No. V Richmond Minimus, Preacher
I
Properly speaking he wasn’t ‘minimus’ in his preaching days; but once there were three Richmonds in the field, as Dr. Dunstan used to say, and after Richmond major went to Sandhurst, young Richmond ought to have become ‘minor,’ and very much wanted to, but nobody could get into the way of changing it. Even when he was left all alone and Richmond minor left to go into a tea merchant’s office, chaps still called him ‘minimus.’
His father was a clergyman who had risen into a rural dean; but Morrison, who lived at Exeter and understood a frightful deal about religious people, said that, while a very good thing in its way, a rural dean was mere dust beside a cathedral dean. He seemed to think really, though I don’t know whether it is true, that a minor canon is almost as classy as a rural dean, if not quite. Anyway, the father of Richmond minimus was one, and, until Morrison explained that it was nothing to make a fuss about, we were all rather interested. No doubt it was through his father that Richmond got his preaching power. He was going into the Church himself some day, and looked forward to being something out of the common in course of time. He said that he always felt a great liking for church—even from his earliest years—and had never been known to object to going, though his brothers—especially the one now training to become a tea merchant—had not in the least cared for it.
He was a frightfully good kid, and Mathers always said he would die young, or else get consumption, if there was any truth in the stories we were allowed to read on Sunday afternoons. In these, which were different to week-day stories, there were many deaths. And sometimes the bad boys died and sometimes the good ones; but they died in a very different way. The good ones died in the lap of luxury, with their friends crying round the bed, and grapes and clergymen, and pretty well everything to make it all right; but the bad ones were smashed like flies, owing to setting machinery in motion; or fell over cliffs birds’-nesting; or got taken up by policemen. The difference was that the good ones died from sheer bad health. They had hectic coughs or something of that kind, and nobody could cure them—in fact, nobody ever seemed to try to; but the bad boys were always as hard as nuts and never had hectic coughs or anything. In fact, they would all be alive now if they had only gone to church on Sundays and not always chosen that day for adventures. In these adventures they invariably got mucked up, excepting when occasionally they were saved by good boys coming home from church, or sometimes even by good girls; which Stopford said must have been worse than death, owing to his hatred of girls.
This Stopford ought to have died a hundred times a Sunday really. He was not merely bad. That was nothing, because we all were. At any rate, none of us were good enough to get consumption. But he was a beast as well—an utter beast—and nobody liked him but Fowle; and nobody ever liked Fowle, so in self-defence Fowle had to like Stopford.
This Stopford was a bully, among other things, and a great hater of Richmond minimus. I think really it was the frightful sufferings of Richmond that made him take to preaching in a way, because, though Richmond minor was as old as Stopford, he had no muscles, being merely a piece of string for strength; so, though Richmond major could tackle Stopford, and did so till he left, after he had gone, there was nobody much to care whether Stopford bullied the kid or didn’t bully him.
The first time I saw any of the instinct to preaching in Richmond minimus was after a footer match. It was the time when Buckland Grammar School licked us rather badly, owing to Mathers and Bray having smoked in secret before the match and being in far too footling a condition to play; and Richmond said to me afterwards, when we went back to Dunstan’s, smothered by four goals to none, that often what we did in secret was rewarded openly.
I said—
“Hullo! That’s like the Doctor on Sunday.”
And he said—
“Let us take this defeat in a proper spirit, Gregson. It may be for our good. As you know, I suffer a great deal from Stopford. Well, it will all tell some day. I don’t exactly understand now why Stopford is allowed to twist my arms and then hit the muscles till they ache for hours and often keep me awake at night; but there’s a reason.”
“The reason is that Richmond major has gone,” I said.
“There’s a better reason than that,” he said. “I may turn Stopford from his beastliness yet. Once or twice I’ve staggered him a bit with telling him what will come of his cruelty to me.”
That was the first time I seemed to see a screw loose in Richmond minimus; but he didn’t absolutely preach right bang out until we’d had a missionary at the chapel one Sunday.
Our chapel was also the big school-room, and at one end were panels of wood on week-days which very cunningly opened and turned into the Ten Commandments on Sundays. On each side was a door, and one was the Doctor’s private entrance into the chapel, and the other was a deep cupboard wherein were kept blackboards, large maps and other things. In this chapel the missionary, who was an old pupil of Dr. Dunstan’s, preached to us about the heathen of some rather good-sounding place; and Richmond minimus was so excited that he gave all his pocket-money and borrowed two-pence of Williamson. In this manner he subscribed in all fivepence; and if he could have borrowed more he would have given more. From that day he decided to be a missionary at least, if not a martyr.
