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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


BLACKWOOD'S 


Anting 


MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  CVII. 


JANUARY— JUNE,  1870. 


WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD  &  SONS,  EDINBURGH; 


AND 


37  PATERNOSTER  ROW,  LONDON. 


1870. 


V|  01 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUBGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCLI. 


JANUARY  1870. 


VOL.  CVII. 


EARL'S  DENE.— PART  in. 


BOOK   I.  —  ANGELIQUE. 


CHAPTER   I. 


IT  was  a  soft  and  fine  June  even- 
ing in  the  year  181-,  so  wonderfully 
soft  and  fine,  indeed,  that  it  was 
the  very  type  of  what  an  evening 
ought  to  be  in  that  best  of  months. 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  although 
the  inside  of  the  coach  that  passed 
through  Denethorp  every  day  was 
full,  there  were  no  more  than  three 
of  its  passengers  who  preferred 
to  closeness  and  confinement  the 
sweetness  and  fragrance  of  the 
open  air.  Of  these  "  outsides," 
onci  had  come  the  whole  distance 
from  London,  another  had  joined 
the  coach  some  three  or  four  stages 
off.  and  the  third  had  mounted  to 
his  seat  in  the  after  part  while 
the  horses  were  being  changed  at 
Redchester.  The  latter  was  absorb- 
ed in  conversation  with  the  guard 
about  the  affairs  of  the  road,  the 
occupant  of  the  box-seat  was  sound 
asleep,  while  the  passenger  who  sat 
immediately  behind  was  wrapped 
in  a  meditation  that  rendered  him 
as  blind  to  what  lay  to  left  and 
right  as  if  his  eyes  also  had  been 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLT. 


closed.  Presently,  however,  the 
sleeper  slowly  opened  his,  gave  a 
good  long  stretching  yawn,  and 
then,  having  satisfied  himself  as  to 
the  point  of  the  journey  at  which 
he  and  his  fellow-passengers  had 
arrived,  turned  round  to  take  a 
survey  of  his  temporary  compan- 
ions, in  the  course  of  which  his  eyes 
at  once  encountered  those  of  his 
rear-rank  man.  The  faces  of  both 
brightened  into  recognition  as  they 
exclaimed  simultaneously, — 

"Lester!" 

"  Warden !  why,  where  do  you 
fall  from?" 

Both  were  young  men  of  nearly 
the  same  age,  which  was  apparent- 
ly about  two-and-twenty,  more  or 
less ;  but,  in  every  other  respect, 
they  were  different  enough. 

The  occupant  of  the  box-seat — he 
who  had  been  addressed  as  Lester 
— would  at  once,  and  under  any 
circumstances,  have  been  set  down 
as  an  uncommonly  good-looking 
fellow,  not  only  by  women,  but  by 
men  also.  Nor  was  he  good-looking 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  HI. 


[Jan, 


only  in  the  sense  of  having  regular 
features,  a  healthy  complexion,  a 
good  figure,  and  an  exceedingly 
pleasant  expression,  but  in  the  far 
more  important  sense  of  being  firm- 
ly and  strongly  niade,  without  any 
undue  preponderance  of  one  pair  of 
limbs  or  of  one  set  of  muscles  over 
another ;  in  the  sense  of  looking  as 
though  he  could  hold  his  own  in 
all  manly  exercises  that  became  a 
gentleman.  Although  he  had  been 
sleeping  in  an  extremely  cramped 
and  uncomfortable  position,  yet, 
when  he  roused  himself,  he  was 
wide  awake  at  once  ;  and  the  ring 
of  his  voice  as  he  spoke  seemed  to 
show  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  not 
from  weariness,  but  from  the  want 
of  something  better  to  do. 

The  other,  whom  he  had  called 
Warden,  was  also  sufficiently  good- 
looking,  but  after  a  far  less  healthy 
and  less  animal  style.  His  feat- 
ures were  far  less  regular,  and  his 
complexion  far  more  pale  ;  his  lips 
were  thinner  and  firmer,  and  his 
eyes  more  deeply  set ;  and  while 
the  forehead  of  Lester  was  without 
a  fold,  his  brow,  less  open,  bore 
the  presage  of  that  kind  of  frown 
that  is  caused  by  the  constant  ex- 
ercise of  the  brain.  In  point  of 
figure,  though  there  was  about  him 
no  apparent  want  of  bodily  strength, 
those  who  have  an  eye  for  such 
matters  would  have  said  that 
whatever  power  he  possessed  was 
nervous  rather  than  muscular  ;  and 
he  by  no  means  shared  with  his 
acquaintance  the  signs  of  being 
practised  in  outdoor  pursuits.  In 
spite  of  their  nearness  to  each  other 
in  point  of  age,  there  was  much  of 
the  same  sort  of  difference  between 
them  that  is  supposed  to  distinguish 
the  townsman  from  the  country- 
man, and  the  man  who  neglects  the 
body  for  the  sake  of  the  mind,  from 
him  who  neglects  the  mind  for  the 
sake  of  the  body.  And  yet  it  is 
almost  unfair  to  both  of  them  to 
say  this  ;  for  Lester,  in  spite  of  the 
regularity  of  his  features,  looked 
anything  but  empty  or  stupid — his 
eyes  were  too  lively  and  his  lips  too 


ready  to  smile  for  that ;  and  War- 
den certainly  did  not  look  as  though 
he  had  neglected  exercise  so  much 
as  to  be  without  sufficient  firmness 
of  muscle  for  the  ordinary  needs  of 
a  man's  life.  Still,  one  was  as 
plainly  the  young  squire  as  the 
other  was  the  student ;  and  their 
voices,  too,  had  this  difference,, 
that  while  Lester's  was  pleasant 
and  essentially  that  of  a  gentleman,, 
it  was  loud  and  unrestrained  ;  and 
that  Warden's,  while  it  was  clearer, 
better  cultivated,  and  more  subdu- 
ed, was  rather  reserved  in  its  tone, 
and  was,  besides,  not  free  from  a 
perceptible  tinge  of  provincialism 
in  its  accent,  though  not  more  than 
just  enough  to  make  one  suspect 
that  the  social  position  of  the  man 
himself  was  probably  higher  than 
that  of  his  father  and  mother. 

All  these  physical  details  were 
amply  perceptible,  for  the  evening 
was  so  warm  that  neither  of  the 
young  men  cared  to  encumber  him- 
self with  more  wrappings  than  were 
absolutely  necessary.  Indeed,  by 
a  moderately  quick  eye  they  might 
have  been  noted  during  the  short 
pause  that  elapsed  before  Warden 
answered, — 

"It  is  odd  I  did  not  recognise 
you  when  I  got  up.  I  joined  the 
coach  at  Thurleigh.  You  are  bound 
to  Earl's  Dene,  I  suppose  ]" 

"  Yes,  I'm  bound  for  the  old 
place.  Rather  a  bore,  though,  isn't 
it,  just  at  this  time  of  year  of  all 
others?" 

"  You  come  from  town,  then  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so.  Where  else 
should  a  man  be  just  now  ?  I  hope 
my  aunt — I  always  call  Miss  Clare 
my  aunt,  you  know — hasn't  called 
me  down  for  nothing.  She's  rather 
apt  to,  sometimes.  I  can't  think 
what  she  could  want  to  say  to  me 
that  she  couldn't  write  just  as  well. 
Where  are  you  from  1  Cambridge  ? 
How  long  have  you  been  down  1" 

"  Only  a  day  or  two.  I  came 
nearly  straight." 

