The Lecture.
"You look seedy this morning, Mr. Weston," said Williams, as George entered the office on the following day. "The effect of last night's dissipation, I suppose. How did you like the play?"
"Not at all," answered George, mortified and angry at having the question put to him before all the clerks, who were now informed of the fact of his having been there.
"No; I suppose one Abinadab Sleek does not like to hear another one of the same gang spoken ill of, eh?"
"I do not understand you," said George.
"Then, to put it plainer, you and Hardy, who are of the 'Serious Family' style, don't like to see yourselves taken off quite so true to life as you were last night at the Adelphi. You saw that old canting Abinadab Sleek was up to every dodge and vice, although he did seem such a sanctified individual in public; and our young Solomons, who condemn wicked theatres and disgusting taverns, can go to both on the sly, and be as sanctimonious as ever Abinadab was in office."
George felt his hands clench, and his eyes flash fire. He could bear taunts from Williams, when he had right on his side, and felt the consciousness of innocence; but he could not bear it now.
"You lie," said George passionately, "in drawing that comparison."
"And you lie continually," said Williams, "in acting a perpetual edition of that part of the 'Serious Family' represented by Abinadab Sleek."
"Fight it out I fight it out!" said Lawson. "The Governor won't be here for half an hour; bolt the door and have it out."
"Nothing of the kind," said Hardy, stepping forward. "Williams is the aggressor in this instance; it is nothing to him if Weston and I went to the theatre every night in our lives; he has no right to interfere; if he fights it must be with Weston and me, for he insults me as much as my friend."
"Then come on," said Williams, taking off his coat, "and I'll take you both: one man is worth two canting hypocrites, any day."
But no one had bolted the door, and, to the surprise of all, Mr. Compton stood before them.
"What is this?" he said; "young men in my office talking of fighting, as if it were the tap-room of a public house? George Weston! I did not think this of you."
"Do not judge hastily, sir," said Hardy. "My friend Weston has been grossly insulted by Mr. Williams, and the little disturbance has only been got up through jealousy, to get him into trouble."
"Step into my room a moment, Mr. Hardy," said Mr. Compton; "and you, too, Weston and Williams."
George was flushed with excitement; but his proud, manly bearing, in contrast to the crest-fallen Williams, won for him the admiration of the whole staff of clerks.
Mr. Compton patiently heard from Hardy a recital of the causes leading to the fray, and was made acquainted with the course of opposition George had to contend with, from Williams and Lawson, ever since he had been in the office.
"I regret this circumstance," said Mr. Compton, "for several reasons. I have always held you, Weston, in the highest estimation, nor do I see sufficient cause, from this event, to alter my estimate; but I have always found my best clerks those who have been in the habit of spending their evenings elsewhere than in theatres and taverns. I am not surprised at the part you have taken, Mr. Williams; and it now rests with you, whether you remain in this office or leave. I will not have the junior clerks in this establishment held in subjection to those who have been with me a few years longer; nor will I have a system of insult and opposition continued, which must eventually lead to unpleasant results. If I hear any more of this matter, or find that you persist in your unwarranted insults on Mr. Weston, I shall at once dismiss you from my service. You did well, Mr. Hardy, in interfering to prevent a disgraceful fight; and, much as I dislike tale-bearing, I request you to inform me, for the future, of any unpleasantness arising to Mr. Weston from this affair."
Williams was terribly crest-fallen, and the tide of office opinion turned from him in favour of George and Hardy, who, without crowing over the victory they had gained, yet showed a manly determination not to allow an insult which reflected upon their characters.
"I tell you what it is," whispered Lawson to Williams; "Old Compton takes a fancy to those two sneaking fellows, and, after this affair, the office will get too hot for us if we do not draw it milder to them. If I were you, I should waylay them outside the office and say something civil, by way of soft soap, so as to nip this matter off, for you've got the worst of it so far."
Williams determined to accept the hint Lawson had given him, and when the office closed, remained in the court until George came out.
"Mr. Weston," he said, stretching out his hand, which George felt would be mean-spirited not to take, "that was an unpleasant affair this morning, but I didn't think you would fire up as you did; and when I let fly at you, it was only in joke."
