“Sir, I am beholden to you
For your sweet music....
My ears were never better fed
With such delightful, pleasing harmony.”
_Pericles._
The one cross in Mr. Pope’s lot was the impenetrability of his two rich
neighbours to his ministerial labours; but in the case of Lord Ashford,
this cross weighed far less heavily on his mind than in that of Sir
William Hamilton. There are persons who, whether by the open boldness
of their conduct, or by some charm which counterbalances their evil
doings, blind the eyes and shut the mouths of censurers. Such was Lord
Ashford. Though the carelessness of his moral and religious principles
was so glaring that it might have been the theme of a child’s comment,
strange to say, it was commented on by few. His good qualities--a
compassion that could not bear the sight of bodily distress, a profuse
generosity, and a heartiness of manner which placed all who approached
him at their ease--were more than sufficient to disarm criticism; and,
under the kindly but not very respectful term of “the jolly old Lord,”
the errors of his life were compassionately veiled. Mr. Pope owned
the charm as well as his parishioners. He was on the most friendly
terms with Lord Ashford, and though the weekly sight of his empty
pew kept alive the remembrance of his delinquencies, it was a calm
consciousness, sighed away with the constant hope that better things
would come.
With Sir William Hamilton it was different. Mr. Pope was on good terms
with him, for, as he said himself, and he spoke truly, his sense of
duty would not allow him to be otherwise; but the terms were cold and
distant, and the occasional attendances at church were more galling to
Mr. Pope’s personal dignity than the total abstinence of Lord Ashford.
Sir William Hamilton was a scholar, and a clever man, and a man of
refined and cultivated taste; and as such, and being known to be such,
his approbation would have been valuable, and his indifference was
keenly felt.
It was felt, not as a censure, not as implying criticism on any of Mr.
Pope’s performances, but simply as a want of personal attention to
himself. Of defect, of anything that could be subject to criticism,
Mr. Pope did not dream; nor, considering his success with all other
classes of his parishioners, was it likely that he should. His success
with them was indeed considerable. They were in general a quiet,
orderly race, very ignorant, and much led by custom and habit. For
the most part, men and women, farmers and peasantry, went to church
once on Sunday. Their fathers and grandfathers had done it before
them, and they would have missed their daily dinner as soon as their
weekly church. Mr. Pope’s eyes might glance over his congregation, and
rarely, very rarely, with anything but exultation. It is true that the
moral and intellectual nature bore but little part in the service.
Mr. Pope was not a preacher to rouse. He might vary his texts and his
words, but his sermons ran constantly the same course. He preached on
the moral virtues and their opposite vices; on the duty of contentment
and gratitude; on the superiority of Christians to heathens, and on
the superiority of his parish to most parishes in England. These were
his favourite subjects; but such as they were they were listened to,
especially the two latter, with sleepy complacency by his auditors.
They were proud of him, and he was proud of them. They were proud of
the pompous tones of his voice, of the pompous decorum with which
the service was performed, and most of all of the pompous step, slow
and dignified, with which he passed from the vestry to the pulpit,
accompanied by the tones of the grinding organ, and followed by the
eyes of the whole church. And he was proud of the well-filled seats,
the decent dresses, and most of all of the pride they took in him, and
their devotion to his wishes.
But all this success and consequent pride was insufficient for perfect
satisfaction while Sir William Hamilton was unimpressed. He had seen
Mr. Pope in his church, he ought to have admired like the rest, but
he did not. Nor, to do Mr. Pope justice, was this the only cause of
his dissatisfaction. His religious feelings were not deep, nor his
religious standard high; but, such as he was, he was very sincere. When
he preached on the superiority of Christians to heathens, he preached
from his heart. He exulted in being a Christian as much as if it were
his own exclusive privilege, and the exultation did him honour. He had
therefore a higher source of pain in Sir William’s unchristian conduct,
and that pain was truly felt.
For many years, however, this dissatisfaction had been borne in
silence. If Mr. Pope was afraid of mortal man, he was afraid of Sir
William Hamilton; and it was only during the last year, only since the
daughter, Ida Hamilton, was advancing in age, that the possibility
of remonstrance had presented itself to him. She had now entered
her twelfth year, and the neglect of her religious duties might have
serious consequences.