"And  now  I  suppose  you  will 
make  some  stay  in  Denethorp  ? 
Well,  you  must  come  over,  and 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  III. 


we'll  have  a  day  or  two  by  the 
Grrayl  together,  or  something.  By 
the  way,  I  have  to  congratulate  you, 
haven't  1 1 " 

"  Oh,  about  my  fellowship  1 
Thanks."  He  did  not,  however, 
give  the  thanks  that  he  expressed 
so  curtly  the  advantage  of  much 
warmth  of  manner.  Perhaps  he 
fancied  that  the  congratulation  had 
been  offered  a  little  too  patronis- 
ingly ;  and  certainly  it  had  been 
spoken  far  too  carelessly  to  suit  the 
ears  of  one  who  had  achieved  a 
great  and  tangible  success.  It  was 
natural  for  him  to  forget  that,  while 
to  himself  his  brilliantly-won  fel- 
lowship, the  reward  of  three  long 
years  of  hard  and  self-denying  study, 
meant  competence  and  honour  for 
the  present,  and  a  sound  and  strong 
foundation  on  which  to  build  the 
fabric  of  the  future — to  the  heir  of 
Earl's  Dene  it  could  seem  nothing 
more  than  just  a  two  or  three  hun- 
dred a-year  that  might  be  worth  a 
man's  taking  if  it  came  in  his  way, 
but  was  certainly  not  worth  making 

fuss  about. 

"  And  don't  you  congratulate  me 
too  ? "  Lester  asked  in  his  turn. 

There  were  plenty  of  things, 
Warden  thought,  on  which  his 
companion  might  reasonably  be 
congratulated.  But  he  said, — 

"  I  would  with  pleasure,  if  I 
knew  what  upon.  Not  matri- 
mony ?  "  he  added,  with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  you  think  I've  been  caught 
in  town  1  Not  I.  I  was  up  to 
them,  I  flatter  myself.  No  —  I 
mean  on  their  not  having  ploughed 
me,  of  course.  We  haven't  met 
since  then,  have  we  ?  You  know 
the  odds  were  ten  to  one  against 
the  name  Lester  being  in  the  list 
at  all,  and  anything  you  please 
against  my  more  than  scraping 
through.  But  I  suppose  you  wrang- 
lers and  prizemen  don't  speculate 
on  the  chances  of  the  'poll.'  Well, 
those  weren't  a  bad  three  years  of 
ours,  were  they  1  And  yet  some- 
how I  was  devilish  glad  when  they 
were  over.  One  did  get  enough  at 
last  of  doing  the  same  sort  of  things 


over  and  over  again."  What  would 
he  have  said,  by  the  way,  had  his 
days  been  spent  like  the  days  of 
Warden  ?  He  might  then,  indeed, 
have  had  reason  for  his  complaint 
— and  yet  very  likely  in  that  case 
he  would  not  have  made  it.  "  And 
yet  I  was  sorry  too,"  he  went  on. 
"  Holloa !  here  we  are  at  Graylford. 
Just  let  me  feel  the  ribbons,  Tom. 
I'll  just  run  you  down  to  the  last 
corner  before  the  bridge.  Madam 
wouldn't  like  me  to  drive  up  to  the 
gates,  I  suppose."  The  coachman 
resigned  his  throne  with  a  confi- 
dence that  he  certainly  would  not 
have  shown  had  he  not  known  his 
man.  "That's  it,  Tom — and  now 
for  a  bit  of  a  spirt." 

While,  guided  by  the  skilful  hand 
of  Hugh  Lester,  the  four  horses 
launched  out  into  a  fast  canter 
along  the  smooth  and  level  high- 
road, Warden,  for  a  few  instants, 
resigned  himself  to  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  that  most  delightful  of  all 
forms  of  rapid  motion  of  which  the 
now  more  than  half-forgotten  plea- 
sures have  been  too  often  and  too 
well  described  to  need  farther  de- 
scription here.  Neither  by  temper- 
ament nor  by  habit,  however,  was 
he  capable,  for  any  length  of  time 
together,  of  holding  fast  the  delight 
of  merging  self-consciousness  and 
the  sense  of  personal  existence  in 
simple  physical  en j  oyment.  Besides, 
he  was  tired  with  his  journey,  for 
he  had  been  travelling  many  hours 
before  he  joined  the  coach  j  and 
when  he  had  chanced  to  fall  asleep, 
his  slumber  had  not  been  so  dream- 
less and  so  refreshing  as  that  of 
Lester.  He  had,  too,  been  rather 
overworking  his  brain  of  late,  under 
the  strain  of  recent  competition,  so 
that  his  nerves  were  not  in  the  best 
imaginable  order.  The  result  was 
that,  as  each  spring  of  the  horses 
brought  him  nearer  and  nearer  to 
his  home  at  Denethorp,  his  mind 
indulged  more  and  more  in  those 
groundless  fancies  and  presenti- 
ments that  are  so  familiar  to  all 
who  return  home  after  a  long 
absence,  especially  in  cases  where 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


correspondence  has  been  unf  requent 
and  fragmentary ;  groundless  fan- 
cies and  ridiculous  presentiments  of 
evil  -which  he  who  indulges  them 
will  not  own,  even  to  himself,  but 
which  are  none  the  less  real  and 
none  the  less  disagreeable  for  all 
their  groundlessness  and  all  their 
absurdity.  There  is  a  kind  of  half- 
formed  idea  lurking  in  the  breasts 
of  even  the  least  vain  among  us, 
that  somehow,  in  our  absence,  the 
things  and  the  people  that  we  care 
about  are  more  likely  to  go  wrong 
than  right ;  and  the  excitement  of 
seeing  our  home  and  our  friends 
once  more  is  very  often  due  less  to 
our  affection  for  them  than  to  a 
causeless  fear  of  finding,  say,  our 
house  burnt  to  the  ground,  our 
children  laid  up  with  scarlet  fever, 
our  servants  absconded  with  the 
plate,  a  heap  of  letters  waiting  for 
an  answer,  and,  according  to  our 
sex,  our  wife  eloped,  or  our  husband 
smoking  in  the  drawing-room.  It 
is  true  that  Warden  had  no  chil- 
dren, no  plate,  and  no  correspond- 
ence ;  but,  in  such  a  case,  fancy 
can  find  plenty  of  food  on  which 
to  feed  without  any  assistance  from 
facts.  And  then,  too,  he  could 
not  help  being  vexed  with  himself 
that  he,  a  high  wrangler,  a  prize- 
man, and  Chancellor's  medalist  of 
his  year,  and  now  a  Fellow  of  his 
College — that  he,  who  had  become 
a  sort  of  lion  in  his  own  set,  and 
had  thereby  come  to  feel  as  though 
he  had  already  done  something  and 
become  somebody  in  the  world— 
that  he,  who  was  all  this  and  had 
done  all  this,  and  who  was  expected 
by  all  his  friends,  as  well  as  by 
himself,  to  be  and  to  do  a  very  great 
deal  more  in  a  few  years'  time — 
should  have,  somehow  or  other, 
been  forced  to  feel  now  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  meet,  on  at  least 
terms  of  equality,  a  man  like  Lester, 
upon  whom,  with  all  the  vanity 
of  his  age,  he  thought  himself  en- 
titled to  look  down  as  from  an 
infinite  height  of  intellectual  supe- 
riority. He  was  naturally  imbued 
with  the  common  and  intelligible 


