A COUNTRYMAN IN TOWN.
‘What has brought you to town?’ asked Wentworth one morning, as they were
sitting in Clifford’s Inn, to a visitor who had just put in an
appearance. His garb denoted his profession. He was the Presbyterian
minister who had acted as Wentworth’s friend at the time of the election.
‘Well, I’ve come on rather important business. There is an old woman in
the workhouse who maintains that the deceased Baronet has left a son who
is heir to the title and estate. And thus I came up to London; but I
have been run off my legs. I give you my word of honour, you won’t catch
me in a hurry in London again.’
‘How is that?’ asked Wentworth.
‘Well, the fact is, London is the last place in the world for anyone to
visit. It is too big, too crowded, too noisy, too fatiguing, and at
every step you are surrounded with danger. The omnibus and the cab ever
threaten one with annihilation, and the pickpocket is always on the
watch. The bicycle is a terror by night, as is the irrepressible
youngster who converts every quiet corner into a skating-rink. As to the
air you breathe, it is full of microbes; your daily bread is white with
alum. A wise man will also avoid its milk and cream and water. Yet all
of us have to go to London more or less, and there are people who can
live nowhere else. Human nature can easily assimilate itself to the
conditions which surround it. Fortunately, there is a good deal of
indiarubber in all of us. Of this the Londoner avails himself, and
thinks himself the finest, smartest, cleverest fellow in the world,
though he sees Brother Jonathan shutting him out of his markets, and
opens his doors to foreign paupers, whom not a Government under heaven
save his own would tolerate for a moment.’
‘Well, you’re right there. But what is your particular grievance?’
‘Grievances, you may say. They are like the hairs on my head; which,
by-the-bye, are not so numerous as they were once.’
‘So I see,’ said Wentworth with a smile.
‘To make the most of a short visit to London,’ continued the speaker,
‘you must arrange your plans, and I did mine. My first object was to
find out a gentleman who had written to me. Before leaving home, I had
written to say that I would call on him on the Tuesday at his chambers in
Pall Mall. When in due time I got there, I found he had gone to Scotland
for ten days, but that his son had opened my letter and had waited for me
till twelve o’clock, when he had started for an estate which his father
was laying out with a view to building operations. Accordingly, I
resolved to follow him, and then my troubles began. I started on an
omnibus for Euston station; arrived there, I partook of luncheon, having
twenty minutes to wait. “How do the trains run to Bushey?” I asked of an
official. “There is one at twenty minutes to two, and another at the
quarter,” was the reply; and I learned on the same reliable authority
that the quarter to two train got there first. Accordingly, I waited for
it, and when the guard came round to inspect the tickets, he confirmed
what the official in the hall had said; adding that I was to change at
Harrow. It was thus with a light heart I started, and left the train at
Harrow, feeling sure that in a few minutes I should be landed at my
destination. Alas, the train had gone, and I had to wait, sad and
solitary, for an hour. At Bushey, a woman on whom I called informed me
that her husband and the gentleman of whom I was in search had gone to
the Board School. It is needless to add that they had done nothing of
the kind. In the dust and under a blazing sun, I made my way to an
estate which was being cut up into building ground. No Mr. T.—the man I
sought—was to be seen; but it was the land I sought. “Was there any more
of it?” “No,” said a workman, “that was all.” I felt he was wrong, that
there must be more; but I tramped over the ground and made my way back to
the station, to wait another dreary half-hour. In time, passengers for
London began to assemble on the platform. Two of them passed me. One of
them, I suppose, remembered me, as he spoke to his companion, a much
younger man, who came up to tell me he was the one I sought. “Had I seen
the estate?” “Yes.” “What did I think of the view opposite the hall?”
I explained I had never been there. The workman it appeared, had led me
wrong, and as it was essential that I should see it, it was agreed that I
must have a fly and view the ground. I did so; and got back to town
about eight, feeling that unnecessarily I had lost the greater part of
the day.
‘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 pass 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 tittle-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 fashionable 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 illustration of how a countryman gets on when there, and of the
utter impossibility of accomplishing 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 shillings, 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 associations, 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 quantity 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 butter 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 God.”
‘“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 gushing 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 damnation dealt out to others who
did not think as they did. God the Father, Christ the Elder Brother,
were little in their thoughts. It was God 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 multitude 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?’
‘Well, her explanation is that the other woman got her to conceal it,
with the view of making money, but their difficulty was how to tell a
story which would not incriminate themselves. Once or twice she sent an
anonymous letter to the late Baronet, but he took no notice of it; and
then she tried to speak to him, but he would not let her; and she was
terribly afraid of him, as she says he was such a hard, arbitrary,
imperious sort of man.’
‘Well, we all know he was that,’ said the other. ‘He certainly was not a
man to stick at anything where his passions, or his prejudices, or his
interests were concerned. But where is the woman now?’
