He had his garden, and that was a constant source of happiness, and as he was a vegetarian and his garden supplied all his needs, it mattered little that his salary was a scanty pittance, such as a respectable working mechanic would turn up his nose at. His wife was a lady who did not hesitate to do all the household work herself. Modern life in its rush and roar has left such people far behind. But one loves to remember them, and their peaceful ways, their cheerful solitude, their plain living and high thinking.
On the day of the public meeting, just as Wentworth had retired to his head-quarters at the Red Lion, one of the few old-fashioned public-houses which survive to tell us how truly Shenstone wrote when he told us that the warmest welcome he found was at an inn—and how wise were men of the Johnson era in recognising that fact—he heard a tap at the door, after he had taken off his boots and had lit his cigar.
The new visitor availed himself of the invitation. He was a tremendous fellow to look at, with something of an animal expression, with a loud voice, and a little bloated about the face, as if he took rather more beer than was good for him. His hands were rather grimy, his clothes were the worse for wear, and he had a short pipe in his mouth, which he was about to put out, but did not, as he saw Wentworth was smoking himself.
‘My name—you know me well enough. My name is Johnson—I was at your meeting to-night, and you and I have met before.’
‘Yes, you were there, as you say—one of my noisiest opponents, I believe—and now I think of it, when I was at Sloville, you were one of the Chartists who tried to put me down.’
‘Happy to renew the acquaintance. To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?’
‘Well, you see, we are in now for an election, and I flatter myself the winning candidate will be the man for whom I vote.’
‘Well, you did not seem very favourable to-night.’
‘No, and that’s why I am here. My party won’t think much of me unless I act an independent part, and there’s a good many of us; we wish to have a bit of a literary man. It is my belief, as I tells ’em, that there is nothing like eddication and the gift of the gab.’
‘Upon my word, you’re right, Mr. Johnson, though when one looks at Ireland and England, too, one is inclined to feel that we may have too much of a good thing, and that we should be all the better if we had a little less talk and a little more work.’