A Man of Feeling

Irish Jesuit Province

A Man of FeelingAuthor(s): Emily HughesSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 66, No. 778 (Apr., 1938), pp. 259-264Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20514314 .

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259

A Man of Feeling

By EMIIY HUGHES.

W HAT little light managed to penetrate the dusty lace curtains that festooned thie drawing-room window of the Grand Imperial was iIuIue(liaitely swallowed up in

the chocolate-coloured wallpaper (bravely imlitating embossed leather) and the dark crimson plishl uplholstery of the chairs. It

was necessary to sit in the window itself it' one wishled to read in between the glass and the stout cottorn lace, like a very rare specimen in a china-cabinet. Outside, the street wats deserted.

Rain hung in a leaden sheet above the cobblestones, amiong which miniature whirlpools were forming tuu(ldily. (ver the crest of the hump-backed road could be seen the itmposing facade of the

Royal Arms Commercial. Its drawing-roomn wvindows appeared to be draped in maroon velvet.

The porter came in, and looked reproachfulv att the occupant of tlie window-seat.

VWhat 'bus was it you said you mlhisse(l?" hie asked, faint incredulity in his tone.

" The three-thirty." a6 Oh, the three-thirty," he repeate(l, as thiouiglh that made all

the difference; as though lec had heard it wvas the three-ninety, but was not as easily taken in as all that. Ile poked the sullen fire, and said paternally:

" Mind you wouldn't be sitting in a draught over there.' The door closed behind him, and the afternoon proceeded to

wear into evening. The window-seat had a lid. Mirabile dictu! the lid lifted up, and revealed a small black book and a smudgily



260 T THE IRISH MONTHLY

printed American newspaper. Not ours to reason why or how they came to be there-the crying need of the moment, in that evening of shadow and silence and rain, was for something to read.

The book had been written by one Henry Mackenzie in the latter half of the eighteenth century, and was entitled " The Man of Feeling ". It set out to tell the history of one William

HARLEY (thus capitally did the printer refer to him all through the book), a gentleman of unexampled virtue and private means. It did so without the aid of pictures, plot or-alas for one who shares with " Alice " a predilection fQr books with plenty of it in them-conversation. Mr. Mackenzie had used a framework for his uplifting tale which was the height of ingenuity. He had

written a foreword explaining that he discovered the story (coyly diselaiming, as it were, all suspicions of authorship) in manu script in the house of a friend of his, who had been using it as

wadding for his gun. Admirable device ! It allowed Mr. Mackenzie, on those rare occasions when the plot needed a little unravelling, to stop abruptly and say, " Five chapters missing here ". It enabled him also to insert at various points several interesting treatises on matters of historical and political import

which had nothing at all to do with HARLEY. Possibly the fact that the first eleven chapters were thus destroyed by the gun-owning philistine was a good thing, as they presumably con tained the prologue, preliminary preamble, preface and other introductory passages..

Robbed of these enchanting preludes, HARLEY is discovered setting out for London on an exploratory tour, leaving behind him, in tears, a disconsolate great-aunt and several faithful retainers. They dread, and how rightly, the thought of

HARLEY facing the perils of travel and city life alone. He has long cherished a regard for a Miss WALTON,



A MAN OF FEELING 261

a neighbouring heiress whose Christian name is concealed throughout the book with a discretion worthy of a better cause, but of this regard a sense of the disparity of their fortunes and of his own unworthiness forbids him to speak. Even Mr.

Mackenzie prefers not to speak of it, and it is now shelved for the greater part of the story. On the roatd to Liondon HA1RLEY

meets an itinerant fortune-teller whio, itnstead of telling HARLEY'S fortune, tells himn insteatd the -story of his own life. The verbatim account of his tale is filled witlh profound reflec tions on the mutability of human affairs aindI the vicissitudes of

life-quite a superior fortune-teller, this. The door opened and the porter looked in.

I was making inquiries," he stated imipressively. Yes?"

"You were' right about missing the threc-thirty," he admitted hansomely. " It left at three-tlhirty-five, five minutes late on account of they couldn't get the engine started. That

would be the one you missed?" "It would." "Tut! That's too bad now. The next one isIn't till eight

seven.' "Eight-seven?" "Yes, eight-seven," proudly, as though lhe viewed with par

ticular complacence this meticulous division of time. "c It always goes very sharp at ten past eight."

