“IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND”

Northern Advocate, 16 April 1938, Page 12

“IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND”

—By Charles Reade

The Library

HAHLES READE was an un- §■. usual man in many respects. Exceptionally brilliant in a

certainly erratic way, he had immense’ capacity for learning when he-yso cliose, and at twenty-one was a Fellow of his college—it is true that this 'resulted from some surprising good fortune. Always a sound man, true to his' convictions and urgent in using his distinguished talents for all such causes as he believed right, he could become almost vituperative at times, as witness his “Eighth Commandment,” in which for close on four hundred pages he vigorously, if rather wearisomely before he has finished, inveighs against the lack of international protection for dramatic and other writers. Well Prepared. A man so strenuous in his likes and dislikes, in his beliefs and his discardings, was bound to fling himself whole-heartedly into whatever he approached. Thus we know that he kept with the utmost care and thoroughness scrap-books devoted to the various subjects in which ho took special interest, and particularly with which he purposed later to perhaps deal in fiction or drama. As a result, he was prepared with infinite retorts whenever attacked upon his details.

Seldom indeed was it that, he could not produce’ample newspaper or other evidence —from reports, commissions, inquiries and the like—in support of incidents the most unlikely in the

eyes of critics. That this precision of journalistic accumulations of matter sometimes hampered the flow of his stories must be admitted, and yet this is readily forgiven because of the interest and quick movement with which they abound. Reade took his work with so much severity of purpose that he seldom if ever permitted his fictional interests to weaken his propagandist efforts; and yet, though he is notable among “novelists with a purpose,” he is far more willingly read than are many such.

His position among writers is still uncertain, even the critics of most repute being apparently unwilling to decree his standing in. the coming years.; Though always readable, his best novels are not less than four or mbre than six, and opinions differ as to the order in which they should Stand. The greatest, however, will always be “The Cloister and the Hearth.” ■

Saintsbury is inclined to place in the second position “It is Never Too Late to Mend.” but other readers, and critics, are not all of that opinion, for several other titles, have, excellent cause to be in the running. Prison Life Pilloried. “It is Never Too Late to Mend” has for purpose, other of course than its fictional interest, the cruelty then (1856) still to be met with in some gaols. Here Reade was most exact in his details, using only incidents for which the public press gave him full warranty. Were this not explained there is the danger that readers might think the story but largely sensationalism.

“I don’t know whether I am doing right, sir, you being a parson. Perhaps I shall have no luck after this.” “Don’t be silly, Evans. You may torture a bishop if he bids you.” There You Are! “There you are, sir.” “Yes, here I am! Now go away and come in half an hour.” “I think I had better stay, sir. You will soon be sick of it.” “Go, and come in half an hour,” was the firm reply. Our chaplain felt that if the man did not go he should not be five minutes before he asked to be released, and he was determined to know “what we are doing.”

In about ten minutes he returned, and there was Evans, his face drawn down by pain. “Well, how do you like it?’' “Oh, pretty well, sir; it isn’t worth making an outcry about.” “Only a little oncomfortable.” “That is all; if it wasn’t for the confounded cramp.”

“Let us compare notes,” said the chaplain, sitting down opposite. “I found it worse than uncomfortable. First there was a terrible sense of utter impotence, then came on racking cramps, for which there was no relief, because I could not move.” “Oh!” “What?” “Nothing, sir! Mum—mum—dear guinea!” “The jagged collar gave me much pain too; it rasped my poor throat like a file.” “Why the dickens didn’t you tell me all this before, sir?” said Evans ruefully; “it is no use now I’ve been and gone into the same oven like a fool.” ‘T had my reasons for not telling you before. Good-bye for the present.” “Don’t stay over the half hour, for goodness’ sake, sir.” “No; adieu for the present.” He did not go far; he listened and heard the plucky Evans groan. He ■came hastily in. “Courage, my fine fellow, only eight minutes more and the guinea is yours.” “How many more minutes, sir?” “Eight.” “Then oh! undo me, sir, if you please.” “What! forfeit the guinea for eight minutes—seven, it is only seven now.” “Hang (lie guinea! let mo down, sir, if there’s pity in you." “With all my heart,” said the reverend gentleman, pocketing the guinea, and he loosed Evans with all speed. The man stretched his limbs, with ejaculations of pain between every stretch, and put his handkerchief on very gingerly. He looked sulky and said nothing. The other watched him keenly, for there was something about him that showed his mind was working, “There is your guinea.” “Oh no! 1 didn’t earn it.” “Oh, if you think that (putting it to the lips of his pocket), let me make you a present of it” (handing it out again). Evans smiled. ~