The missionary was certainly a good preacher, besides having seen lions wild. It shows the difference between chaps that the lion part interested me most and the heathen part bored me, while Richmond minimus simply hated the lions, but the heathen part seemed to act on him like ginger-beer and excite him to a fearful pitch.
Three days afterwards the fit burst out in Richmond minimus. I came into the big school-room one night, ten minutes before the tea-bell, and there he was preaching to about eight chaps, chiefly kids! But Mayne and Morant were also there listening, Mayne being high in the sixth. Words seemed to flow out of Richmond as easily as they flow out of a master! He was talking about pocket-money.
“What is it but round bits of silver and copper?” he said. “Yet, my dear friends, there is a great power in it, and we should not spend it all on self. There are thousands of people who never have pocket-money, but they deserve it quite as much as us; perhaps more. Suppose you have threepence a week, which I have myself. Will it hurt you to yield up one halfpenny to the charity box? Oh, my friends, it won’t! Yet that half-penny, given cheerfully every week through the term, comes out at twelve halfpennies, which is sixpence. Do it gladly and your holidays will be brighter by sixpence well spent than they otherwise would be.”
Here the bell rang, and Mayne seemed in doubt whether to smack young Richmond’s head or rag him, or merely tell him he wasn’t to preach again. However, he did nothing except say to his chum, Morant, that it was queer.
It wasn’t what Richmond minimus said, but the way he said it. He was as keen and solemn as if he’d been preaching to a million people in a cathedral. The stuff about his wretched pocket-money might have been the most important thing ever uttered by a bishop, such was the way he said it. You couldn’t help listening. It was only afterwards, when you thought about it, that you realized what tommy rot it was. To cast away a half-penny into the charity box weekly was a childish idea, I thought; and Gideon, who understands the ins and outs of pocket-money in a way nobody else does, owing to being the son of a diamond merchant, said that the idea was false political economy; and I said so too.
As to Stopford, the charity box was a painful subject with him ever since the Doctor happened to see him putting something into it. The Doctor had found him subscribing rather often, and knowing the other things that Stopford did, it much surprised him. So he set a trap and had the box empty next time Stopford subscribed; and so at last found out that it was Stopford who put in brace-buttons—a great problem that had puzzled everybody the whole term. And they weren’t even his own brace-buttons.
After preaching three times Richmond minimus had the nerve to attack Stopford publicly in a sermon! About twenty chaps were listening to him, and as soon as he uttered the name, Stopford prepared to go and scrag him; but two or three big fellows told him to sit down and not interfere, and Richmond was so strung up and in such a frightfully excited state that he sailed right on and spoke about Stopford in a way that made many chaps bar Stopford for weeks afterwards.
“Oh, my friends,” said Richmond—he was standing up in front of the panels that turn into the Commandments on Sundays, and we were sitting down in the body of the chapel—“Oh, my friends, and there is another peril—a horror that walks in the noonday—a human leviathan seeking what it may devour, and its name is Stopford! I who speak to you know only too well this thorn in the flesh. I have suffered many things from him, and shall again. But I suffer gladly. I am chastened for my own good. Offences must come, but woe betide Stopford. He will have his portion in the burning lake, my friends, for he is a son of Belial; and he will call for a cup of cold water and probably none will bring it. He is a bully, a coward, a cribber and a dirty beast who never even washes his neck if he can help it. But black though his body may be, his heart is blacker, dear friends——”
It was at this point that Stopford jumped up with his eyes blazing; but Trelawny rapped him on the head and told him to sit down again. And Richmond minimus went on faster and faster.
“Let us Christian spirits seek this vile boy and try and lift him out of the slough. Let us not shun him as a thing unclean; let us not dispatch him where the worms they crawl out and the worms they crawl in, dear friends, but let us rejoice over this sinner as over a piece of silver which is lost by a widow and was found again. Oh, my friends, remember that Stopford is a human creature with a soul. It is hard to believe this, but I am right. He is one of ourselves; that is the sad truth. For our own sakes—for the sake of the school—let us try and turn him from his evil ways, and teach him that to twist my arms in the sockets till they ache all night is doing the devil’s work, and that to kick me till my shins, which are very thin, bleed and gather, is also the devil’s work; and to take sweets out of desks is also the devil’s work; not to mention many, many other things, such as smashing young Dobson’s birthday present from home and——”
“I didn’t take anybody’s sweets, you little beast!” screamed out Stopford; and the big chaps roared and gave three cheers for Richmond and three hisses for Stopford.
