“I want to hear the rest of that story about Mr. Slope.”
Now this upset everything. The bishop was to have gone with his wife,
Mrs. Smith, and Mark Robarts; and Mr. Sowerby had so arranged matters
that he could have accompanied Miss Dunstable in his phaeton. But no
one ever dreamed of denying Miss Dunstable anything. Of course Mark
gave way; but it ended in the bishop declaring that he had no special
predilection for his own carriage, which he did in compliance with a
glance from his wife’s eye. Then other changes of course followed,
and, at last, Mr. Sowerby and Harold Smith were the joint occupants
of the phaeton.
The poor lecturer, as he seated himself, made some remark such as
those he had been making for the last two days—for out of a full
heart the mouth speaketh. But he spoke to an impatient listener.
“D—— the South Sea islanders,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You’ll have it
all your own way in a few minutes, like a bull in a china-shop; but
for Heaven’s sake let us have a little peace till that time comes.”
It appeared that Mr. Sowerby’s little plan of having Miss Dunstable
for his companion was not quite insignificant; and, indeed, it may be
said that but few of his little plans were so. At the present moment
he flung himself back in the carriage and prepared for sleep. He
could further no plan of his by a _tête-à-tête_ conversation with his
brother-in-law.
And then Mrs. Proudie began her story about Mr. Slope, or rather
recommenced it. She was very fond of talking about this gentleman,
who had once been her pet chaplain but was now her bitterest foe; and
in telling the story, she had sometimes to whisper to Miss Dunstable,
for there were one or two fie-fie little anecdotes about a married
lady, not altogether fit for young Mr. Robarts’s ears. But Mrs.
Harold Smith insisted on having them out loud, and Miss Dunstable
would gratify that lady in spite of Mrs. Proudie’s winks.
“What, kissing her hand, and he a clergyman!” said Miss Dunstable.
“I did not think they ever did such things, Mr. Robarts.”
“Still waters run deepest,” said Mrs. Harold Smith.
“Hush-h-h,” looked, rather than spoke, Mrs. Proudie. “The grief
of spirit which that bad man caused me nearly broke my heart, and
all the while, you know, he was courting—” and then Mrs. Proudie
whispered a name.
“What, the dean’s wife!” shouted Miss Dunstable, in a voice which
made the coachman of the next carriage give a chuck to his horses as
he overheard her.
“The archdeacon’s sister-in-law!” screamed Mrs. Harold Smith.
“What might he not have attempted next?” said Miss Dunstable.
“She wasn’t the dean’s wife then, you know,” said Mrs. Proudie,
explaining.
“Well, you’ve a gay set in the chapter, I must say,” said Miss
Dunstable. “You ought to make one of them in Barchester, Mr.
Robarts.”
“Only perhaps Mrs. Robarts might not like it,” said Mrs. Harold
Smith.
“And then the schemes which he tried on with the bishop!” said Mrs.
Proudie.
“It’s all fair in love and war, you know,” said Miss Dunstable.
“But he little knew whom he had to deal with when he began that,”
said Mrs. Proudie.
“The bishop was too many for him,” suggested Mrs. Harold Smith, very
maliciously.
“If the bishop was not, somebody else was; and he was obliged to
leave Barchester in utter disgrace. He has since married the wife of
some tallow-chandler.”
“The wife!” said Miss Dunstable. “What a man!”
“Widow, I mean; but it’s all one to him.”
“The gentleman was clearly born when Venus was in the ascendant,”
said Mrs. Smith. “You clergymen usually are, I believe, Mr. Robarts.”
So that Mrs. Proudie’s carriage was by no means the dullest as they
drove into Barchester that day; and by degrees our friend Mark became
accustomed to his companions, and before they reached the palace he
acknowledged to himself that Miss Dunstable was very good fun.
We cannot linger over the bishop’s dinner, though it was very good of
its kind; and as Mr. Sowerby contrived to sit next to Miss Dunstable,
thereby overturning a little scheme made by Mr. Supplehouse, he again
shone forth in unclouded good humour. But Mr. Harold Smith became
impatient immediately on the withdrawal of the cloth. The lecture was
to begin at seven, and according to his watch that hour had already
come. He declared that Sowerby and Supplehouse were endeavouring to
delay matters in order that the Barchesterians might become vexed
and impatient; and so the bishop was not allowed to exercise his
hospitality in true episcopal fashion.
“You forget, Sowerby,” said Supplehouse, “that the world here for the
last fortnight has been looking forward to nothing else.”
“The world shall be gratified at once,” said Mrs. Harold, obeying a
little nod from Mrs. Proudie. “Come, my dear,” and she took hold of
Miss Dunstable’s arm, “don’t let us keep Barchester waiting. We shall
be ready in a quarter-of-an-hour, shall we not, Mrs. Proudie?” and so
they sailed off.
“And we shall have time for one glass of claret,” said the bishop.
“There; that’s seven by the cathedral,” said Harold Smith, jumping
up from his chair as he heard the clock. “If the people have come it
would not be right in me to keep them waiting, and I shall go.”
