WHO COULD NOT UNDERSTAND WHY, BUT WHO KNEW "IT WAS SO."

Dullness was well nigh at the meridian of her reign in old Lincoln. In the solemn "precincts" of the cathedral the humble bees seemed almost afraid to disturb the solitude by a hum; and venerable maiden ladies had no vicissitude of existence, save an occasional scold at their servants, or a grumbling complaint of "short measure" to the coalman as he made his weekly call. And, indeed, the rest of the city was most autumnally tame and uninteresting. The fashionables were at the watering-places,—the throng of the working population was in the fields,—and while one tradesman complained, with a yawn, to his neighbour, that there was "nothing doing, and no money stirring," the other invariably rejoined, "No, nor won't be, till after harvest!"—and then imitated his neighbour in stretching his mouth from ear to ear.

In fact, the only interesting people you met were those who endeavoured to keep you awake by collecting and pouring out several dull, disagreeable, or doleful subjects in a breath; such as the relation of the robbery of such a tradesman's shop at noon-day,—the thieves having taken advantage of the extreme dullness of the time to effect their villainous scheme;—or, the accident of the poor-fellow, the bricklayer's assistant, falling from the top of his ladder, with the hod on his head, and being taken up to the hospital;—coupled with the "remarkable fact" that he was the second husband of a poor woman whose first fell from a pear-tree, and was killed, leaving her with a large family;—with an additional half-score of disasters, if your nerves or inclination would permit you to stay and learn the sum-total of the catalogue.

Nicholas Nixon, "gentleman," had dwelt threescore years in the venerable city; that is to say, the whole of his life, and had kept decent state as a householder among the genteel people of the Minster-yard, for at least half of the term. Living "retired," on a yearly income, and passing each successive day of his existence in an almost unvaried routine of eating, washing, dressing, walking, and sleeping, one would have thought that all seasons of the year would have become equally agreeable or indifferent to him. But Mr. Nixon was too true a Minster-yard cit either to feel or to affect indifference in a matter that, he knew, drew forth so much dull comment among his fellow-citizens, as did the dullness of the autumn season.

"Really, Mr. Subdean," said he to that cathedral dignitary, as he overtook him, by the County Hospital, at the top of the "Steep Hill," in the forenoon of one of these drowsy days, "I think our autumns grow duller and duller every year: I'm sure you must feel it to be a bore that you are in residence this latter end."

"I feel it to be a little dull to be among you, at this time of the year, Mr. Nixon," replied the subdean, "but still it is an agreeable change."

"I am glad you can think so, sir," rejoined Gentleman Nixon;—for that was the mode by which he was usually distinguished from the several tradesmen Nixons who inhabited the city,—"I am glad you can bring yourself to think so: for my own part, I feel it to be very dull, very dull, indeed!—Are you for a walk to the Bar, sir?"

"I am, Mr. Nixon: shall I have the pleasure of your company?" was the rejoinder of the courteous and kind-natured clergyman.

"I shall be most happy, Mr. Subdean: I feel very highly honoured, sir: I——"

"And what is the best news, stirring, Mr. Nixon?" asked the subdean, desirous of cutting short the retired gentleman's flourish of politeness.

"Well, sir," answered Mr. Nicholas, very quickly, "I think the best news is that the poor freemen have had the spirit to stop this mushroom scheme of the town council to turn the West Common into a botanical garden. They are a mischievous set, these Below-hill Whig-radicals, depend upon it, Mr. Subdean: we shall have need to look sharp after 'em."

The churchman was full well acquainted with Gentleman Nixon's undeviating adherence to the "Pink" partisanship,—that is to say, Sibthorpian, or "House-of-Canwick" side of politics, which was most prevalent "Above-hill"—the division of old Lincoln comprising the habitations situate around the ancient castle and magnificent cathedral, and beyond which the Roman city did not extend. The subdean, I say, knew well that Mr. Nixon was among the most unchanging of the well-nigh changeless denizens in this elevated region: he knew that Mr. Nicholas professed the highest, the most exclusive toryism; and therefore he showed no signs of surprise at the uncharitable manner in which Mr. Nicholas chose to express himself upon the question of the political morality displayed by the citizens dwelling in the lower region; and yet the clergyman, by one gentle word, excited great surprise in Mr. Nicholas Nixon.

"I really don't think the new corporation are intentionally mischievous," said he; "I have no doubt they mean well: 'tis reckoned to be an age of improvements, you know, Mr. Nixon, and they must be in the fashion."