but  profoundly  dangerous  and  often 
fatal  error,  that  mental  superiority 
is  worth  more  than  a  single  straw 
in  the  ordinary  social  intercourse 
between  man  and  man ;  an  error  to 
which,  whatever  the  case  may  be 
now,  clever  and  successful  univer- 
sity men  used  at  all  events  to  be 
peculiarly  liable,  and  from  which, 
unless  they  afterwards  mixed  freely 
and  largely  with  various  classes  of 
society,  they  were  very  often  unable 
to  shake  themselves  free.  Warden 
was  now,  in  fact,  receiving  his  first 
lesson  in  this  matter.  At  every 
step  of  the  road  that  took  him 
farther  from  Cambridge  and  nearer 
to  Denethorp,  his  superiority  to 
Lester  seemed  to  fade  away  more 
and  more  rapidly,  while  the  only 
distinction  between  them  that  would 
be  recognised  in  the  county  became 
distinct  in  proportion.  He  could 
not  help  being  aware  that  he  was 
becoming  once  more  degraded  to 
the  position  that  belonged  to  him 
in  his  native  town  as  the  son  of 
an  obscure  and  struggling  country 
doctor,  while  Lester,  in  a  like  man- 
ner, was  rising  to  his  full  rank  as 
heir  of  Earl's  Dene.  The  utterly 
different  kind  of  life  necessarily 
led  by  the  two  while  both  were  at 
Cambridge,  and  their  different  so- 
cial station  even  there,  had  not  al- 
lowed their  slight  acquaintance  to 
develop  into  anything  more  than 
slight  acquaintance  ;  so  that  no  ha- 
bits of  familiar  intercourse  had 
tended  to  bridge  over  this  old  gap 
between  them,  which  seemed  to 
Warden's  eyes  to  be  wider  than  ever, 
now  that  he  was  of  an  age  and  in  a 
position  to  perceive  more  clearly  its 
breadth  and  its  nature.  Indeed  to  a 
certain  extent  this  feeling  of  his  was 
altogether  new.  In  the  old  times 
he  had  always,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world  of  Denethorp,  been  ready 
enough  to  pay  all  due  deference  to 
the  young  squire,  whose  occasional 
kindly  notice  he  had  been  proud  to 
receive  ;  but  that  was  while  he  was 
as  yet  nothing  but  the  struggling 
student,  with  his  way  in  life  yet  to 
begin.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  he 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  III. 


could  not  persuade  himself  that  it 
was  becoming  on  the  part  of  the 
successful  student,  with  a  future  of 
infinite  possibilities  opening  before 
him,  to  accept  with  the  same  kind 
of  deference  the  patronage  of  his 
intellectual  inferior;  and  so  he  felt 
inclined  to  be  angry  with  himself 
for  not  being  able  to  assert  his 
equality,  and  for  having,  from  force 
of  old  habit,  relapsed  against  his 
will  into  his  old  way  of  regarding 
the  local  supremacy  of  the  Clares 
and  all  that  belonged  to  them. 

In  spite,  however,  of  this  vague 
disquietude  of  spirit,  still  the 
smooth  rapidity  of  the  pace,  his  fa- 
tigue, the  aimless  wandering  of  his 
thoughts,  and  the  warm  stillness  of 
the  air,  had  nearly  succeeded  in 
sending  him  to  sleep  in  reality  when 
the  bugle  of  the  guard  sounded,  as 
was  the  invariable  practice  when 
the  mail  arrived  within  sight  of 
the  long  and  magnificent  avenue  of 
beech-trees  that  led  up  through  the 
park  from  the  highroad.  Lester 
rapidly  gave  up  the  reins  to  their 
rightful  holder,  and  once  more  sank 
to  the  level  of  a  mere  passenger. 

"That  was  a  pretty  fair  run, 
wasn't  it,  Warden  *? "  he  asked,  as 
he  began  to  collect  his  coats,  sticks, 
and  other  miscellaneous  small  ar- 
ticles preparatory  to  leaving  the 
coach.  "Well,  old  fellow,  as  I 
suppose  we  are  to  be  neighbours 
for  some  days,  at  any  rate — how 
long  do  you  stay  at  Denethorp  1 " 

"  I  don't  know  quite  what  my 
movements  are  for  the  present,  but 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  off  again 
in  a  very  great  hurry." 

"How  do  you  think  of  spending 
the  Long  ?  I  beg  its  pardon  :  one 
must  say  the  autumn,  now  we 
have  both  done  with  longs  and 
shorts  ? " 

"  But  I  have  not  done  with  longs 
and  shorts.  I  shall  be  up  again 
next  term,  I  expect.  I  have  got  a 
pupil  or  two,  you  know ;  and  I 
have  some  idea  of  getting  some 
men  to  read  with  in  the  Long." 

"  By  Jove !  then  I  have  a  first- 
rate  notion.  Bring  your  men  down 


here,  if  they're  decent  fellows — it's 
quiet  enough.  Only  mind  you  get 
a  decent  team,  and  I'll  do  what  I 
can  for  them,  you  know.  You  shall 
coach  them  in  Homer  and  Euclid 
and  all  that,  and  I'll  see  after  their 
other  lines  and  angles.  You  can't 
say  I'm  a  bad  coach,  after  that 
spirt.  Tom,  here,  shall  give  me  a 
testimonial.  But  here  we  are.  I'm 
always  glad  to  look  up  the  beeches 
again,  though  it  is  a  bore  to  come 
down  just  now.  Good-bye,  War- 
den— we'll  see  how  the  trout  lie 
before  many  hours  are  over.  So 
look  me  up." 

"You're  very  good — I  shall  be 
delighted.  Good-bye." 

By  this  time  the  coach  had 
stopped  at  the  great  iron  gates  that 
were  flanked  by  the  lodge,  and  that 
bore  above  them  the  arms  of  the 
Clares,  with  their  motto,  "  Non 
solum  nomine  clarus."  The  old 
woman  who  acted  as  portress  had 
run  out  on  hearing  the  first  blast  of 
the  bugle,  and  now  stood  with  a 
broad  smile  of  welcome  on  her  face 
to  receive  the  young  squire.  In  a 
few  seconds  more,  the  horses,  freed 
from  the  very  respectable  weight  of 
Lester  and  his  trappings,  were  again 
on  their  way. 

Almost  as  soon  as  he  was  left  to 
himself,  Warden  forgot  the  shy 
constraint  that  the  other's  presence 
had  caused ;  and  his  mind,  re- 
lieved from  the  incubus  of  Earl's 
Dene  and  its  belongings,  soon  be- 
gan to  busy  itself  about  more  real 
and  personal  matters,  while  his 
eyes  were  occupied  with  recognis- 
ing each  particular  point  of  the 
road  which  he  had  not  travelled 
for  so  long ;  but,  as  will  be  remem- 
bered, the  remainder  of  the  journey 
was  extremely  short  in  respect  of 
both  time  and  distance.  Indeed 
the  tower  of  Denethorp  Church 
was  plainly  visible,  and  when  the 
wind  was  in  the  right  quarter,  its 
peal  of  bells  was  often  audible,  from 
the  lodge-gate ;  and  so,  in  a  very  lit- 
tle while,  he  in  his  turn  was  de- 
scending from  his  seat  at  the  door 
of  the  King's  Head,  and  looking  at 


G 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


Ms  own  not  very  heavy  amount  of 
luggage.  Then,  leaving  his  port- 
manteau to  be  sent  after  him  from 
the  inn,  the  new  Fellow  of  St  Mar- 
garet's walked  across  the  market- 
place and  down  one  of  the  principal 


streets  until  he  came  to  a  brick 
house  standing  in  a  small  garden  at 
the  edge  of  the  town,  the  door  of 
which  bore  a  tarnished  brass  plate 
inscribed  with  the  name  of  Mr 
Warden,  surgeon. 


CHAPTER  II. 


To  return,  however,  to  him  who 
was  certainly  the  more  important 
personage  of  the  two  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  if  not  in  those  of  his 
travelling  companion. 

