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Consequently the Bible was excluded, and so were books on topics altogether worldly. Dorcas meetings were generally, therefore, shut up to the denominational journal and to magazines. Towards the end of the evening Mr. Snale read the births, deaths, and marriages in this journal.
Snale had not openly denied his authorship. But the use of the word "friend" was essentially a lie just one of those lies which, by avoiding the form of a lie, have such a charm for a mind like his. I was roused to indignation. "Mr. Snale, I will give you the proof which you want, and then you shall judge for yourself. The letter contains two lines of a hymn which you have misquoted.
Both were daubs, but curiously faithful in depicting what was most offensive in the character of both the originals, Mr. Snale's simper being preserved; together with the peculiarly hard, heavy sensuality of the eye in Mrs. Snale, who was large and full-faced, correct like Mr.
"Mr. Snale, you are a contemptible scoundrel and a liar." The effort on him was comical. He cried: "What, sir! what do you mean, sir? a minister of the gospel if you were not, I would a liar" and he swung round hastily on the stool on which he was sitting, to get off and grasp a yard-measure which stood against the fireplace. But the stool slipped, and he came down ignominiously.
Snale, do you then consider what I have said is an accusation and charge? Do you think that it was wrong to write such a letter?" "Well, sir, I cannot exactly say that it was; but I must say, sir, that I do think it peculiar of you, peculiar of you, sir, to come here and attack one of your friends, who, I am sure, has always showed you so much kindness to attack him, sir, with no proof." Now Mr.
The deacons thought they had a prospect of returning prosperity, and in the end I received a nearly unanimous invitation, which, after some hesitation, I accepted. One of the deacons, a Mr. Snale, was against me; he thought I was not "quite sound"; but he was overruled. We shall hear more of him presently. After a short holiday I entered on my new duties.
"Dear me, sir, may I ask WHY you think so?" "The internal evidence, Mr. Snale, is overwhelming; but if you did not write it, perhaps you will be good enough to say so." Now Mr. Snale was a coward, but with a peculiarity which I have marked in animals of the rat tribe.
At the word "daughter" Mr. Snale grinned again, apparently to somebody behind me, and I found that one of his shopwomen had entered the counting-house, unobserved by me, while this conversation was going on, and that she was smirking in reply to Mr. Snale's signals. In a moment the blood rushed to my brain. I was as little able to control myself as if I had been shot suddenly down a precipice.
However, I was much absorbed in the morrow, and passed on. Although I despised Snale, his letter was the beginning of a great trouble to me. I had now been preaching for many months, and had met with no response whatever. Occasionally a stranger or two visited the chapel, and with what eager eyes did I not watch for them on the next Sunday, but none of them came twice.
What he meant I did not know, and how to find a book with a more requisite tone I did not know. However, the next time, in my folly, I tried a selection from George Fox's Journal. Mr. Snale objected to this too. It was "hardly of a character adapted for social intercourse," he thought; and furthermore, "although Mr.
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