The Poor Man and His Beer - Page 2

hangings within, or upon the old oak panelling; similarly, Friar
Bacon, as we paced to and fro, revealed little glimpses of his good
work.

"It is not much," said he. "It is no wonderful thing. There used
to be a great deal of drunkenness here, and I wanted to make it
better if I could. The people are very ignorant, and have been much
neglected, and I wanted to make THAT better, if I could. My utmost
object was, to help them to a little self-government and a little
homely pleasure. I only show the way to better things, and advise
them. I never act for them; I never interfere; above all, I never
patronise."

I had said to Philosewers as we came along Nor'-West that patronage
was one of the curses of England; I appeared to rise in the
estimation of Philosewers when thus confirmed.

"And so," said Friar Bacon, "I established my Allotment-club, and my
pig-clubs, and those little Concerts by the ladies of my own family,
of which we have the last of the season this evening. They are a
great success, for the people here are amazingly fond of music. But
there is the early dinner-bell, and I have no need to talk of my
endeavours when you will soon see them in their working dress".

Dinner done, behold the Friar, Philosewers, and myself the Dreary
one, walking, at six o'clock, across the fields, to the "Club-
house."

As we swung open the last field-gate and entered the Allotment-
grounds, many members were already on their way to the Club, which
stands in the midst of the allotments. Who could help thinking of
the wonderful contrast between these club-men and the club-men of
St. James's Street, or Pall Mall, in London! Look at yonder
prematurely old man, doubled up with work, and leaning on a rude
stick more crooked than himself, slowly trudging to the club-house,
in a shapeless hat like an Italian harlequin's, or an old brown-
paper bag, leathern leggings, and dull green smock-frock, looking as
though duck-weed had accumulated on it--the result of its stagnant
life--or as if it were a vegetable production, originally meant to
blow into something better, but stopped somehow. Compare him with
Old Cousin Feenix, ambling along St. James's Street, got up in the
style of a couple of generations ago, and with a head of hair, a
complexion, and a set of teeth, profoundly impossible to be believed
in by the widest stretch of human credulity. Can they both be men
and brothers? Verily they are. And although Cousin Feenix has
lived so fast that he will die at Baden-Baden, and although this
club-man in the frock has lived, ever since he came to man's estate,
on nine shillings a week, and is sure to die in the Union if he die
in bed, yet he brought as