The Angel and the Author | Page 5

charitable appeals had been wasted.
I was not angry with him, at first. I was willing to regard what he had
done as merely a clerical error.
"You have got the items down all right," I said (I spoke quite friendly),
"but you have made a slight mistake--we all do now and again; you
have put them down on the wrong side of the book. I only hope this
sort of thing doesn't occur often."
What irritated me as much as anything was the grave, passionless face
the Angel turned upon me.
"There is no mistake," he answered.
"No mistake!" I cried. "Why, you blundering--"
He closed the book with a weary sigh.
I felt so mad with him, I went to snatch it out of his hand. He did not do
anything that I was aware of, but at once I began falling. The faint
luminosity beneath me grew, and then the lights of London seemed
shooting up to meet me. I was coming down on the clock tower at
Westminster. I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping to escape it, and
fell into the river.
And then I awoke.
But it stays with me: the weary sadness of the Angel's face. I cannot
shake remembrance from me. Would I have done better, had I taken the
money I had spent upon these fooleries, gone down with it among the

poor myself, asking nothing in return. Is this fraction of our superfluity,
flung without further thought or care into the collection box, likely to
satisfy the Impracticable Idealist, who actually suggested--one shrugs
one's shoulders when one thinks of it- -that one should sell all one had
and give to the poor?
[The Author is troubled concerning his Investments.]
Or is our charity but a salve to conscience--an insurance, at decidedly
moderate premium, in case, after all, there should happen to be another
world? Is Charity lending to the Lord something we can so easily do
without?
I remember a lady tidying up her house, clearing it of rubbish. She
called it "Giving to the Fresh Air Fund." Into the heap of lumber one of
her daughters flung a pair of crutches that for years had been knocking
about the house. The lady picked them out again.
"We won't give those away," she said, "they might come in useful again.
One never knows."
Another lady, I remember coming downstairs one evening dressed for a
fancy ball. I forget the title of the charity, but I remember that every
lady who sold more than ten tickets received an autograph letter of
thanks from the Duchess who was the president. The tickets were
twelve and sixpence each and included light refreshments and a very
substantial supper. One presumes the odd sixpence reached the poor--or
at least the noisier portion of them.
"A little decolletee, isn't it, my dear?" suggested a lady friend, as the
charitable dancer entered the drawing-room.
"Perhaps it is--a little," she admitted, "but we all of us ought to do all
we can for the Cause. Don't you think so, dear?"
Really, seeing the amount we give in charity, the wonder is there are
any poor left. It is a comfort that there are. What should we do without
them? Our fur-clad little girls! our jolly, red-faced squires! we should

never know how good they were, but for the poor? Without the poor
how could we be virtuous? We should have to go about giving to each
other. And friends expect such expensive presents, while a shilling here
and there among the poor brings to us all the sensations of a good
Samaritan. Providence has been very thoughtful in providing us with
poor.
Dear Lady Bountiful! does it not ever occur to you to thank God for the
poor? The clean, grateful poor, who bob their heads and curtsey and
assure you that heaven is going to repay you a thousandfold. One does
hope you will not be disappointed.
An East-End curate once told me, with a twinkle in his eye, of a smart
lady who called upon him in her carriage, and insisted on his going
round with her to show her where the poor hid themselves. They went
down many streets, and the lady distributed her parcels. Then they
came to one of the worst, a very narrow street. The coachman gave it
one glance.
"Sorry, my lady," said the coachman, "but the carriage won't go down."
The lady sighed.
"I am afraid we shall have to leave it," she said.
So the gallant greys dashed past.
Where the real poor creep I fear there is no room for Lady Bountiful's
fine coach. The ways are very narrow--wide enough only for little
Sister Pity, stealing softly.
I put it to my friend, the curate:
"But if all this charity