It was a frightfully exciting sermon, though never finished, and Richmond minimus seemed quite dazed and wet with perspiration afterwards. I talked to him in secret during evening prep., and told him I was afraid that Stopford would never forgive him, and have a fearful score off him sooner or later. I said—
“I remember hearing my father tell a story about a great clergyman—the champion preacher, I believe—and being champion he had to preach to Queen Victoria, which he did do. But instead of being terrifically careful what he was about, he lost his head, like you did to-night, and I believe he gave it to the Queen pretty much like you gave it to Stopford. Not of course that the Queen was ever a quarter as bad as Stopford. In fact, it was high treason to say she was bad at all—such a magnificent Queen as her—easily the best ever known in history. And everybody was in a frightful rage with the champion preacher; and the Queen didn’t like it too well herself; and the result was that he never became the Archbishop of Canterbury, though it was a dead snip for him before.”
“I know,” answered Richmond minimus, “but when you’re preaching, the things come pouring into your mind. You can’t pick and choose. You have to say what you’re told to say, if you understand me.”
I said I didn’t in the least.
“If you wanted to give it to Stopford in a sermon you ought to have chosen a time when he wasn’t among the audience,” I said.
“For safety, yes,” admitted Richmond; “but at these times when I preach, I care for nothing. I caught his little, hateful, pink-rimmed eyes on me and my rage against him rose. I felt like those old prophets when they had to go and give it straight out from the shoulder to the kings that did evil.”
“It was jolly fine,” I said. “But what about Stopford?”
“If he would meet me publicly and argue it out——” said Richmond minimus.
I laughed.
“That’s not the way of Stopford,” I said. “He won’t argue about it; but he’ll give you his sort of sermon when he gets you alone in a corner some evening after dark. Preachers are often pretty nearly martyred before they’ve done with it; and they die gladly; and very likely Stopford will martyr you.”
“Very likely he will,” said Richmond minimus; but not as if he looked forward to it.
II
Everybody in the lower school expected some pretty fearful things would happen to Richmond, but instead a miracle seemed to occur and Stopford did nothing. Gideon thought that he might have taken an action for libel against Richmond minimus if he had been grown up, owing to young Richmond’s saying what he said about stealing sweets. It was well known to be true, but Gideon said that, curiously enough in law it didn’t matter in the least if you said the truth. Because the law is often down on the truth far worse than on a lie. But Stopford never mentioned the matter again, and actually behaved kindly to Richmond and gave him two new kinds of nibs for his nib collection. He also let him have a picture of a very beautiful girl out of a box of cigarettes. I asked Richmond minimus what he thought of it, and he said Stopford was converted, and that Stopford was his first triumph. He was so earnest and hopeful about it that I felt when he became a missionary and went into those lands near the equator, that he wouldn’t be contented with converting niggers, but jolly well want to convert lions and everything.
Encouraged by the remarkable success of Stopford, Richmond minimus preached several times more, and it got to be a regular lark, and chaps came from the other houses to hear him. Stopford always came and took it frightfully seriously; and then happened the row about Dr. Dunstan’s medlar tree, and Mr. Browne caught Stopford after dark and reported him, and Mr. Mannering, the ‘blue,’ flogged Stopford at the order of the Doctor.
Now this Browne was the least but one of all the masters, and without doubt the utterest squirt that ever came to Merivale as a master. It is true that he was a Cambridge man, but there was nothing more to be said for him. Young Forrest, however, knew something more, for it happened by a curious accident that he came from the same place that Mr. Browne did. What it was that Forrest knew we couldn’t understand; but it appeared that Browne gave Forrest a great deal of help with his prep. on condition that he would not mention it.
This man was very ignorant and could only teach kids, and even them he didn’t teach well. It was well known that he had many cribs in his room, and often—especially when he had to take the fourth in algebra—he would creep away from time to time and look at his crib swiftly, and return, and do off a sum on the blackboard as if he had no difficulty at all. He was great at having favourites, and he always chose sneaks, and often turned on them afterwards, as he did on Fowle, and also on Stopford over the medlars; though when caught, Stopford solemnly swore to Browne that he was getting the medlars for him.