"'Pon my honour, sir, I don't understand the rule by which you distinguish between mischievous deeds and intentions," sharply observed Mr. Nicholas: "I always think that when a number of men deliberately attempt mischief they mean it."

"I think their scheme would have been less objectionable had they proposed that each of the poor freemen should have cultivated a little plot of garden ground for himself on the common," observed the churchman, by way of parrying the citizen's strong remark.

"But the law would not permit that, in my opinion, any more than the other," said the retired gentleman: "besides, the fact is just this, sir: once permit these reforming gentry to begin their schemes of improvement, and one acre after another would disappear from the corporate tenure of the freemen,—until, the property becoming individual, it would quickly be bought for a dog's price, by one or other of these liberals who have longer purses and more knavish heads than the rest of their neighbours."

"I hope none of the new corporation are such men as you are speaking of," said the subdean: "you know, Mr. Nixon, I neither go along with them nor their party; but I do not like to be uncharitable."

"Uncharitable! nonsense, sir!" exclaimed the exclusive cit, forgetting his courtesy, through bigoted partisanship: "I do not hold these fellows to be at all deserving of a charitable opinion, for I believe them capable of any wickedness. Why, sir, as Mr. Christopher shrewdly observed on the hustings in the castle-yard at the last county contest, while he pointed to the venerable Minster, 'These fellows would turn that sacred and time-hallowed building into a cotton-mill to-morrow if they had the power.' I believe he hit the mark there, sir, for he made the liberals very sore, I assure you," and Mr. Nicholas Nixon chuckled with a vindictive pleasure as he ended.

"If I did not excuse Mr. Christopher from a knowledge of the rash speeches which excitement and opposition impel country gentlemen to deliver on the hustings," rejoined the clergyman, looking somewhat grave, "I could not hesitate to censure him for making so offensive a remark. I do not see any good to be done by this fierce spirit of quarrel—but much evil."

"Pardon me, Mr. Subdean," persisted Gentleman Nixon, "but I really must say that I think if all of us were as tamely disposed as yourself, the church would soon tumble over your ears."

"I think nothing can tend to build it up so securely, Mr. Nixon," returned the dignitary, with a smile, "as showing the world that we, as ministers of the church, are the truest friends of mankind,—the readiest and most cheerful toilers for human happiness. You know I never like to talk politics, in any shape; I would much rather hear you and other gentlemen propose some plan for making the poor more comfortable in their circumstances,—or join you in any little scheme for amusing them. Do you attend the concerts of these young working-men in St. Peter's church, Mr. Nixon?"

"Sir, I take the liberty to tell you plainly," persevered the heated "Pink" partisan, "that the easy good-nature of such kind-hearted people as yourself, and the indolence of our most respectable citizens Above-hill, go far to make it nearly impossible, already, to recover any degree of influence in city affairs. We are almost a lost party: the Blues have it all their own way,—and although you must be aware they are bent on ruining the poor entirely, under the mask of helping them, yet you will not lend a hand to oppose them——"

"But am I not telling you, my dear sir," interrupted the subdean, "that I think all the quarrels in the world can never convince mankind—the poor as well as the rest—that the quarrellers are the friends of mankind? If the Blue party be so bitterly bent on ruining the poor, as you say they are—let us carry relief into the houses of the poor always in the spirit of benevolence, and never as an act to oppose a party. If we look at the very persons we have to relieve, I think we may learn to do this,—for indeed, Mr. Nixon, there is no denying but that the poor are much more skilful in discerning the motives of those who visit them with charitable professions, than they were some years ago."

"Why, sir, what with Methodist cant on the one hand, and demagoguism on the other, the poor are spoilt," replied Mr. Nicholas, in the same tart spirit: "they have the impudence, now-a-days, to pry into the conduct of all ranks and conditions: your cloth does not screen you from their envious inquisitiveness; and they make all kinds of offensive and sneering remarks on respectable people. And then, their pride! Why now, Mr. Subdean, here we are, nearly at St. Botolph's bar, and not a single poor man has paid you a mark of respect, all the way we have walked! Take my word for it, sir,—forty years ago if I had been honoured to walk down the street with a cathedral dignitary, I should have seen every poor man that we met touch his hat to him! I ask you, sir, what is to come of such a state of things?" concluded Mr. Nicholas, in a very earnest and emphatic tone.