The  traveller  whose  destination 
happened  to  be  Earl's  Dene  would, 
in  those  days — and,  for  that  matter, 
in  these  days  also — pass  through 
the  iron  gates  already  mentioned, 
and  then  proceed  three  quarters  of 
a  mile,  more  or  less,  along  the 
magnificent  avenue,  having  on  his 
left  hand  an  enclosure  called  the 
Lodge  Park,  which  was  well  stock- 
ed with  deer,  that  have  not,  even 
now,  had  to  yield  their  old  do- 
main to  a  more  useful  if  less 
picturesque  generation  of  sheep, 
until  he  arrived  at  the  lawn  and 
circular  carriage-drive  in  front  of 
the  house  itself.  This  was  a  plain 
square  building  of  dark-red  brick, 
pierced  with  many  windows  sym- 
metrically arranged  in  even  rows, 
and  altogether  of  a  far  more  mod- 
ern appearance  than  the  park  and 
grounds  would  have  led  one  to  ex- 
pect. The  fact  is  that,  while  the 
park  is  of  great  antiquity,  the 
house  is  not  older  than  the  hideous 
reign  of  George  the  Second,  and 
bears  conspicuously  upon  its  face 
the  date  of  the  memorable  year  of 
1746.  It  had  been  built  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  some  ruinous  ecclesias- 
tical buildings  that  had  cumbered 
the  ground  ever  since  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  monasteries.  For  Earl's 
Dene  had  of  old  been  called  Ab- 
bot's Dene,  and  had  been  a  sort  of 
offshoot  of  the  great  Abbey  of  Red- 
chester,  in  the  same  county,  until 
King  Henry  made  a  grant  of  it 
to  the  then  Earl  of  Wendale.  Of 
course,  like  most  of  the  monastic 


estates  that  underwent  this  fate,  its 
ownership  was  long  looked  upon 
as  of  necessity  associated  with  the 
punishment  appointed  for  the  sin 
of  sacrilege  ;  and  there  was  a  pro- 
phetic jingle  about  it,  of  which  the 
usual  form  ran  thus  : — 

"  Abbot's,  King's,  and  Earl's  Dane, 
Never  thrice  the  same  again ; " 

which  is,  indeed,  rather  obscure, 
but  means,  according  to  traditional 
interpretation,  that  no  family  should 
ever  be  able  to  hold  it  farther  than 
from  father  to  son — that  is  to  say, 
for  more  than  two  generations.  As 
is  usual  in  such  cases,  for  reasons 
sufficiently  familiar  to  students  of 
popular  superstition,  the  prophecy 
was  always  singularly  fulfilled  to 
the  letter;  but  inasmuch  as  the 
saying  was  supposed  to  be  of  the 
nature  of  a  curse,  and  to  prognos- 
ticate evil,  it  had  been  anything 
but  fulfilled  to  the  spirit.  The 
possessors  of  Earl's  Dene  invari- 
ably prospered.  From  the  great 
Earl  of  Wendale,  the  original  gran- 
tee, it  passed  in  due  course,  when 
the  title  became  extinct  for  want 
of  issue  male,  to  his  granddaughter, 
who  made  a  rich  and  advantageous 
marriage.  From  her  it  again  came 
to  a  granddaughter  ;  and  her  grand- 
son changed  his  name  in  order  to 
inherit  another  great  estate  in  an- 
other part  of  England.  One  more 
lapse  into  the  female  line  brought 
it  into  the  possession  of  the  grand- 
mother, and  then  of  the  father,  of 
Madam  Clare.  Before  her  grand- 
mother's time  the  place  had  been 
uninhabited  and  neglected,  its  own- 
ers having  always  possessed  other 
seats  in  better  repair  elsewhere  ; 
but  Miss  Langton,  not  being  in  this 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dem.— Part  III. 


position,  came  to  live  there  soon 
after  her  marriage  ;  and  it  was  by 
her  and  her  husband,  Colonel  Clare, 
that  the  present  plain  but  comfort- 
able and  convenient  house  was 
built.  It  was  by  them  also  that, 
to  the  eternal  sorrow  of  antiqua- 
ries, the  monastic  ruins  were  en- 
tirely removed,  so  that  there  is 
scarce  left  of  them  so  much  as  a 
trace  to  mark  the  ground  on  which 
\  hey  once  stood. 

While  Warden  was  traversing 
4  he  short  distance  that  lay  between 
Sari's  Dene  and  Denethorp,  Lester 
vstrolled  quietly  along  the  avenue 
towards  the  house,  wondering  what 
-could  possibly  be  the  meaning  of 
this  sudden  and  unwelcome  sum- 
mons from  Miss  Clare — his  aunt, 
-is  he  always  called  her,  although 
.^he  was  really  his  cousin.  In  no 
long  time,  in  spite  of  his  leisurely 
pace,  he  had  crossed  the  lawn, 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  reach- 
ed the  drawing-room,  where  Madam 
Clare,  to  give  her  her  popular  title, 
was  seated  in  a  large  arm-chair 
reading,  or  sleeping,  or  both,  or 
neither. 

Nothing  is  so  difficult,  or  rather 
so  impossible,  as  to  say  of  a  man 
or  woman  that  he  or  she  is  abso- 
lutely young  or  old.  Youth  and 
age  are  essentially  relative  terms. 
Twenty  years  are  not  seldom  in 
reality  more  than  eighty — eighty 
less  than  twenty.  To  resort,  how- 
ever, to  the  device  of  calling  a  per- 
son middle-aged  is  as  meaningless 
a  makeshift  as  to  use  the  term 
mezzo-soprano  to  describe  a  voice. 
It  does  not  in  the  least  say  what  the 
person  is — it  only  means  that  it  is 
impossible  to  say  what  he  is.  Now, 
about  ^  half-way  between  fifty  and 
sixty  is  not  a  great  age;  and  yet 
Miss  Clare  certainly  looked,  and 
therefore  was,  old;  for  a  really 
young  woman,  whatever  the  num- 
ber of  her  years  may  be,  never 
looks  old.  She  was  tall,  and  of  a 
commanding  although  not  upright 
figure,  which  was  large,  but  not 
full ;  her  features,  still  handsome, 
were  prominent  and  strongly  mark- 


ed, and  wore  when,  as  they  were 
now,  in  repose,  an  expression  made 
up  of  sadness  and  severity.  Her 
dark  eyes  had  grown  dull,  and  her 
hair  grey.  Her  complexion  was 
fair,  but — what  is  seldom  the  case 
with  fair  complexions — inclined  to 
be  sallow.  Her  dress  was  plain,  but 
of  costly  work  and  material,  the 
prevailing  colour  of  it  being  that 
of  lavender.  As  she  rose  from 
her  chair  to  greet  her  self-styled 
nephew,  and  held  out  to  him  her 
white  and  delicate  hand — that  only 
part  of  a  woman  that  is  superior  to 
the  effects  of  time  and  sorrow — she 
gave  the  threefold  impression  of 
being  a  woman  who  had  lived,  who 
had  thought,  and  who  was  rather 
to  be  feared.  But  this  was  by  no 
means  the  only  part  of  her  expres- 
sion, and  certainly  not  the  most 
pleasant  part  of  it.  When  she 
spoke,  her  face  wonderfully  lighted 
up,  and  its  signs  of  sorrow  and 
severity  were  lost  in  a  kind  and 
almost  gentle  smile,  which  went  far 
to  prove  her  to  be  young,  after  all, 
and  that  the  contrast  between  her 
and  Lester  was  to  be  measured  by  a 
standard,  not  of  age,  but  of  power. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Hugh," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  grave 
and  pleasant,  but  rather  of  the 
kind  that  women  acquire  together 
with  their  Italian  caligraphy,  and 
which  is  too  conventional,  too 
lady-like,  in  fact,  to  express  much 
character. 

"  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong, 
aunt,  that  you  called  me  down  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  but  well  talk  of  that 
presently.  I  suppose  you're  hun- 
gry?" 

"  I  certainly  shan't  be  sorry  to 
get  something  to  eat.  You  are 
better,  I  hope?" 

"  As  well  as  I  can  expect  to  be 
now.  I  have  been  out  several  times 
lately.  But  now,  go  and  have  your 
dinner.  I  had  mine  early,  as  usual. 
I  have  no  doubt  you  will  find  it  all 
ready  for  you.  You  will  find  me 
here  when  you  have  done.  By  the 
way,  I  have  a  visitor  staying  with 
me." 


8 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


"  Indeed  !    Any  one  I  know  1" 

"  Well,  you  do  and  you  don't." 

"That  sounds  mysterious,  aunt. 
Is  it  male  or  female  ?" 

"  For  shame,  Hugh.  It  is  Miss 
Kaymond,  of  New  Court." 

"What!  Alice]  By  Jove!  I 
wonder  what  she's  turned  out.  She 
ought  to  be  nice,  from  what  I  re- 
member when  I  was  a  boy." 

