“But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault—they have the workhouse to go to.”
“But, then, as I said, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as— ‘the poor ye have always with you,’ and, ‘blessed are they who consider the poor.’ Don’t you agree with me, Mr Welland?”
Stephen Welland—who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard—replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion.
“Take another glass of sherry,” said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; “it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point.”
“No more, thank you, Sir Richard.”
“Come, come—fill your glass,” said the knight; “you and I must set an example of moderate drinking to Brisbane, as a counter-blast to his Blue-Ribbonism.”
Welland smiled and re-filled his glass.
“Nay, I never thrust my opinions on that point on people,” said Brisbane, with a laugh, “but if you will draw the sword and challenge me, I won’t refuse the combat!”
“No, no, Brisbane. Please spare us! I re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. I quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the Bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it—and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and I won’t offend again.”
“Ah, Sir Richard, you are an unfair foe. You draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before I can return on you. However, you have stated my position so well that I forgive you and shake hands. But, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor—how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man’s table will go to sustain them I Now, just take the glass of wine which Welland has swallowed—against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, Sir Richard. Its value is, say, sixpence. Excuse me, I do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! Well, I happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the ‘Beehive’ in Spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. With dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to Canada. Such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. Twopence an hour is the pay. They are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. Many of these women, I may remark, are true Christians. I wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. One woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. She was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. When I questioned her she said—‘I have difficulties indeed, but I tell my Father all. Sometimes, when I’m very hungry and have nothing to eat, I tell Him, and I know He hears me, for He takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.’