“Just one glass of claret, Mr. Smith, and we’ll be off,” said the
bishop.
“Those women will keep me an hour,” said Harold, filling his glass,
and drinking it standing. “They do it on purpose.” He was thinking
of his wife, but it seemed to the bishop as though his guest were
actually speaking of Mrs. Proudie.
It was rather late when they all found themselves in the big room of
the Mechanics’ Institute; but I do not know whether this on the whole
did them any harm. Most of Mr. Smith’s hearers, excepting the party
from the palace, were Barchester tradesmen with their wives and
families; and they waited, not impatiently, for the big people. And
then the lecture was gratis, a fact which is always borne in mind
by an Englishman when he comes to reckon up and calculate the way
in which he is treated. When he pays his money, then he takes his
choice; he may be impatient or not as he likes. His sense of justice
teaches him so much, and in accordance with that sense he usually
acts.
So the people on the benches rose graciously when the palace
party entered the room. Seats for them had been kept in the front.
There were three arm-chairs, which were filled, after some little
hesitation, by the bishop, Mrs. Proudie, and Miss Dunstable—Mrs.
Smith positively declining to take one of them; though, as she
admitted, her rank as Lady Papua of the islands did give her some
claim. And this remark, as it was made quite out loud, reached Mr.
Smith’s ears as he stood behind a little table on a small raised
dais, holding his white kid gloves; and it annoyed him and rather put
him out. He did not like that joke about Lady Papua.
And then the others of the party sat upon a front bench covered with
red cloth. “We shall find this very hard and very narrow about the
second hour,” said Mr. Sowerby, and Mr. Smith on his dais again
overheard the words, and dashed his gloves down to the table. He felt
that all the room would hear it.
And there were one or two gentlemen on the second seat who shook
hands with some of our party. There was Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne,
a good-natured old bachelor, whose residence was near enough
to Barchester to allow of his coming in without much personal
inconvenience; and next to him was Mr. Harding, an old clergyman
of the chapter, with whom Mrs. Proudie shook hands very graciously,
making way for him to seat himself close behind her if he would so
please. But Mr. Harding did not so please. Having paid his respects
to the bishop he returned quietly to the side of his old friend Mr.
Thorne, thereby angering Mrs. Proudie, as might easily be seen by her
face. And Mr. Chadwick also was there, the episcopal man of business
for the diocese; but he also adhered to the two gentlemen above
named.
And now that the bishop and the ladies had taken their places, Mr.
Harold Smith relifted his gloves and again laid them down, hummed
three times distinctly, and then began.
“It was,” he said, “the most peculiar characteristic of the present
era in the British islands that those who were high placed before the
world in rank, wealth, and education were willing to come forward
and give their time and knowledge without fee or reward, for the
advantage and amelioration of those who did not stand so high in the
social scale.” And then he paused for a moment, during which Mrs.
Smith remarked to Miss Dunstable that that was pretty well for a
beginning; and Miss Dunstable replied, “that as for herself she felt
very grateful to rank, wealth, and education.” Mr. Sowerby winked
to Mr. Supplehouse, who opened his eyes very wide and shrugged his
shoulders. But the Barchesterians took it all in good part and gave
the lecturer the applause of their hands and feet.
And then, well pleased, he recommenced—“I do not make these remarks
with reference to myself—”
“I hope he’s not going to be modest,” said Miss Dunstable.
“It will be quite new if he is,” replied Mrs. Smith.
“—so much as to many noble and talented lords and members of the
Lower House who have lately from time to time devoted themselves to
this good work.” And then he went through a long list of peers and
members of Parliament, beginning, of course, with Lord Boanerges, and
ending with Mr. Green Walker, a young gentleman who had lately been
returned by his uncle’s interest for the borough of Crewe Junction,
and had immediately made his entrance into public life by giving a
lecture on the grammarians of the Latin language as exemplified at
Eton school.
“On the present occasion,” Mr. Smith continued, “our object is to
learn something as to those grand and magnificent islands which lie
far away, beyond the Indies, in the Southern Ocean; the lands of
which produce rich spices and glorious fruits, and whose seas are
imbedded with pearls and corals,—Papua and the Philippines, Borneo
and the Moluccas. My friends, you are familiar with your maps, and
you know the track which the equator makes for itself through those
distant oceans.” And then many heads were turned down, and there was
a rustle of leaves; for not a few of those “who stood not so high in
the social scale” had brought their maps with them, and refreshed
their memories as to the whereabouts of these wondrous islands.
And then Mr. Smith also, with a map in his hand, and pointing
occasionally to another large map which hung against the wall, went
into the geography of the matter. “We might have found that out from
our atlases, I think, without coming all the way to Barchester,”
said that unsympathizing helpmate, Mrs. Harold, very cruelly—most
illogically too, for there be so many things which we could find out
ourselves by search, but which we never do find out unless they be
specially told us; and why should not the latitude and longitude of
Labuan be one—or rather two of these things?