It was on the ground of the disadvantage to his daughter that Mr. Pope
at length determined to base his remonstrance; and having once made up
his mind to the plan of action, he acted upon it. A fortnight before
the arrival of the Osbornes the deed was done.
Sir William received the remonstrance with the same imperturbable
indifference with which he had hitherto met Mr. Pope’s approaches.
He showed neither resentment nor gratitude; he observed that, had
his daughter ever expressed a wish for a more frequent attendance at
church, no difficulty would have been made by him, and, in short,
disposed of the question with a kind of cool contempt.
Mr. Pope was nettled; he changed his ground of attack from the daughter
to the father, pointing out the evil example Sir William was setting,
not only to his own child, but to his dependents, and in fact to
the whole neighbourhood. In his warmth he spoke well. He set forth
plain truths, and expressed them forcibly. That they came home to Sir
William, might be guessed from his reply; not that he was moved to
warmth, but there was a sarcasm in his words which no longer spoke of
indifference.
“He was surprised,” he said, “to find that Mr. Pope felt strongly on
the subject; he had hitherto believed the harmony provided for the
congregation was intended rather to scare than to allure.”
Mr. Pope was thunderstruck. That there was aught but beauty in the
tones of his bellowing boys was an idea as new as it was offensive. He
maintained, however, his dignity; observed that such considerations
were unsuitable to the importance of the subject under discussion; and
after begging Sir William Hamilton’s pardon for his intrusion, politely
and unruffled took his leave.
But the idea that had been suggested rankled, and again and again the
possibility of an improvement in his psalmody was the subject of his
reflections. Who could be the improver was the difficult question?
The old schoolmaster who now turned the organ, and encouraged the
screaming boys, had the voice of an asthmatic raven; and the new
schoolmistress had unfortunately been taken before the idea of
improvement was suggested, and without any questions as to the extent
of her musical knowledge. That knowledge proved to be very small, and
Mr. Pope was at a standstill. To a fortnight’s perplexity the arrival
of Violet Osborne put an end. She came, and Mr. Pope was restored to
all his usual complacent contemplation of his own sphere and labours.
Sir William Hamilton was absent at the time of that arrival; and
the three weeks that elapsed before his return, three weeks of
unconquerable patience and unflagging energy on the part of the
teacher, and three weeks of willing attention on the part of the
fascinated pupils, had already wrought a wondrous change in the
psalmody of Holywell Church. Nothing beyond the simplest psalm-singing
had as yet been attempted, but when above the soft notes of the organ,
and the softened voices of the children, Violet’s own voice rang out
sweet and clear, even the fat and drowsy farmers, and even Mr. Pope
himself, felt and owned that there was a change; a change that excited
more reverent feelings than had yet been experienced during that
portion of the service.
On the fifth Sunday, shortly before the second lesson, Sir William
Hamilton and his daughter marched stealthily up the aisle, and
concealed themselves in their pew. Mr. Pope’s chest heaved beneath his
surplice as he pictured the surprise he had in store; and when, after
the Litany, the first notes of the organ began, his very heart beat
with emotions of exultation and expectation. The psalm was a well-known
and simple one, but given with the correctness of one who understood
what she sang; and if Violet’s voice had been his own creation, he
could not have felt more covered with glory than he did, when, full
and sweet, its notes and words penetrated through the church. If this
elation could have received an addition, it was in the sight of a hand
from Sir William’s pew softly undrawing a curtain, and an uncovered
head thrust forward to catch a sight of the gallery. Mr. Pope might
live many years, and many successes might yet be his, but nothing
could ever equal the sensation of that moment. Sir William Hamilton was
conquered; he was convinced of it, and _he_ had conquered him.
When the service was over, Sir William, instead of escaping as was
usual to him while the rest were still on their knees, or searching for
their hats, sat in his pew, and, when the congregation had dispersed,
followed Mr. Pope to the vestry.