"I must deny that it was a joke," George replied; "it was an intended insult. Probably you might not have thought it would have produced indignation in me, because you, evidently, do not understand my feelings in the matter. However, let the thing drop now. I will not retract what I said to you this morning, that you lied in forming that estimate of my character, nor do I ask you to retract your words, unless your conscience tells you that you wronged me."
"What I said was hasty, and I don't mind eating all my words," said Williams; "so, as the song says, 'Come, let us be happy together.' Will you come into the King's Head, and take a glass of wine on the strength of it?"
"No, thank you," said George; "but as it is no wish of mine to live at loggerheads with any one, here is my hand upon it."
And then they shook hands, and so the matter ended. But it ended only so far as Williams was concerned. A day or two afterwards Mr. Brunton was passing the office, and he called in to say "How d'ye do?" to Mr. Compton. In the course of conversation he asked how George was getting on, and whether he continued to give satisfaction.
"Yes," said Mr. Compton, "I have no fault to find with him; on the contrary, he is the best junior clerk I ever had, and I trust him with matters I never placed in the hands of a junior clerk before. But there was an unfortunate occurrence the other day, which I think it right to mention to you confidentially." And then Mr. Brunton heard the whole history of the theatre adventure, and its consequences in the office on the following morning. He was grieved, deeply grieved. At first he could not credit the account; but when he heard that George had himself confessed to the truth of the circumstances before Mr. Compton, and there was no longer room to doubt, a tear stood in his eye as he thought of his nephew—that noble, manly boy, whom he loved with all the affection of a father—stooping to temptation, and acting the part of a deceiver; for Mr. Brunton had spent an evening with Mrs. Weston and George, and had heard nothing of his having been to a theatre, nor did he believe Mrs. Weston was aware of it.
"What I have told you is strictly confidential," said Mr. Compton; "but as you are, as it were, the father of George Weston, I thought it only right that you should know this, in order that you may warn him, if he has got into the hands of bad companions."
George was absent from the office during the interview, and did not know until some days afterwards of his uncle's visit.
Mr. Brunton went from Falcon-court a sadder man. He was perplexed and harassed; he could not conscientiously tell Mrs. Weston, as he had received the information in confidence; he could not speak directly to George upon the subject, because he would at once have known that Mr. Compton must have given the statement to his uncle. He was obliged, therefore, to remain passive in the matter for a day or two, and resolved to spend an evening that week at Islington.
In the meantime the affair became known to Mrs. Weston, and in rather a curious manner. George had worn his best coat on the evening he went to the theatre; and one day as Mrs. Weston, according to custom, was brushing it, before putting it away in his drawers, she turned out the pockets, and, amongst other things, drew forth a well-used play-bill.
"George has never been to the theatre, surely?" she asked herself. "Impossible! he would have told me had he done so, for he is far too high-principled to deceive me."
But the sight of that play-bill worried Mrs. Weston. She thought over it all day, and longed for the evening to come, when she might ask George about it.
That evening Mr. Brunton had determined to spend at Islington; and as he was passing Falcon-court, he called for George on his way, and they walked home together.
The play-bill happened to be on the table when they entered, and it caught the eye of both George and Mr. Brunton at once.
"Where did you get that from?" asked George, colouring, not with the honest flush of self-respect, but with the burning sense of deceit detected.
"I found it in your pocket, George; and as I have never found one there before, I thought I would leave it out, to ask you how you came by it."
"I came by it the other night, when I went to the theatre," said George; for he could not tell a direct falsehood. "I did not tell you of it at the time, but led you to suppose that I had been at the institution."
Mrs. Weston was indeed sorry to hear George's account of what had passed; but Mr. Brunton felt all his old confidence in George restored by the open, genuine statement he made.
"George," said Mr. Brunton, "I know you are old enough to manage your affairs for yourself, without an uncle's interference, but do take from me one word of caution. I fear you may be led unwittingly into error by your associates. Do be on your guard—'if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.' If you feel it right, and can conscientiously go with them and adopt their habits, I have no right, nor should I wish to advise you; but if you feel that you are wrong in what you do, listen to the voice of your better self, and pause to consider. Do not turn a deaf ear to its entreaties, but be admonished by its counsel, and rather sacrifice friends and pleasure than that best of all enjoyments—the satisfaction of acting a part of duty to God and yourself."