The churchman fairly burst into laughter; and had it been any other than a Minster grandee, Gentleman Nixon would have been highly irritated by his mirth. As it was, he began to suspect himself of folly, for having carried his opposition to such an extremity in a merely friendly dialogue.

"Come now, Mr. Nixon," resumed the subdean, in a tone of pleasant expostulation, "does not this very circumstance, of the striking change in manners that you have alluded to, convince you that the hostile course is unwise? Do you expect, now, that the poor can be brought to observe the same outwardly submissive courtesies that their fathers practised when you and I were young?"

"Well, I must confess, I do not," tardily—but perforce of conviction—Mr. Nicholas made answer.

"It would be foolish to expect it, Mr. Nixon," continued the clergyman; "and as they will continue to keep the course they have commenced outwardly, so will they grow in the habit of scrutinising the conduct of those above them. I think the time is nearly at hand when neither Blues nor Pinks, nor any other shade of political party, will be able to raise excitements by attempting to persuade the poor, that these are designing to cheat them, while those are their disinterested and sympathising friends. The times are changed, for the English people are changed: we cannot deny it, since we have here a proof of it, Mr. Nixon."

"That we have, too truly, Mr. Subdean!" echoed Mr. Nicholas, and sighed very dolorously.

"Nay, I do not think there is any cause for regret, in all this," observed his cheerful and more enlightened acquaintance; "whatever severe causes may have operated to produce it, no philanthropist can regret that there is discernible the commencement of a spirit of self-respect on the part of the poor. We are all equal in the sight of our Maker, you know, my friend; and for my part I assure you, I do not desire that the old usages of servility should be resumed, and the great first law of human brotherhood be again lost sight of—for, I suspect, that was too often the fact while the brother in superfine cloth received such frequent obeisance from the brother in ragged linen."

"I must again say you surprise me greatly, sir," observed Gentleman Nixon, beginning again to recover his belligerent humour.

"But do not be surprised, Mr. Nixon," answered the churchman, instantly and persuasively: "the world has changed, though you remain an honest Tory, and——"

"And you have become a Whig, sir, I fear," observed Mr. Nicholas, while his face and throat began to assume the hue of a distempered turkey-cock.

"No, Mr. Nixon, a Conservative, if you please."

"All the same," said the retired gentleman, but with a subsidence of his mettle; "scarcely any thing but a distinction without a difference."

"To speak the broad truth," resumed the clergyman, "there are but very few now, who boast themselves,—as you do, Mr. Nixon, most honestly,—to be Tories. Nor are you very far from right in your belief of the resemblance of some other parties,—for the old Whig and the modern Conservative are nearly akin. The modern Whig would also have been a Radical some few years ago, while the hotter advocates for change have also considerably enlarged their demands."

"And do you pretend to tell me, Mr. Subdean," asked Mr. Nicholas, very impatiently, "that you and others are any other than madmen to yield to this jacobinical spirit of change?—I say jacobinical—the plain word that my father used, and that I believe to be the best word."

"But I do not believe it to be the best word, my dear sir," repeated the subdean, and took the hand of the retired gentleman with a smile,—seeing they were about to separate; "I believe we should be madmen indeed if we did not yield wisely to this spirit of change. You will never find me among the advocates of rash and hasty changes, Mr. Nixon; but I repeat—change has begun,—and if we do not yield to it wisely, it will speedily proceed more rashly and hastily than any of us would wish to see. All parties are amalgamating, for they are blending names; and all ranks are converging to a common point, where rank will be forgotten. Forty years ago you could not have imagined that a cathedral dignitary would have walked from the 'Chequer Gate to St. Botolph's Bar, and not one of the hundreds of poor men he met ever touch their hat to him;—and yet you have walked with me every inch of the way this morning, and seen every poor man pass by without showing the subdean any more respect than he shows to one of his ragged neighbours:—you have seen this, Mr. Nixon, and you cannot deny that it was so. Good morning, sir!"

"Good morning, sir!" echoed Mr. Nicholas Nixon, though it was somewhat vacantly. And thrice he turned to look after the clergyman when they had separated,—stunned and confounded as he felt at what the dignitary had said; and then wondered how it could be! But the more Mr. Nicholas wondered, the less he could comprehend what he wondered at. He knew that he himself was what he was thirty years ago,—the same old-fashioned Tory, who, even then, lived each day alike, in the same house in the Minster-yard; but as for the subdean and many others, though he perceived they had changed, he could not comprehend why:—all that he could comprehend was,—that it was so.