“You must allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Pope, on the teacher you
have engaged for your children. I have rarely heard a sweeter voice or
a clearer intonation.”
Such were his opening words, and they fell like sweet music on Mr.
Pope’s ear.
“I am gratified, Sir William, that she should receive your
approbation,” he calmly replied, showing no sign of the heaving pride
within.
“It occurred to me during the service,” Sir William continued, “that
she might be able to instruct my daughter. I am extremely anxious to
secure a person of taste for that purpose. Will you be good enough to
tell me her name and her abode?”
“Her name is Miss Osborne. She is the daughter of the ruined banker
who has taken Farmer Barton’s cottage. You will probably remember the
circumstance. She willingly consented to the proposal I made to her
to instruct my school-children; but whether she would be willing to
undertake the office you propose, I am totally ignorant.”
“That shall be my affair,” replied Sir William, calmly. “I must
consider further. I thank you,” and bending his head in salutation, he
withdrew.
The consideration given brought Sir William Hamilton to Mr. Osborne’s
on the following morning. Violet was dilligently practising, Mrs.
Osborne was writing her letters, when the door was thrown open, and
he was announced. Possessed with the idea that Violet was a musical
teacher, no word that Mr. Pope had said had undeceived him; and though
startled by her grace and beauty as she rose up on his entrance, he
proceeded to his business without delay.
“You will pardon my intrusion, madam,” he began, stiffly bending his
head to Mrs. Osborne, “but having had the pleasure of hearing your
daughter’s voice in church yesterday, I am anxious to ascertain whether
it would be convenient to her to assist my daughter in her practice.
She may command any remuneration she pleases.”
His utterance was slow and clear, and Mrs. Osborne heard every word,
but the sense scared her. Her colour rose, and she turned her eyes on
Violet with a look of shame and apology.
Had her mother not been by, Violet might have felt as she did; but
being anxious to relieve her, she looked at her with a smile of
amusement, and coming forward towards Sir William, said:
“I am sure I should be glad to assist your daughter, if I could; but I
should tell you, perhaps, that I am not a regular teacher. I should
not, I hope,” she continued, blushing and smiling, “be ashamed of it if
I was; but I am not, and you must not talk of remuneration to me.”
He looked from one to the other, till he had fully mastered the extent
of his mistake, then awkwardly said:
“I beg your pardon.”
His extreme awkwardness in this discovery revealed how much of shyness
had originally led to his withdrawal into himself. His stiff cold air
was probably more of a habit than a manner.
After a moment’s thought, he said, “I beg your pardon,” a second time;
and bowing, appeared to be on the point of taking his departure, when
Violet spoke again.
“You must not think we are offended,” she said. “I am sure, though I do
not know Miss Hamilton, that I shall be very glad if I can be of use to
her.”
She looked at her mother, to desire her to speak, and Mrs. Osborne said:
“I am sure my daughter will;” and moving her hand towards a chair,
added, “will you sit down for a moment?”
He obeyed. And then for the third time said--
“I beg your pardon. I suppose I misunderstood Mr. Pope. I should not
otherwise have presumed to intrude in this way.”
“Pray say no more,” said Mrs. Osborne. And Violet added:
“I assure you I shall be quite as glad to be of use to Miss Hamilton as
if I was a teacher; but I should be afraid she was beyond my powers.”
“My daughter has been tolerably well taught,” he replied; “but what
I am anxious to secure is a person of taste to guide her taste. To
play easily is a common accomplishment; to play correctly, and with
understanding, a rare one. In what I heard yesterday, Miss Osborne, you
will forgive me for saying it, I discovered that correctness of time,
and clearness of touch, which shows a taste for music both natural
and cultivated. If you are sincere in what you say, if you would be
good enough occasionally to allow my daughter to practise with you, I
should be truly obliged. If you will allow me, I will send her to call
upon you, and you will then better judge whether her society will be
distasteful to you.”
“I am sure it will not; anything I can do, I am so glad to do,” Violet
said, in her cordial way, speaking from her heart.
He bowed and thanked her. Bowed again to Mrs. Osborne, and for the
fourth time begged her pardon, and withdrew.