‘In the workhouse. She says she had quite lost sight of the other one,
till she found her in a London hospital, where she went to see her. But
the poor thing was too far gone to be of any good, and now she says they
have both been made fools of, and they had better have let the child
alone, so far as making any money out of the transaction.’
‘Was the new Baronet told of it?’
‘He was. I wrote to him on the subject.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Virtually that it was like my impudence, and that he hoped he should
never hear from me again.’
‘Well, that was not encouraging.’
‘Then I wrote again.’
‘And so did I,’ said Wentworth, ‘and this was the reply.’
Wentworth read as follows:
‘“SIR,
‘“In reply to yours of the 19th inst., I have only to say that I
consider your letter founded on complete misapprehension of the facts
of the case. The deceased Baronet had no heir but myself, and any
attempt to set up a claim on behalf of another will be firmly
resisted. Trusting that this is an end of the matter, and that I
shall be troubled with no further communications on the subject,
‘“I am, yours truly,
‘“HUGH ROBERT STRAHAN.”
‘Now hear the wife. She adds a P.S. as follows:
‘“I have been informed that you are a writer for the newspapers. Let
me hope that you are not one of the Sadducees against whom our Lord
warned His disciples. Please read carefully the General Epistle of
Jude. If I had the means I should like to see it hung up in all our
newspaper offices. Possibly you have met with some of my little
tracts. I am not proud of my literary talents. All boasting is
unbecoming, and the true humble Christian feels that he is an
unprofitable servant after all; but I am constrained to add that with
the Lord’s blessing they have been made useful in bringing many who
were in darkness and sitting in the valley of the shadow of death
into His own marvellous light. Be assured that at the throne of
grace this morning I particularly remembered the case of your poor
_protégé_, who is much to be pitied. Oh, it grieves me to the heart
to see how much we all make of wealth and rank! What is gold but
dust and ashes? What are titles but less than the small dust of the
balance in the eyes of the Lord?”
‘Well, did Sir Watkin ever hear the story?’
‘I don’t know. The woman told me she left a note for him at the lodge,
of which, however, he took no notice.’
‘I should think not.’
‘And once, she says, she tried to stop him; but he was angry and
threatened her, and the police took her off. It was at the time of our
last show, when Sir Watkin had, as you can remember, a grand party at the
Hall. I never saw him in better spirits. It seemed as if he was going
to marry a young lady with what he always wanted particularly—a lot of
money.’
‘That’s the case, I fear, with most of us.’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘In this respect we are most of us on an
equality. But I must say this for Sir Watkin, that he would not make
money, as some people make it nowadays, by feathering his nest at the
expense of the public. It is to his credit that he lent his name to no
doubtful speculation, though he was often asked to do so. He never was a
company promoter.’
‘Well, but about this woman’s story?’
‘I tell you as she told it me.’
‘I know it all,’ said Wentworth, ‘and have known it long. The Colonel,
who claims the entailed estate, is in London. Let us go and see him;’
and away they went to hunt him up at a swell military club of which he
was a member.
The new heir was barely civil. When he heard what they had to say, he
replied:
‘I am sure the family are much obliged to you; but look here, Mr.
Wentworth, I am not a lawyer, but I am, I trust, a humble Christian. My
wife and I have made this subject a matter of prayer. I have taken it in
my closet to the Lord. My conscience approves of the course I take. I
am in the path of duty. I have the interests of my family to think of.
I don’t talk to you as a man of the world. There was a time, I own, when
I did belong to that class, but then I knew no better. But I ask you, as
a Christian man, how can I act otherwise?’
‘Why, you might come and hear what the poor woman has got to say for
herself,’ said the Presbyterian parson. ‘You might follow the clue she
might give you. You might save yourself from what seems to me the
commission of a cruel wrong. You might act fairly to a lad who I believe
has a better title to the estate than you have. In short, you might do
to others as you would have others do to you.’
‘You can quote Scripture, then.’
‘Yes, I can; but it seems to be of little use.’
‘You are right, sir. We are told the devil can quote Scripture. To the
carnal heart the Scripture is a sealed book. It is only as the Spirit
opens the eyes of the believer that he can read aught.’
‘I thought, on the contrary,’ said Wentworth, ‘Scripture was so plain
that a wayfaring man, though a fool, could not err therein. But I did
not come to discuss such questions. I have to ask you, sir, to pause
before you take possession of the estate.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the new heir, ‘you have come and you have asked me.’
‘Yes, and you will pause?’
‘Not for an instant. Why should I? By these distressing visitations of
Providence, I have come into the possession of property and a title. It
is the Lord’s doing and it is marvellous in my eyes. I never sought this
nor expected this.’
Wentworth looked at the speaker. There seemed no particular reason why
the Lord should have interfered in this matter on his behalf, he thought;
but then Wentworth was not of the elect, and knew little as to what the
Lord was about.