Miss  Clare  smiled.  "  That  is  so 
very  long  ago,  is  it  not  ?  But  you 
shall  see  and  judge  for  yourself 
when  you  have  had  your  dinner. 
I  like  her  very  much,  but  of  course 
that  is  no  reason  that  you  will. 
Old  ladies  and  young  gentlemen 
don't  always  agree  about  those 
things.  Now  go  and  get  your 
dinner." 

"  How  is  it  she's  here  1  I  thought 
she  was  out  of  England." 

"  So  she  was,  till  very  lately. 
But  she  has  come  back,  and,  of 
course,  wanted  to  look  at  her  own 
place — her  old  home,  poor  girl ;  so 
I  asked  her  to  stay  with  me.  But 
now,  do  go  and  get  your  dinner. 
Miss  Kaymond  will  not  run  away ; 
and,  besides,  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you  before  I  introduce  you 
to  your  old  acquaintance." 

But  Hugh,  hungry  as  he  was, 
instead  of  just  washing  his  hands 
and  sitting  down  at  once  to  the 
good  things  provided  for  him,  went 
to  his  own  room  and  made  a  regular 
evening  toilette.  He  might,  he 
thought,  appear  before  the  visitor 
to  the  best  advantage  while  he  was 
about  it. 

At  last,  however,  having  amply 
satisfied  his  hunger  and  thirst,  he 
returned  to  the  drawing-room.  But 
Miss  Clare  was  still  by  herself ;  so 
he  sat  down  near  her,  and  disposed 
himself  to  listen  dutifully  to  what 
she  had  to  say. 

"  You  know  there's  to  be  a  gene- 
ral election,  Hugh1?" 

"I  should  think  so.  Nobody 
is  talking  of  anything  else." 

"Well,  there's  to  be  an  opposition 
in  Denethorp." 

"In  Denethorp!     Surely  not?" 

Well  might  Hugh  Lester  stare  at 


the  idea  of  an  opposition  to  Madam 
Clare  in  her  own  town. 

"  It  is  only  too  true,"  she  said. 

"But  it  can't  be  serious? — it 
can't  succeed?" 

"Hugh,  the  fact  is  that  things 
are  not  what  they  used  to  be.  One 
can't  help  seeing  it,  even  here." 

"  But  who  would  venture  — — " 

"It  is  these  mill  people.  Just 
look  at  this,  and  guess  where  I 
found  it." 

She  handed  him  a  tract,  at  which 
he  looked  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  What  is  all  this,  aunt  ?  Is  this 
the  '  twopenny  trash '  that  people 
talk  of?" 

"  You  see  what  it  is.  But  you 
would  never  think  I  found  it,  not 
in  the  hands  of  a  mechanic,  but 
actually  in  one  of  my  own  cottages. 
You  see  how  this  rank  poison  is 
spreading.  There  is  a  cry  of  turn- 
ing out  the  '  Tory  nominee,'  as  they 
call  our  member;  and  they  have- 
set  up  what  they  call  a  Hampden 
Club  under  our  very  eyes." 

"But  these  men  are  not  the 
voters." 

"  And  in  other  ways  the  town  i» 
changed.  The  mills  have  become 
a  power  in  the  place  ;  and  it  is 
that  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all." 

"  But  who  have  they  got  to« 
stand?  There's  no  one  in  the 
county " 

"  Oh,  a  man  from  London — somei 
friend  of  Sir  Francis  Burdett  and' 
Lord  Cochrane,  no  doubt.  But  he- 
has  money,  and  that's  what  they 
want." 

"  Do  you  know  who  it  is  ?" 

"  His  name  is  Prescot,  they  say." 

"The  devil  it  is!  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  aunt." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  him,, 
then?" 

"I  should  think  so.  He's  a 
great  man  with  all  that  lot — as. 
well  known  as  any  one  in  town. 
He's  a  banker,  and  as  rich  as  a 
Jew.  He's  an  awful  rascal,  I  fancy, 
but  tremendously  good-looking; 
and  he  can  talk,  too,  they  say.  By 
Jove !  every  woman  in  the  place- 


1670.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


will  turn  Whig  as  soon  as  lie's  been 
an  hour  in  it,  if  all's  true  I  hear. 
Poor  old  Tom  won't  have  a  chance." 

Now  "poor  old  Tom"  was  a 
certain  Captain  Johnston,  a  harm- 
less old  gentleman,  who  had  repre- 
sented the  Clares  in  Parliament  for 
the  last  thirty  years — who  was,  in 
fact,  the  objectionable  "  Tory  nomi- 
nee." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  think  too. 
I  feel  that  Captain  Johnston  will 
b  3  no  use  to  stand  a  serious  contest. 
And  so  what  I  wanted  to  say  to 
you  is,  that  you  must  come  forward 
yourself." 

"My  dear  aunt!" 

"  You  are  of  age,  you  know." 

"  Why,  Prescot  would  thrash  me 
worse  than  Johnston." 

"  Not  at  all.  You  are  a  Clare, 
you  know,  in  all  but  the  name,  and 
master  of  Earl's  Dene." 

This  was  not  bad  reasoning.  The 
electors  of  Denethorp  might  object 
to  be  any  longer  represented  by  a 
"  warming-pan,"  as  the  phrase  is  ; 
but  the  heir  of  Earl's  Dene  was 
their  representative  by  nature. 
Hugh  felt  the  force  of  the  argu- 
ment at  once.  He  certainly  did 
not  enter  into  Miss  Clare's  views 
as  to  his  candidature  with  much 
enthusiasm  ;  for  he  feared,  and  not 
without  reason,  according  to  com- 
mon experience,  that  being  in  the 
House  would  probably  be  more 
troublesome  than  pleasant,  and  he 
was  not  ambitious.  But  still  he 
did  not  for  a  moment  dream  of 
combating  them.  Wnatever  h*8 
private  inclinations  might  be,  sup- 
posing that  he  was  capable  of  con- 
sidering the  matter  as  presenting 
an  alternative,  he  would  feel  him- 
self bound,  as  a  gentleman,  to  do 
whatever  might  be  expected  of  him 
as  the  future  head  of  a  great  county 
family,  and  as  one  of  the  Clares  of 
Earl's  Dene.  "Noblesse  oblige" 
Every  great  house  has  its  tradi- 
tions, which  are  respected  and  ac- 
cepted by  its  own  county,  and  must 
be  respected  and  accepted  by  itself : 
which,  when  broken  through  by 
some  degenerate  member  of  it,  crush 


the  apostate  with  their  fragments. 
The  heir  of  Earl's  Dene  was  far  too 
sensible — if  such  a  word  can  be 
used  to  express  what  was  in  reality 
the  result  of  instinct — not  to  ob- 
serve to  the  full  the  traditional 
policy  of  his  family  in  every  essen- 
tial particular.  It  would  have 
seemed  to  him  to  be  treason  to  act 
otherwise.  And  so  he  submitted 
to  become  the  candidate  for  Dene- 
thorp  with  the  best  grace  in  the 
world,  and  without  farther  protest 
— with  the  same  readiness  to  do 
what  he  could  to  win,  and  with  the 
same  zeal  for  his  side  that  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  bringing  to  bear 
upon  more  congenial  contests. 

"  And  now  you  see,"  said  Miss 
Clare,  "  why  I  sent  for  you  so  sud- 
denly. No  time  must  be  lost.  Cap- 
tain Johnston's  address  is  out  al- 
ready, to  say  he  does  not  mean  ta 
stand,  and  your  own  is  prepared. 
You  must  ride  over  to  Denethorp- 
to-morrow  and  talk  to  White." 

"What  does  White  think  of 
things  1 " 

"Well,  he  always  speaks  candidly 
to  me,  and  he  is  not  sanguine.  But 
I  am.  We  must  not  be  beat, 
Hugh." 

"  And  we  won't,  aunt — not  if  I 
can  help  it." 