George did not argue the point with his uncle; he felt himself in the wrong, but could not see his way clear to get right again.
"I have made so many resolves in my short life," he said, "and have broken them so often, that I will not pledge myself to making fresh ones My error, in this instance, has not been the fault of my companionships, but entirely my own; and, as far as I can see, the chief blame lies in having concealed the matter from my mother, which I did principally out of kindness to her. But I will endeavour to take your counsel, uncle."
Weeks passed away, and with them the vivid memories of that time. George had at length reasoned himself into the idea that a great deal of unnecessary fuss had been made about nothing, and instead of weaning himself from the society of Ashton, they became more than ever thrown into each other's company. George was a constant attendant at the institution, where he was surrounded by a large circle of intimate acquaintances, with whom much of his time was spent. In the office he had risen in the estimation of the clerks. Williams and Lawson, finding that opposition was unavailing, altered their conduct towards him, and became as civil and obliging as they had before been insulting and disagreeable. George began to think he had belied their characters from not having known sufficient of them; and instead of shunning them, as he had hitherto done, sometimes took a stroll with them in the evening after office hours, and once or twice had dined with them at the King's Head.
Imperceptibly, George began to alter. Sooner or later, evil communications must corrupt good manners; and from continually beholding the lives of his companions, without possessing that one thing needful to have kept him free from the entanglement of their devices, he became changed into the same image, by the dangerous power of their influence and example.
A month or two after the theatre adventure, Mrs. Weston received an invitation to spend a week or two in the country with some relatives, whom she had not seen for several years. Mr. Brunton persuaded her to accept it, as the change would be beneficial; and George, knowing how seldom his mother had an opportunity for recreation, added all his powers of argument to induce her to go. The only obstacle presenting itself was the management of the house during her absence. Mr. Brunton invited George to stay with him while Mrs. Weston would be away; and she did not like to leave her servant alone in the house with the boarders. It was at last arranged that George should decline Mr. Brunton's invitation, and have the oversight of the house during his mother's absence.
The first night after her departure, George brought Hardy home with him to spend the evening, and a pleasant, quiet time they had together.
"It will be rather dull for you, George," said Hardy, "if Mrs. Weston is going to remain away for a few weeks. What shall you do on Sunday? You had better come and spend the day with us."
"No, I cannot do that, because I promised I would be here, to let the servant have an opportunity of going to church. But I mean to ask Ashton to come and spend the day here, and you will come too; and there's Dixon, he is a nice fellow, I'll ask him to come as well."
"What is to be the programme for the day?" said Hardy. "Of course it will be a quiet one."
"We will all go to church or chapel in the morning, spend the afternoon together at home, and take a stroll in the evening after the service. Are you agreed?"
"I think we shall have a very nice day of it. Let the other chaps know of it early, and we will meet here in good time in the morning."
Sunday came, and George's friends arrived as he expected. They were early, and had time for a chat before starting out.
"Where shall we go this morning?" asked George. "There is a very good minister close by at the church, and another equally good at the chapel. My principles are unsectarian, and I do not mind where it is we go."
"Don't you think," said Dixon, "we might do ourselves more good by taking a stroll a few miles out of town, and talking out a sermon for ourselves?"
"I am inclined to the belief that nature is the best preacher," Ashton remarked. "We hear good sermons from the pulpit, it is true; but words are poor things to teach us of the Creator, in comparison with creation."
"I do not agree with you in your religious sentiments, Ashton, as you know," said George. "Creation tells us nothing about our Saviour, and, as I read the Scriptures, no man can know God, the Father and Great Creator, but through Him."
"And yet, if I remember rightly, the Saviour said that He made the world, and without Him was not anything made that was made—so that He was the Creator; and when we look from nature up to nature's God we see Him, and connecting His history with the world around us, we have in creation, as I said before, the best sermon; aye, and what the parsons call a 'gospel' sermon, too."
"I agree with you," said Dixon; "preaching is all very well in its way, and I like a good sermon; but the words of man can never excel the works of God."
"A proper sermon," replied George, "is not uttered in the words of man; they are God's words applied and expounded. Nature may speak to the senses, but the Scriptures alone speak to the heart; and that is the object of preaching. But you are my visitors, and you shall decide the point."
