Mark Rutherfords Deliverance | Page 7

come again. If I might be allowed to offer a suggestion, it
would be that he should make himself acquainted with our case before
he pays us another visit, and not suppose that we are to be persuaded
with the rhetoric which may do very well for the young women of his
congregation, but won't go down here." This was fair and just, for the
eminent Christian was nothing but an ordinary minister, who, when he
was prepared for his profession, had never been allowed to see what are
the historical difficulties of Christianity, lest he should be overcome by
them. On the other hand, his sceptical opponents were almost devoid of
the faculty for appreciating the great remains of antiquity, and would
probably have considered the machinery of the Prometheus Bound or
of the Iliad a sufficient reason for a sneer. That they should spend their
time in picking the Bible to pieces when there was so much positive
work for them to do, seemed to me as melancholy as if they had spent
themselves upon theology. To waste a Sunday morning in ridiculing
such stories as that of Jonah was surely as imbecile as to waste it in
proving their verbal veracity.

CHAPTER II

--M'KAY

It was foggy and overcast as we walked home to Goodge Street. The
churches and chapels were emptying themselves, but the great mass of
the population had been "nowhere." I had dinner with M'Kay, and as
the day wore on the fog thickened. London on a dark Sunday afternoon,
more especially about Goodge Street, is depressing. The inhabitants
drag themselves hither and thither in languor and uncertainty. Small
mobs loiter at the doors of the gin palaces. Costermongers wander
aimlessly, calling "walnuts" with a cry so melancholy that it sounds as
the wail of the hopelessly lost may be imagined to sound when their
anguish has been deadened by the monotony of a million years.
About two or three o'clock decent working men in their best clothes
emerge from the houses in such streets as Nassau Street. It is part of
their duty to go out after dinner on Sunday with the wife and children.
The husband pushes the perambulator out of the dingy passage, and
gazes doubtfully this way and that way, not knowing whither to go, and
evidently longing for the Monday, when his work, however
disagreeable it may be, will be his plain duty. The wife follows
carrying a child, and a boy and girl in unaccustomed apparel walk by
her side. They come out into Mortimer Street. There are no shops open;
the sky over their heads is mud, the earth is mud under their feet, the
muddy houses stretch in long rows, black, gaunt, uniform. The little
party reach Hyde Park, also wrapped in impenetrable mud-grey. The
man's face brightens for a moment as he says, "It is time to go back,"
and so they return, without the interchange of a word, unless perhaps
they happen to see an omnibus horse fall down on the greasy stones.
What is there worth thought or speech on such an expedition? Nothing!
The tradesman who kept the oil and colour establishment opposite to us
was not to be tempted outside. It was a little more comfortable than
Nassau Street, and, moreover, he was religious and did not encourage
Sabbath-breaking. He and his family always moved after their mid-day
Sabbath repast from the little back room behind the shop up to what
they called the drawing-room overhead. It was impossible to avoid
seeing them every time we went to the window. The father of the
family, after his heavy meal, invariably sat in the easy-chair with a
handkerchief over his eyes and slept. The children were always at the

windows, pretending to read books, but in reality watching the people
below. At about four o'clock their papa generally awoke, and demanded
a succession of hymn tunes played on the piano. When the weather
permitted, the lower sash was opened a little, and the neighbours were
indulged with the performance of "Vital Spark," the father "coming in"
now and then with a bass note or two at the end where he was tolerably
certain of the harmony. At five o'clock a prophecy of the incoming tea
brought us some relief from the contemplation of the landscape or
brick-scape. I say "some relief," for meals at M'Kay's were a little
disagreeable. His wife was an honest, good little woman, but so much
attached to him and so dependent on him that she was his mere echo.
She had no opinions which were not his, and whenever he said
anything which went beyond the ordinary affairs of the house, she
listened with curious effort, and generally responded by a weakened
repetition of M'Kay's own observations.