"  That's  right,  Hugh.  Pluck— I 
like  the  word — must  win ;  and  no 
Clare,  or  Lester  either,  has  ever 
wanted  that."  She  sighed,  how- 
ever, as  she  made  her  boast. 

"  I  fear  it  will  be  pluck  against 
pluck,  though,  and  money  against 
money." 

"  Then  blood  will  tell." 

"But,  from  what  you  say,  London 
is  making  itself  felt  in  the  place ; 
and  there,  blood  doesn't  seem  to  tell 
much." 

"  My  dear  boy,  Earl's  Dene  will 
always  be  as  good  as  London  in 

Denethorp,  which  is  in shirer 

and  not  in  Middlesex." 

"  Well,  I  will  see  White  to-mor- 
row, by  all  means.  And  don't  fear 
that  I  won't  do  all  I  know." 

"  Not  fearing  that,  I  fear  no- 
thing." 


10 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


"  I  wish  I  could  speak  like  Pres- 
cot,  though." 

"  Much  best  not.  The  best  ora- 
tor is,  after  all,  the  man  who  says 
nothing  but  what  is  in  him ;  and 
that  can  always  be  said  in  a  very 
few  words.  You  will  speak  well 
enough  ;  and,  indeed,  I  think  that 
a  gentleman  should  not  speak  too 
well.  Speeches  are  the  weapons 
of  demagogues,  which  a  gentleman 
should  scorn.  No — I  should  no 


more  like  to  see  you  the  match  of 
a  man  like  Mr  Prescot,  than  I 
should  like  to  think  you  could  use 
your  fists  like  a  prize-fighter.  To- 
morrow you  shall  tell  me  all  the 
London  news.  Now  I  will  intro- 
duce you  to  Miss  Raymond.  She 
has  been  taking  a  turn  on  the  ter- 
race while  I  was  talking  to  you. 
No — don't  move  ;  I  would  rather 
call  her  myself." 


CHAPTER  III. 


Hugh  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
passed  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

Miss  Raymond  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room through  the  glass  door 
that  opened  upon  the  terrace  ;  and 
her  old  playmate  saw  at  once  that 
his  presentiment  had  turned  out 
to  be  right,  and  that  she  had  turned 
out  something  very  nice  indeed. 

But  descriptions  of  people,  though 
they  are  to  a  certain  extent  unavoid- 
able, are  always  tedious,  and  never 
quite  satisfactory.  No  one  ever 
learned  to  know  a  person  from  the 
best  description.  And  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  without  some  amount 
of  personal  description,  character 
would  be  unintelligible  altogether. 
Fortunately,  however,  Miss  Ray- 
mond belonged  to  a  large  and  easily 
described  type.  She  was  young — 
just  of  age,  according  to  Miss  Clare 
— and  with  her  tall  but  well-devel- 
oped and  graceful  figure,  bright,  but 
not  too  clear  complexion,  grey  hazel 
eyes,  brown  hair,  and  regular,  but 
not  too  regular,  features  ;  and,  best 
of  all,  with  her  bright  and  open  ex- 
pression and  ready  smile, — was  in 
appearance  all  that  a  young  English 
girl  ought  to  be,  and  still  is  some- 
times. It  need  only  be  added  that 
one  who  was  not  an  amateur  of  this 
style  of  beauty  might,  with  some 
reason,  have  asked  for  a  little  more 
warmth  and  richness,  in  expression 
as  well  as  in  colouring.  But  this  is 
a  matter  wholly  of  individual  taste. 
After  all,  if  freshness  and  purity 
suggest  coldness,  it  only  follows 


that  a  certain  amount  of  coldness  is 
not  to  be  despised.  It  is  absurd  to 
quarrel  with  England,  because  it 
has  not  at  the  same  time  both  green 
fields  and  a  southern  sun. 

"  I  hope  your  solitary  stroll  has 
not  tired  you,"  said  Miss  Clare. 
"  Let  me  introduce  my  nephew  to 
you — Hugh,  you  know." 

"  I  hope  Miss  Raymond  will  not 
need  an  introduction,"  said  the  lat- 
ter, politely.  "  I  can  assure  you, 
Miss  Raymond,  that  I  have  not  for- 
gotten our  old  acquaintance,  which 
is,  after  all,  not  so  excessively  old." 

"  Nor  have  I — and  I  am  delight- 
ed to  renew  it."  She  had  a  very 
sweet  voice,  with  an  honest  ring 
about  it,  as  though  she  used  it  only 
to  say  the  whole  of  what  she  meant, 
and  never  a  word  less  or  more. 

"  And  I  hope  it  will  not  be  inter- 
rupted for  so  long  again.  You  have 
been  a  great  traveller,  I  hear?" 

"  Enough  at  all  events  to  be  glad 
to  be  home  again." 

"  Which,  after  all,  is  the  great 
use  of  travel,  is  it  not  1 "  said  Miss 
Clare. 

And  so  the  three  dropped  into 
a  pleasant  ordinary  sort  of  chat, 
in  which,  however,  Miss  Clare  did 
little  but  listen.  Her  nephew — he 
may  as  well  be  called  what  he  was 
called  by  everybody — and  her  guest 
found  plenty  to  say  to  one  another, 
for  neither  was  of  a  silent  nature  ; 
and  Hugh  passed  altogether  a  very 
much  more  lively  evening  than  he 
had  expected,  for,  with  his  out-of- 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


11 


door  nature,  lie  could  not  help 
finding  his  aunt's  quiet  and  usually 
solitary  evenings  a  little  wearisome. 
If  he  had  to  give  up  the  rest  of  the 
London  season,  as  now  seemed  pro- 
bable, the  presence  of  the  young 
lady,  he  thought,  would  render  his 
canvass  much  less  dull,  especially 
as  she  had  declared  herself  to  be 
passionately  fond  of  riding.  She 
was  now,  he  learned,  living  in 
London  with  a  distant  relation 
who  had  been  one  of  her  guardians 
during  her  minority  ;  but  that  she 
hf  ted  town — so  she  said,  at  least — 
aid  fully  intended  that  New  Court, 
of  which  she  was  mistress  in  her 
own  right,  should  for  the  future 
see  a  great  deal  of  her.  Altogether 
their  tastes  seemed  to  match  in  a 
most  remarkable  manner,  except 
with  regard  to  the  pleasures  of 
town.  Even  had  he  not  seen  that 
si  e"  was  something  much  better,  he 
would  have  given  her  a  high  place 
in  his  good  opinion,  as  "  a  girl  with 
no  nonsense  about  her." 

Was  Miss  Clare  a  match-maker  1 
It  was  not  her  way  to  do  anything 
unusual  without  some  definite  pur- 
pose, and  the  presence  of  a  guest 
at  Earl's  Dene  was  something  very 
unusual.  But  Hugh  was  not  given 
to  speculation  ;  and  it  can  only  be 
said  that,  if  she  had  any  plan  in 
her  head  about  him  and  Alice 
Raymond,  and  if  she  succeeded  in 
carrying  it  out,  it  woidd  be  all  the 
better  for  Hugh.  Wives  like  the 
n  istress  of  New  Court  are  not 
found  every  day — no,  nor  often 
twice  in  a  lifetime,  seeing  that  she 
was  young,  pretty,  amiable,  lively, 
accomplished,  of  good  birth,  rich, 
with  no  relations,  and  completely 
mistress  of  herself  and  of  her  purse. 
But  this  by  the  way. 

At  last  the  evening  drew  to  a 
close,  and  the  two  ladies  retired, 
leaving  Hugh  to  stroll  about  and 
enjoy  his  cigar  in  the  pleasant  night 
air  j  for,  since  he  had  been  in  Lon- 
don, he  had  fallen  into  a  habit  of 
crowning  the  day  in  a  manner  wrhich 
was  by  no  means  universal  in  times 
^  hen  a  pipe  was  almost  the  brand 


of  a  sot,  and  a  cigar  of  a  rake. 
It  is  probable  that  Madam  Clare 
was  ignorant  of  this  habit  of  his, 
for  she  had  never  mentioned  it 
to  him,  and  it  is  very  certain 
that  she  would  have  objected  to 
so  foreign  an  innovation  most 
strongly. 