"Then I say a stroll," said Ashton.
"And so do I," chimed in Dixon.
"I am for going to a place of worship," said Hardy.
"And so am I," Ashton replied; "is not all God's universe a place of worship?"
"Perhaps so," answered Hardy; "but I mean the appointed and proper place, where those who try to keep holy the Sabbath day are accustomed to meet—a church or chapel."
"I side with Hardy," said George. "But I am willing to meet you halfway. If I go with you this morning, you must all promise to go with me in the evening. But bear in mind I am making a concession, and I go for a stroll under protest, because it is contrary to my custom."
"All right, old chap," said Ashton. "I never knew anybody's conscience fit them so uneasily as yours does. But it always did; at school, you were a martyr to it, and I believe the blame lies at the door of dear old Dr. Seaward, who persisted in training us up in the way we should go, just as if we were all designed to be parsons."
"Poor old Dr. Seaward!" said George. "If he only knew two of his old scholars were going out for a stroll on Sunday morning to hear nature preach, I believe his body would hardly contain his troubled spirit."
"And he would appear before us to stop us on our way—"
"Like the spirit before Balaam and his ass, seems the most appropriate simile," said Dixon, "for, if I recollect rightly, Balaam was going where he should not have gone, and his conscience gave him as much trouble as Weston's does."
George did not think and say, as Balaam did, "I have sinned;" but he felt the sting of ridicule, and determined he would allow no conscientious scruple to bring it upon him again during that day.
"After all," he argued with himself, "what is the use of my being conscientious, for I am so wretchedly inconsistent? I had better go all one way, or all the other, instead of wavering between the two, and perpetually showing my weakness."
It would have puzzled any one to have told what sermon nature preached to that merry party, as they wandered through green fields and quiet lanes, talking upon a hundred different subjects, and making the calm Sabbath morn ring with the strains of their laughter.
"Your idea of creation's voice is better in theory than in practice," George said, when they returned home. "Can any of you tell me what the text was which nature took to preach from, for I have no distinct remembrance of it?"
"The text seemed to me to be this," said Dixon, "that 'to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens—a time to weep and a time to laugh—a time to keep silence and a time to speak;' and the application was, that we had chosen the right time for enjoying much speaking and much laughing."
The afternoon was not spent as George had been accustomed to spend it. Light, frivolous conversation, and still more dangerous debate upon religious subjects, without religious feeling, occupied the time, and George felt glad when the evening came, and they started off together to hear a popular preacher, whose merits they had been discussing during the afternoon.
On their way thither they passed a large building, into which several people were entering, and as the outside of the place was ornamented with handbills, they paused to read them. They ran thus:—
"HALL OF SCIENCE.—A Lecture will be delivered in this Hall on Sunday evening, at half past six, by Professor Martin, on 'The Uses of Reason.' Young men are cordially invited to attend.
"What is truth? Search and see."
"Do you know anything of this Professor Martin?" asked Dixon. "Is he worth hearing?"
"A friend of mine told me he had heard him, a little while ago, and was never better pleased with any lecture," Ashton answered. "Shall we put up here for the evening?"
"Is he a preacher, or a mere lecturer?" asked George. The question attracted the attention of a person entering the Hall; and, turning to George, he answered:—
"Professor Martin is one of those best of all preachers. He can interest without sending you to sleep, and his discourses are full of sound wisdom. He is a lover of truth, and advocates the only way to arrive at it, which is by unfettered thought. In his lectures he puts his theory into practice by freely expressing his unfettered thoughts. I have seats in the front of the lecture-room; if you will favour me by accepting them, they are at your service."
The plausible and polite manner of the stranger was effectual with George.
"I don't think we can do better than go in and hear what the lecturer has to say," he said to the others. And, assent being given, they followed the stranger, and were conducted to the proffered seats.
The audience consisted principally of men, the majority of whom were young and of an inferior class, such as shopmen and mechanics. There was a large platform, with chairs upon it, but no pulpit or reading-desk. When the lecturer, accompanied by a chairman and some friends, entered, George and his companions were surprised to hear a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, similar to the plan adopted at public amusements.
"This does not seem much like a Sunday evening service," said George. "We have time to leave, if you like; or shall we stay and see it out?"