Anyway, nobody liked Browne, and when Stopford begged Richmond minimus to preach against Browne, he thought a little and finally said that he would.
I advised him strongly not to do it.
I said—
“Can’t you see the frightful danger? Some word you may say may get to Browne’s ears, and you may have a flogging at least, if you’re not expelled.”
But Richmond minimus shook his head.
He said—
“Not at all. A word in season often does good, as in the case of Stopford. I want to warn the fellows against the mean nature of Browne. I want to show them what Browne is and how a master may use his power like a beast, as Browne does.”
“If it gets back to him, you’re cooked,” I said. “And you know how you work yourself up when you’re preaching. I don’t think it’s at all wise.”
“I’ve promised,” answered Richmond minimus. “I’m going to preach to-morrow evening in the time after tea before prep.; and all Browne’s house is coming to hear me.”
Somehow I felt from the first it would be the undoing of Richmond minimus. The danger was too frightful. However, of course I went. It was the biggest congregation Richmond ever had, and he said that he itched to make a collection as he looked at the chaps—not for himself but for some good purpose. A crowd was in the chapel before I got there, and Browne’s were all in a knot together, eager and longing to hear what young Richmond had to say about Browne. A lot of fellows from the sixth had also come in, and of course all the personal friends of Richmond minimus were there. Stopford was also there.
Richmond went up to the master’s desk at the top of the room, full of calm cheek, and said a few things of a general sort; then he caught Stopford’s eye. This reminded him and he began.
“Now I want to speak to you of a subject that will especially interest the boys of Mr. Browne’s house, namely, Mr. Browne. My friends, I wish I could say something hopeful about him; I wish I could tell you that he was a bright, shining example for us all to follow and imitate; but alas! you know it is not so. Mr. Browne is a very mean character. Before saying these words about him I have thought a great deal about him and studied him very closely, when, I am afraid, dear friends, I ought to have been studying something else. But I tell you fearlessly to beware of him. I know he has favourites; I know he encourages the sneak and the tale-bearer in our midst; I dare say among you at this moment may be some wretched chap who will go to Browne after my sermon and tell him what I am saying now; but do I care? No, I do not care. Nobody need care if they are doing right. Browne has had a good deal of mystery about him, and I have come to the bottom of it. One among us who lives where Browne does, knows the truth. I will not name him; but he had his head slapped by Browne the day before yesterday, though it is well known Dr. Dunstan won’t allow our heads to be slapped, owing to the danger of hurting the brain. At any rate Browne slapped his, and in a moment of natural anger, my dear friends, that boy told me the truth. Browne is a tailor’s son! That, of course, is nothing against him. The shameful and disgusting thing is that Browne is ashamed of it! He hates to think of it. Oh, my friends, what a paltry nature is this. I dare say his father is a better man than he is, though he does make clothes; and I do not hesitate to tell you, my friends, that Browne’s father makes clothes a long sight better than Browne teaches Latin; for we have all noticed the scabby manner in which he continually sneaks out of this room during class to rush up to his own study and consult cribs. I say nothing of his appearance. He cannot help that, though he could help those pink ties and those horrid boots with pearl buttons; but what I do say is that with such a lesson in our midst we must learn firstly, not to be ashamed of our parents, whoever they are; and secondly, not to make friends of dirty sneaks; and thirdly, not to be a hound in general; and fourthly, not to pretend we know enough Latin and algebra to teach it, when really we don’t know any worth mentioning; and fifthly, and lastly, my friends——”
What Richmond minimus was going to say for fifthly, and lastly, against the wretched Browne, we didn’t hear, for at this point a frightful thing happened. The door of the cupboard on Richmond’s right, where the blackboards were kept, opened violently and out leapt no less a person than Mr. Browne himself!
A very strange sound went up from the congregation of Richmond minimus, but he said nothing. For a moment Browne stood at bay, glaring out of his double eye-glasses, like the picture of a wounded tiger in C. B. Fry’s Magazine; then the chaps began to scutter out, and many dived and proceeded to the door entirely under the desks, hoping they would not be recognized. In fact, I did this myself. But Browne was not bothering about us. His eyes, which squint by nature, had turned in upon each side of his nose and he was darting a horrid glance of rage and scorn at Richmond minimus.