In  spite  of  his  long  conversation 
with  his  aunt  upon  the  subject,  his 
head  was  by  no  means  overflowing 
with  politics  as  he  enjoyed  this 
gift  of  a  Peninsular  friend  of  his. 
He  was  in  that  pleasant  frame  of 
mind  that  is  caused  by  the  influence 
of  a  good  dinner,  a  pleasant  even- 
ing, bodily  fatigue,  and  the  ex- 
change of  the  noise  of  town  for 
country  quietness.  Earl's  Dene 
was  simply  the  quietest  place  in 
the  whole  world — just  fit,  in  fact, 
to  be  the  dwelling-place  of  the  very 
old  and  the  very  young;  and 
though  its  heir  was  not  of  an  age 
to  appreciate  perfect  repose  for 
long  together,  still  there  is  no  time 
of  life  at  which  a  sudden  plunge 
into  a  bath  of  silence  is  not  refresh- 
ing, and,  for  a  few  hours,  the  most 
delightful  thing  in  the  world.  And 
so  he  found  it,  while,  in  that  most 
pleasant  of  all  mental  conditions 
which  is  called  thinking  of  nothing, 
he  looked  from  the  terrace  over  the 
broad  green  park,  over  the  spire  of 
the  little  church  of  Graylford,  over 
the  silver  Grayl  itself,  now  in  the 
moonlight  more  silver  than  ever, 
and  over  the  tall  woods,  which  had 
but  just  exchanged  the  green  of 
spring  for  that  of  summer,  to  the 
low,  faintly  purple  hills  that 
marked  the  border  of  the  Wold 
country. 

While  thus  engaged,  one  of  Miss 
Clare's  keepers  came  up  to  him. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  down  here 
again,  sir,"  he  said,  touching  his 
cap. 

"  I'm  always  glad  to  be  down 
here,  Roberts,"  he  answered,  with 
the  inconsistency  of  honesty.  "  And 
how  are  things  doing  ?" 

"Oh,  sir,  pretty  fairish.  Not 
much  doing  though,  sir." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.     I  expect 


12 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


you've  all  of  you  been  lazy  enough 
since  I  was  here  last. " 

"  Well  sir,  there's  mostly  things 
to  be  done.  But  you  see,  Mr  Hugh, 
June  isn't  September." 

"And  you  wish  it  was,  no 
doubt?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  takes  things  as  they 
be,  and  they  mostly  comes  pretty 
right,  take  'em  all  in  all." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Ro- 
berts. I  should  like  to  think  when 
I  go  to  bed  to-night  that  one  was 
going  to  have  a  fling  at  the  birds  in 
the  morning." 

"  Well,  sir,  maybe  you're  right. 
But  I  don't  know — maybe  Sep- 
tember wouldn't  come  so  pleasant 
if  June  didn't  come  once  a-year  or 
so.  And  how  do  you  find  madam, 
sir?" 

"Well,  she  doesn't  seem  com- 
plaining." 

"  I  be  glad  of  that,  Mr  Hugh. 
But  you  see  your  being  here  cheers 
her  up  a  bit  like.  I  be  feared  she 
do  find  it  but  dull  when  you're  up 
and  gone.  All  on  us  do  that,  sir." 

"  Then  I  must  stay  as  long  as  I 
can,  for  your  sakes." 

"I  hope  you  will,  sir.  But  if 
you  ben't  too  busy,  just  now,  Mr 
Hugh " 

"  I  don't  look  so,  do  I  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  there  be  something  I 
wanted  to  mention." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why  you  see,  sir,  madam  be 
main  special  about  things,  and 
don't  like  folk  coming  all  nohow 
into  the  place,  special  just  now, 
among  the  does,  you  know,  sir :  and 
I  have  to  look  after  'em.  And  she 
be  right,  too,  sir,  what  with  all 
them  hands  out  of  the  town,  and 
such " 

"Well?" 

"Well,  sir,  most  all  mornings, 
ever  since  they  be  got  fine,  when 
I  be  down  past  the  Lodge  Park, 
where  the  does  be,  I  see  a  young 
lady — leastwise  a  young  'oman,  sir, 
though  I  don't  say  as  she  ben't  a 
young  lady " 

"  Eeally  ?     This  is  interesting." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  be.    Well,  Mr  Hugh, 


this  young  lady — for  I  be  nigh  sure 
she  be  a  lady — gets  over  the  rails  of 
the  Lodge  Park,  sir,  right  amid  the 
does " 

"  She  can't  be  very  careful  of  her 
clothes,  then,  unless  the  fence  has 
been  mended." 

"  Nor  of  the  does,  sir.  Well,  of 
course  that  frights  the  things  a  bit, 
not  knowing  of  her  as  they  knows 
me " 

"Well?" 

"Well,  sir,  that  be  all." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  so 
very  alarming.  Why  don't  you 
speak  to  her,  or  to  Miss  Clare  ?  I 
suppose  she's  not  a  mill-hand,  as 
you  call  her  a  young  lady  ? " 

"I'd  ha'  spoke  to  her  pretty 
sharp,  if  she'd  been  that.  And  you 
see,  sir,  as  how  madam  be  rather 
put  about,  just  now,  what  with  the 
doctors  and  the  'lection  lawyers : 
and  then  she  don't  like  to  be  vexed 
with  things;  she'd  say  as  'twere 
my  work  to  look  after  the  does " 

"  And  after  the  young  ladies  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  I  didn't  like  to 
speak  to  the  young  lady  without 
just  asking  a  word — she  might  be 
a  town  lady,  sir  ;  and,  as  'lection 
time  be  nigh " 

Hugh  laughed.  "I  see,"  he  said : 
"go  on." 

"  It  might  get  set  about,  sir,  as 
how  one  of  madam's  men  had  un- 
behaved  to  a  Denethorp  lady,  and 
then  madam  might  blow  me  up  for 
it.  And  so  I  thought  as  I'd  best 
wait  till  you  was  come  down,  sir  ; 
for,  says  I,  if  anybody  knows  what 
to  do  in  a  case,  it  be  just  Mr  Hugh." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Ro- 
berts. Young  ladies  are  sometimes 
hard  cases  to  tackle.  But  you  have 
done  quite  rightly.  What  does  she 
do  in  the  Lodge  Park  ?  Walk  there  ? 
I  should  have  thought  she  could 
have  found  a  better  place  for  a 
morning  walk  than  there,  especially 
as  she  has  to  scramble  over  the 
rails.  Is  she  young,  did  you  say  ? " 

"  She  be  youngish  ;  but  I  don't 
think  she  have  got  a  sweetheart — 
I'd  ha'  soon  spoke  up  to  him" 

"  I've  no  doubt  you  would." 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


13 


"  And  what  she  does,  sir,  I  can't 
say,  as  I  can't  make  out,  like.'7 

41  What  time  does  she  go  ?" 

"  Early,  sir — about  seven,  most 
days  ;  some  days  before." 

''Well,  Roberts,  you  have  done 
quite  right  in  waiting  to  see  me. 
I'd  best  speak  myself  to  my  aunt 
— or,  better  still,  to  the  young  lady 
herself — why  not  ?  I'll  get  up  to- 
morrow on  purpose.  Where  does 
she  get  over?" 

"  Just  by  the  big  beech,  sir." 

"  I  know.  You'll  just  keep  out 
of  the  way " 

"  All  right,  Mr  Hugh." 

"  And,  if  she  comes,  I'll  manage 
matters." 

"  Take  care  if  she  be  a  Denethorp 
lady,  sir." 

"  All  right.  I  shall  certainly  take 
care  not  to  offend  the  most  influen- 
tial half  of  my  future  constituents. 
By  Jove  !  I'll  remember  that :  it'll 
make  a  capital  tag  to  a  speech. 
Prescot  himself  couldn't  have  put 
it  better." 