"Oh! let us stay," replied the others.
No hymn was sung, no prayer was offered at the commencement, but the lecturer, with a pocket Bible in his hands, quoted a few passages of Scripture, as follows:—
"Come now, and let us reason together,"—Isa. i. 18; "I applied mine heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom, and to know the reason of things,"—Eccles. vii. 25; "And Paul, as his manner was, went in unto them, and three Sabbath days reasoned with them out of the Scriptures,"—Acts xvii. 2; "Be ready alway to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you,"—1 Peter iii. 15.
The object of the lecturer was to show that no intelligent being could receive truth unless that truth commended itself to reason, because the two were never in opposition one with the other. Conscience, he said, was the soul's safeguard, and reason the safeguard of the heart and intellect. It was irrational to condemn any course of conduct which conscience approved, and it was equally irrational to believe anything that could not be understood. The Word of God might be useful in its way, but only as studied with unfettered thought. If that Word exalted reason and then taught inconsistencies and absurdities, reason must discriminate between the right and the wrong. "For example," he continued, "if that book tells me that there are three Gods, and yet those three are one, I reason by analogy and say, here are three fingers; each one has its particular office; but I cannot make these three fingers one finger, neither can I make three Gods one God."
So the lecturer continued, but he did not put his case in so many plain words as these; every argument he clothed with doubtful words, so as to make falsehood look like truth, and blasphemy like worship. He was an educated and intelligent man, gifted with that dangerous power of preaching the doctrine of devils in the guise of an angel of light, and handling deadly sophistry with as firm a grasp as if it were the sword of the Spirit.
At the conclusion of the lecture he announced his intention to speak from that platform again on the following Sunday, and invited all who were inquiring the way of truth to be present, and judge what he said, "whether it be right, or whether it be wrong."
As George and his friends were leaving the hall, the stranger, who had accosted them before, came up, and bowing politely said—
"Will you allow me to offer you the same seats, for next Sunday evening? If you will say yes, I will reserve them for you; otherwise you may have difficulty in obtaining admission, for the room will, in all probability, be more crowded than to-night, as Professor Martin was not announced to lecture until late in the week, and the friends who frequent the Hall had no notice of his being here."
"I will certainly come," said Ashton. "I never heard a speaker I liked better. What say you?" he asked, turning to the others.
"I am anxious to hear the conclusion of the argument," said George; "so we will accept your invitation," he added to the stranger, "and thank you for your kindness and courtesy."
It was a long conversation the friends had as they strolled along that evening. To George every argument the lecturer had brought forward was new; and bearing, as they did, the apparent stamp of truth, he was utterly confounded. Although he was a good biblical scholar, as regarded the historical and narrative parts of the Scriptures, he was but ill informed on those more subtle points which the lecturer handled. He had never heard the doctrine of the Trinity, for example, disputed, and had always implicitly believed it; now, when the lecturer quoted Scripture to prove that truth was to be analysed by reason, and reason rejected the idea of a Trinity, he was as unable to reconcile the two as if he had never received any religious instruction at all.
"If what he advances be true," said George, "how irrational many things in the Christian religion are! And how singular that men like him, who 'search into the reason of things' for wisdom, and hold opinions contrary to the orthodox notions of those whom we call Christians, should be looked upon with suspicion and distrust."
"No," replied Ashton; "he met that idea by saying that it was not more than singular, in the early stages of science, for people to be burnt as witches and magicians, because they made discoveries which are now developed and brought into daily use, than it is now for men to be scouted as infidel and profane, because they teach opinions which only require investigation to make them universally admitted."
An unhappy day was that Sunday for George Weston. He had violated principle, made concessions against the dictates of conscience (how poor a safeguard for him!) and had learnt lessons which taught him to despise those instructions which had hitherto been as a lamp unto his feet and a light unto his path.
"Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful." George little thought how rapidly he was passing through those different stages on the downward road. Had he never listened to the council of the ungodly, he would not have walked in the way of evil, but would have avoided even its very appearance; he would not have stood in the way of sinners, parleying with temptations, as he had done on so many occasions; nor would he have occupied that most dangerous of all positions, the fatal ease of sitting in the seat of the scornful.