And then, when he had duly marked the path of the line through
Borneo, Celebes, and Gilolo, through the Macassar strait and the
Molucca passage, Mr. Harold Smith rose to a higher flight. “But
what,” said he, “avails all that God can give to man, unless man will
open his hand to receive the gift? And what is this opening of the
hand but the process of civilization—yes, my friends, the process
of civilization? These South Sea islanders have all that a kind
Providence can bestow on them; but that all is as nothing without
education. That education and that civilization it is for you to
bestow upon them—yes, my friends, for you; for you, citizens of
Barchester as you are.” And then he paused again, in order that the
feet and hands might go to work. The feet and hands did go to work,
during which Mr. Smith took a slight drink of water.
He was now quite in his element and had got into the proper way of
punching the table with his fists. A few words dropping from Mr.
Sowerby did now and again find their way to his ears, but the sound
of his own voice had brought with it the accustomed charm, and he ran
on from platitude to truism, and from truism back to platitude, with
an eloquence that was charming to himself.
“Civilization,” he exclaimed, lifting up his eyes and hands to the
ceiling. “Oh, civilization—”
“There will not be a chance for us now for the next hour and a half,”
said Mr. Supplehouse, groaning.
Harold Smith cast one eye down at him, but it immediately flew back
to the ceiling.
“Oh, civilization! thou that ennoblest mankind and makest him equal
to the gods, what is like unto thee?” Here Mrs. Proudie showed
evident signs of disapprobation, which no doubt would have been
shared by the bishop, had not that worthy prelate been asleep. But
Mr. Smith continued unobservant; or, at any rate, regardless.
“What is like unto thee? Thou art the irrigating stream which makest
fertile the barren plain. Till thou comest all is dark and dreary;
but at thy advent the noontide sun shines out, the earth gives forth
her increase; the deep bowels of the rocks render up their tribute.
Forms which were dull and hideous become endowed with grace and
beauty, and vegetable existence rises to the scale of celestial life.
Then, too, Genius appears clad in a panoply of translucent armour,
grasping in his hand the whole terrestrial surface, and making every
rood of earth subservient to his purposes;—Genius, the child of
civilization, the mother of the Arts!”
The last little bit, taken from the Pedigree of Progress, had a
great success, and all Barchester went to work with its hands
and feet;—all Barchester, except that ill-natured aristocratic
front-row together with the three arm-chairs at the corner of it.
The aristocratic front-row felt itself to be too intimate with
civilization to care much about it; and the three arm-chairs, or
rather that special one which contained Mrs. Proudie, considered
that there was a certain heathenness, a pagan sentimentality almost
amounting to infidelity, contained in the lecturer’s remarks, with
which she, a pillar of the Church, could not put up, seated as she
was now in public conclave.
“It is to civilization that we must look,” continued Mr. Harold
Smith, descending from poetry to prose as a lecturer well knows how,
and thereby showing the value of both—“for any material progress in
these islands; and—”
“And to Christianity,” shouted Mrs. Proudie, to the great amazement
of the assembled people and to the thorough wakening of the bishop,
who, jumping up in his chair at the sound of the well-known voice,
exclaimed, “Certainly, certainly.”
“Hear, hear, hear,” said those on the benches who particularly
belonged to Mrs. Proudie’s school of divinity in the city, and among
the voices was distinctly heard that of a new verger in whose behalf
she had greatly interested herself.
“Oh, yes, Christianity of course,” said Harold Smith, upon whom the
interruption did not seem to operate favourably.
“Christianity and Sabbath-day observance,” exclaimed Mrs. Proudie,
who, now that she had obtained the ear of the public, seemed well
inclined to keep it. “Let us never forget that these islanders can
never prosper unless they keep the Sabbath holy.”
Poor Mr. Smith, having been so rudely dragged from his high horse,
was never able to mount it again, and completed the lecture in a
manner not at all comfortable to himself. He had there, on the table
before him, a huge bundle of statistics with which he had meant to
convince the reason of his hearers after he had taken full possession
of their feelings. But they fell very dull and flat. And at the
moment when he was interrupted he was about to explain that that
material progress to which he had alluded could not be attained
without money; and that it behoved them, the people of Barchester
before him, to come forward with their purses like men and brothers.
He did also attempt this; but from the moment of that fatal onslaught
from the arm-chair, it was clear to him and to every one else, that
Mrs. Proudie was now the hero of the hour. His time had gone by, and
the people of Barchester did not care a straw for his appeal.
From these causes the lecture was over full twenty minutes earlier
than any one had expected, to the great delight of Messrs. Sowerby
and Supplehouse, who, on that evening, moved and carried a vote of
thanks to Mrs. Proudie. For they had gay doings yet before they went
to their beds.
“Robarts, here one moment,” Mr. Sowerby said, as they were standing
at the door of the Mechanics’ Institute. “Don’t you go off with Mr.
and Mrs. Bishop. We are going to have a little supper at the Dragon
of Wantly, and after what we have gone through upon my word we want
it. You can tell one of the palace servants to let you in.”
Mark considered the proposal wistfully. He would fain have joined the
supper-party had he dared; but he, like many others of his cloth, had
the fear of Mrs. Proudie before his eyes.
And a very merry supper they had; but poor Mr. Harold Smith was not
the merriest of the party.