Then, with dreadful slowness, he raised his hand and took Richmond by the right ear and said—
“Come!”
And Richmond merely said, “Yes, sir,” and went, led by Browne, to the Doctor. As for me, I felt that Richmond minimus need never have worried about not being a martyr. He was going to be a martyr all right now.
After the blow had fallen—about two days after—he told me exactly what happened. By a curious chance the Doctor was writing a sermon himself when Browne appeared before him. The Doctor always preaches at Merivale on the first Sunday in the month, and this was the sermon he was writing, no doubt.
He put down his pen and took off his glasses and stretched his eyes in a way he has; then he told Browne to speak. And Browne said—
“I have to report this boy for insolence and profanity combined. Never have I known a boy do such a thing. Before half the school assembled in the great school-room he stood up and preached.”
“Preached!” said the Doctor, looking with great surprise at Richmond minimus. “What did he preach about?”
“About me!” said Browne furiously. “He dared to preach about my private affairs—at least——”
“Begin at the beginning,” said the Doctor. “How did particulars of this outrage reach you, Browne?”
“Through the boy Stopford,” said Browne; and Richmond minimus fairly gasped to think how mistaken he had been about converting Stopford.
“Stopford,” explained Browne, “came to me and said that he was very much afraid that liberties were to be taken with my name. I refused to believe it at first. Then, to satisfy myself, I went into the great school-room at the time mentioned by Stopford and stood behind the blackboards in the cupboard.”
Browne then related all that he had heard, and Richmond minimus said that he trembled with indignation and spoke so fast that Dr. Dunstan had to ask him once or twice to repeat the sentence. But Richmond admitted that Browne’s version of the sermon was very fairly just.
Then the Doctor said—
“Thank you, Browne. I much regret your natural annoyance. You may leave the sequel to me.”
So Browne hooked it and Richmond minimus was left alone with the Doctor.
The Doctor said nothing for some time. Then he sighed, and looked at his sermon, and rose and went to the cane corner.
“What led you to do this outrageous thing, impious boy?” he asked.
“I felt called to do it, sir,” said Richmond minimus. “I’ve preached seven times now, and more fellows come each time.”
“I am aware that you are probably destined for the sacred calling,” said Dunstan solemnly, “and your theological papers have always led me to regard you as a promising recruit, Richmond minimus; but preaching, or I should say a travestie, a bizarre burlesque of that difficult branch of the pastor’s calling! And to select one of your masters for a theme!”
“He seemed a good subject to show what we oughtn’t to do, sir. In preaching, of course, you want——”
The Doctor looked his most awful look, and Richmond minimus dried up.
“Probably what I want in preaching is as well known to me as to you, preposterous youth!” said the Doctor. “The present question is not what I want in preaching, but what I want in boys; and what I expect from boys after they have been for the space of three years under my personal care and control. To play the buffoon before your fellows is in any case degrading; but to do it under pretence of advancing their moral welfare—to preach in jest—this is perilously akin to profanity. Only a vitiated spirit of secularism can explain so gross an action. My heart bleeds when I think upon your parents, Richmond minimus, and upon your brothers who worthily upheld the honour and dignity of Merivale, and now, in the wider field of life, are bringing forth the good fruit sowed within these scholastic cloisters.”
The Doctor always spoke like this about chaps who had left.
“Then,” said Richmond minimus, “the usual event happened and, as you know, on the next morning I had, in addition, to tell Browne I was sorry publicly after prayers.”
“One thing,” I said. “What was that ‘fifthly and lastly’ that you were prevented from preaching?”
But Richmond didn’t remember; so it was lost.
“Shall you ever preach again here?” I asked him.
And he said not. He said—
“No. On the whole it isn’t good enough. And yet you mustn’t think I mind the martyrdom. Only of course I don’t want to be utterly martyred and done for before I grow up.”
He evidently meant to be a martyr in rather a biggish way in foreign parts, like the Germans in China; because when they are bashed by the heathen, Germany always gets a few miles of China as payment. And so Germany is proud of her martyrs, and the Emperor too.
What did become of Richmond minimus I can’t tell you. He ran away once, to do good on a large scale, but he was captured and brought back before he had time to do much worth mentioning. He’ll tell you that story himself. Anyway, he never preached again, and the whole affair, if it did nothing else, helped to show what Stopford was.