CHAPTER XXIV.
CHARLES MATHEWS—A HARVEST FESTIVAL AT THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
The sporting world has no greater claim on my memory than the theatrical or the artistic. I recall them with a vividness that brings back all the enjoyments of long and sincere friendships. For instance, one evening I was in Charles Mathews's dressing-room at the theatre and enjoying a little chat when he was "called."
"Come along," said he; "come along."
Why he should "call" me to come along I never knew. I had no part in the piece at that moment. But he soon gave me one. I followed, with lingering steps and slow, having no knowledge of the construction of the premises; but in a moment Mathews had disappeared, and I found myself in the middle of the stage, with a crowded house in front of me. The whole audience burst into an uproar of laughter. I suppose it was the incompatibility of my appearance at that juncture which made me "take" so well; but it brought down the house, and if the curtain had fallen at that moment, I should have been a great success, and Mathews would have been out of it. In the midst of my discomfiture, however, he came on to the stage by another entrance as "cool as a cucumber." He told me afterwards that he had turned the incident to good account by referring to me as "Every man in his humour," or, "A bailiff in distressing circumstances!"
I was visiting the country house of a respectable old solicitor, who was instructing me in a "compensation case" which was to be heard at Wakefield.
"I don't know, Mr. Hawkins," said he on Sunday morning, "whether you would like to see our little church?"
"No, thank you," I answered; "we can have a look at it to-morrow when we have a 'view of the premises.'"
"I thought, perhaps," said Mr. Goodman, "you might like to attend the service."
"No," said I, "not particularly; a walk under the 'broad canopy' is preferable on a beautiful morning like this to a poky little pew; and I like the singing of the birds better than the humming of a clergyman's nose.
"Very well," he said; "we will, if you like, take a little walk."
With surprising innocence he inflicted upon me a pious fraud, leading me over fields and meadows, stiles and rustic bridges, until at last the cunning old fox brought me out along a by-path and over a plank bridge right into the village. Then turning a corner near a picturesque farmhouse, he smilingly observed, "This is our church."
"It's a very old one, and looks much more picturesque in the distance.
Shall we have a view a little farther off?"
"St. Mary's," said he; "1694 is the date—"
"St. Mary's?" said I. "Fancy! And what is the date—1694?"
"It has some fine tablets, Mr. Hawkins, if you'd like to look in—"
"I don't care for tablets," I answered; "if I go to church it is not to stare at tablets."
At last my host summed up courage to say,—
"Mr. Hawkins, this is our little harvest festival of thanksgiving, and
I should not like to be absent."
"Why on earth, Mr. Goodman," I answered, "did you not say that before?
Let us go in by all means. I like a good harvest as well as any
Christian on earth."
The pew was the family pew—the whole family pew, and nothing but the family pew; bought with the estate, with the family estate; and was in an excellent situation for the congregation to have a fine view of Mr. Goodman. Indeed, his cheery face could be seen by everybody in church.
I must say the little edifice looked very nice, and had been adorned with the most artistic taste by the young ladies of the Vicarage and the Hall. Mr. Goodman was "the Hall." There were bunches of neatly-arranged turnips and carrots, with potatoes, barley, oats, and mangel-wurzel, and almost every variety of fruit from the little village; and every girl had barley and wheat-ears in her straw hat. It was an affecting sight, calculated to make any one adore the young ladies and long for dinner.
The sermon was an excellent one so far as I could pronounce an opinion, but would have been considerably improved had it been three-quarters of an hour shorter. It contained, however, the usual allusions to harvest-homes, gathering into barns, and laying up treasures; which last observation reminded Mr. Goodman that he had left his purse at home, and had come away without any money.
I saw him fumbling in his pocket. Now, thought I, the time has come for showing my devotion to Mr. Goodman. As soon, therefore, as he had whispered to me, I handed him all I had, which consisted of a five-pound note. He gratefully took it, and although about five times as much as he intended to give, when the bag was handed to him in went the five-pound note.
I knew my friend was chuckling as soon as we got into his family pew at the way in which he had lured me step by step, till we walked the last plank over the ditch, so I was not sorry to return good for evil and lend him my note.
He stared somewhat sideways at me when the bag passed, but I bore it with fortitude. I took particular notice that the crimson bag passed along the front of our family pew at a very dilatory pace, and tarried a good deal, as if reluctant to leave it. To and fro it passed in front of my nose as if it contained something I should like to smell, and at last moved away altogether. I was glad of that, because it prevented my following the words of the hymn in my book, and, unfortunately, it was one of those harvest hymns I did not know by heart.
On our way home over the meadows, where the grasshoppers were practising for the next day's sports, and were in high glee over this harvest festival, Mr. Goodman seemed fidgety; whether conscience-stricken for the Sabbath fraud he had practised upon me or not, I could not say, but at last he asked how I liked their little service.
I said it was quite large enough.
"You"—he paused—"you did not, I think"—another pause—"contribute to our little gathering?"
"No," I said, "but it was not my fault; I lent you all I had. The fund, however, will not suffer in the least, and you have the satisfaction of having contributed the whole of our joint pocket-money. It does not matter who the giver is so long as the fund obtains it." I then diverted his mind with a story or two.
Cockburn, I said, was sitting next to Thesiger during a trial before Campbell, Chief Justice, in which the Judge read some French documents, and, being a Scotsman, it attracted a good deal of attention. Cockburn, who was a good French scholar, was much annoyed at the Chief Justice's pronunciation of the French language.
"He is murdering it," said he—"murdering it!"
"No, my dear Cockburn," answered Thesiger, "he is not killing it, only
Scotching it."
Sir Alexander was at a little shooting-party with Bethell and his son, one of whom shot the gamekeeper. The father accused the son of the misadventure, while the son returned the compliment. Cockburn, after some little time, asked the gamekeeper what was the real truth of the unfortunate incident—who was the gentleman who had inflicted the injury?
The gamekeeper, still smarting from his wounds, and forgetting the respect due to the questioner, answered,—
"O Sir Alexander—d—n 'em, it was both!"
A remark made by Lord Young, the Scotch Judge, one of the wittiest men who ever adorned the Bar, and who is a Bencher of the Middle Temple, struck me as particularly happy. There was a conversation about the admission of solicitors to the roll, and the long time it took before they were eligible to pass from their stage of pupilage to that of solicitor, amounting, I think, to seven years; upon which Lord Young said, "Nemo repente fuit turpissimus."