He withdrew. Meanwhile, out of the unimaginable mists of five missing chapters, HARLEY has arrived in London. He begins his round of pleasure and diversion, oddly enough, at a Bedlam. He collects no less than four life-stories of its inmates, without once pausing for breath, from a fifth, who concludes by confiding in him that he is the Chan of Tartary. Thus do our

present-day jokes echo those of our ancestors! Then HARLEY



262 THE IRISH MONTHLY

is moved to tears by the sad history of a young lady, rather like

Ophelia, who had become demented on the death of her fiance.

Tears, idle tears! HARLEY melts into them on the slightest provocation. Perhaps, on this occasion, some chill of forebod ing touched his heart? But we anticipate, a thing Mr.

Mackenzie never did. Shortly afterwards, at a dinner, HARILEY meets a

Misanthropist (had he no other name? Did the post deliver to him letters so addressed?) whose lengthy discourse upon the iniquities of society filled up a whole chapter, and evidently struck all the rest of the company dumb with admiration, since there is no record of their answering back.

His next adventure is being confidence-tricked out of some money. The wicked city has at last done something to live down to its bad name. But it would take more than this to cloud the serenity of HARLEY'S brow, and we soon find him in the role of rescuer, returning a lost child to its grey-haired and broken hearted father. All three mingle their tears on this occasion, but the father and daughter recover sufficiently to give a detailed and circumstantial account of their respective lives to HA:RLEY, who listens with unabated eagerness and attention.

Now, for no particular reason, it is time to return to the home which he left in similarly vague circumstances, and on the way (Was he on foot? Had he far to go? The answer to these and cognate questions had presumably been blown to pieces by the gunner) he encounters an old servant returning from forced ser vice in the East Indies. He has an affecting tale to tell, and

HARLEY, "after he had given vent to the fullness of his heart

by a shower of tears ", clasps him to his heart, takes him home, and establishes him, with his grandchildren, in a cottage on his lands.

Now things are getting a move on. On a visit to this cottage



A MAN OF FEELING 268

he meets Miss WALTON. He is transported with delight, but " a thousand sentiments gushed so impetuously into his heart that he could not utter a syllable ". Soon afterwards he hears a rumour of her engagement to Sir Harry Benson, a neighbour ing squire. Thereupon HARLEY begins to droop and write poetry-always a bad sign. An example of his style, " In Praise of Lavina by Colin ", is submitted for the reader's delecta tion. It is twenty-five stanzas long.

It had grown too dark to read. After a period of suspended animation, there was a scuttle of footsteps on the street outside. It was the porter, sprinting across from the Royal Arms Com

mercial-did they own a share of him?-and ducking from the furious rain. A minute or two later he appeared, rain glistening on his face in the firelight, to say:

" You'll want the light on to read?" " Yes, please. And tea. Could I have sausages and bacon?" " A mixed grill," he intoned importantly. "You could

indeed. Tea and a mixed grill." He switched on the light. "' We have the Shannon Scheme here," he remarked, and

was gone. To sit comfortably by the fire and under the light made the

account of HARLBEY'S gradual decline less harrowing. He contracts a fatal but, of course, unspecified disease, and gently wastes away. Though sinking fast, he gives expression at great length to his edifying sentiments on many subjects, with surpris ing energy and wealth of detail for a sick man. Miss WALTON comes to see him. The rumour of her engagement was false.

HA1RLEY alone has always possessed her affections. This much she admits, weeping, but it is too late. As he gazes at her with incredulous joy, his eye becomes fixed and dim. He falls back on his couch-Miss WALTON screams and swoons



264 THE IRISH MONTHLY

the servants rush in-they succeed in reviving her, but "IHARLEY has gone for ever '

Said one of the weeping retainers, through a perfect Niagara of tears:

"God forgive me for weeping, for he was too good for this world. "

Porters frequently introduce bathos into the most soull shattering situations. This one announced:

" Tea and a mixed grill. In the dining-room."

He held the door wide. On the other side of the hallway, through the open door of the dining-room, the tea and the mixed grill were visibly congealing on a lonely table.

On the floor lay the American newspaper, and it had to be stepped over en route to the waiting feast. It had opened at the news page, and its headlines fairly shrieked:

"CLUBMAN AVENGES SHOT PA,RTNER. SOBBING SISTER'S ORDEAL.

COUwRT HISSED AS DEATH SENTENCE PASSED. 'TOO MUCH SENTIMENT,' SAYS JUDGE."

How succinct! How concise. How totally un-Mackenzian!



A Man of Feeling

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