"  And  the  does,  Mr  Hugh  1" 

"  Shall  be  driven  no  more." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  And  I  hope  I 
did  right,  sir  ?" 


"  Quite.  You  have  shown  your- 
self to  be  a  man  of  both  gallantry 
and  discretion." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Is  there  anything  I 
can  do  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  there  is.  By 
the  way,  I  think  of  trying  for  a 
trout  or  two  to-morrow,  after  I've 
been  over  in  the  town.  Perhaps 
young  Mr  Warden  might  come  over. 
How's  the  brook?" 

"  First-rate,  sir." 

"  Then  come  to  me  before  break- 
fast to-morrow,  and  we'll  talk  about 
it. — Well,"  continued  Hugh  to  him- 
self, "if  I'm  to  take  Roberts' s  place 
in  watching  the  does  to-morrow 
morning,  and  have  to  be  at  the  big 
beech  by  seven  —  by  Jove  !  It 
sounds  like  a  rendezvous.  I  must 
turn  in  forthwith." 

But  he  did  not  turn  in  forthwith  ; 
for  he  lighted  another  cigar,  and 
did  not  leave  the  terrace  for  a  good 
hour  longer.  If  Miss  Raymond 
could  have  read  his  thoughts  just 
then,  she  would  have  felt  flattered : 
nor  would  he  have  been  the  reverse 
of  flattered  could  he  have  read 
hers. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 


Nevertheless,  however  much  he 
may  have  thought  about  Miss  Ray- 
mond, and  dreamed  of  her  after- 
wards— supposing  so  admirable  a 
sleeper  to  have  dreamed  about  any- 
thing at  all  —  he  was  not  a  little 
jimused  and  interested  by  his  pro- 
spective adventure,  slight  as  it  was; 
:md  he  rose  in  excellent  time  for 
arriving  at  the  great  beech  by  seven 
o'clock. 

Before  getting  up,  however,  he 
took  care  to  learn  what  sort  of 
weather  it  was,  with  a  strong  hope 
that  it  would  prove  to  be  raining 
cats  and  dogs,  or  at  least  that  it 
would  be  such  as  to  furnish  him 
with  an  excuse  for  putting  off  the 
matter  to  another  day ;  for  early 
rising  was  not  one  of  his  habits, 
particularly  after  a  journey.  How- 


ever, he  was  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. The  sun  was  shining  bright- 
ly, and  the  air  was  both  fresh  and 
warm.  So  he  turned  out  heroically, 
and  found  himself  all  the  better 
for  having  made  the  exertion. 

But,  setting  aside  the  difficulties 
of  getting  out  of  bed,  there  are 
many  other  things  that  seem  easy 
enough  the  night  before,  but  wear 
a  very  different  aspect  next  morn- 
ing, when  they  have  actually  to  be 
done.  Last  night  the  matter  seem- 
ed trivial  and  easy  enough ;  but, 
in  cold  blood,  and  before  breakfast, 
too,  to  have  to  tell  a  young  lady 
that  she  is  trespassing,  and  to  warn 
her  off,  was  not  an  agreeable  errand 
for  one  who  had  begun  to  pique 
himself  upon  his  politeness  to  wo- 
men. Hugh  hoped,  in  that  corner 


14 


Earl's  Dene— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


of  his  heart  where,  in  spite  of  his 
easy  manners,  he  still  hoarded  a 
plentiful  stock  of  shyness,  that  the 
young  lady  might  prove  to  be 
neither  a  lady  nor  young.  That 
she  might  turn  out  to  be  pretty  he 
neither  hoped  nor  feared.  He  did 
not  hope  it,  because  Denethorp 
was  by  no  means  rich  in  pretty 
girls  at  that  period  of  its  history ; 
and  his  shyness  was  certainly  not 
so  great  as  to  make  him  afraid  of 
looking  at  a  pretty  face.  He  ran 
over  in  his  mind  the  whole  list  of 
people  in  which  the  mysterious 
trespasser  could  possibly  be  includ- 
ed. Not  the  parson's  wife,  or  any 
of  his  daughters — they  were  not 
likely  to  be  walking  all  the  way  to 
Earl's  Dene — a  distance  of  full  four 
miles — to  gather  dew  in  solitude. 
Nor  for  that  matter  were  the  wives 
or  daughters  of  any  one  in  Dene- 
thorp  with  whom  he  was  in  the 
least  acquainted.  So  he  was  driven 
to  conclude  that  it  must  be  some 
tradesman's  daughter  who  had 
caught  some  of  the  prevailing  taste 
of  the  day  for  sentimental  eccentri- 
city, or  else  had  formed  exaggerated 
ideas  as  to  the  value  of  the  morn- 
ing air  as  a  cosmetic.  The  notion 
that  she  might  meet  a  lover  there 
he  dismissed  from  his  mind  at  once ; 
for  however  women  may  be  con- 
stituted in  such  matters,  reason  and 
experience  alike  told  him  that  to 
suppose  for  a  moment  that  any 
man  could  possibly  be  so  much  in 
love  as  to  get  up  at  six  o'clock 
morning  after  morning  to  carry  on 
a  courtship  in  the  long  damp  grass 
of  the  Lodge  Park,with  the  certainty 
of  catching  cold,  and  the  strong 
chance  of  being  punished  as  a  tres- 
passer, was  to  suppose  a  gross  ab- 
surdity. So,  at  least,  he  thought 
in  his  youthful  cynicism.  A  better 
reason  for  his  conclusion  was,  that 
Roberts,  whose  eyes  were  pretty 
sharp,  had  been  of  the  same  opinion. 
In  order,  therefore,  to  satisfy  his 
curiosity  before  proceeding  to  ac- 
tion, he  took  up  a  position  from 
which,  without  being  himself  seen, 
he  had  a  clear  view  of  the  great 


beech,  whose  arms,  spreading  well 
over  the  paling  of  the  Lodge  Park, 
afforded  a  favourite  shelter  for  the 
persecuted  does. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Scarcely 
had  he  lighted  a  cigar,  when,  sure 
enough,  he  saw  approaching  along 
the  line  of  trees  that  led  from  the 
main  avenue  to  the  beech  in  which 
they  ended,  a  figure  which  was  as 
plainly  young  as  it  was  that  of  a 
lady.  He  had  a  full  view  of  her 
very  soon,  and  plenty  of  time  to 
observe  her  as  she  came  towards 
the  tree. 

What  he  saw  was  nothing  very 
much,  after  all.  It  was  only  a 
small,  slight  figure,  dressed  in  dark 
stuff,  the  colour  of  which  matched 
a  complexion  into  which  the  morn- 
ing air  and  exercise  had  brought  a 
little  more  freshness  than  was  ap- 
parently habitual  to  it ;  a  face  re- 
markable for  little  but  a  thoughtful 
but  pleasant  smile  ;  and  brown  hair 

fathered  away  under  a  shabby  hat. 
he  carried  something  in  her  hand 
that  looked  like  a  book. 

Hugh  waited  until  she  reached 
the  tree,  and,  raising  herself  light- 
ly and  gracefully  upon  a  swelling 
of  the  round  bole  near  the  root, 
had  shown  an  evident  intention  of 
placing  the  paling  between  herself 
and  the  turf  of  the  avenue.  Then, 
thinking  it  high  time  to  enter  upon 
the  scene  before  she  had  succeeded 
in  placing  herself  in  the  awkward 
position  of  being  caught  in  the  very 
act  of  climbing  over — awkward  not 
only  morally,  but  physically — and 
politely  denying  himself  the  chance 
of  thus  seeing  the  turn  of  her  ankle — 
he  left  his  place  of  half -concealment, 
and,  advancing  towards  her  in  such 
a  manner  as  not  to  take  her  by  sur- 
prise, he  raised  his  hat,  threw  away 
his  cigar,  and  said,  stupidly  enough 
— for,  having  made  up  his  mind  as 
he  came  along  as  to  what  he  ought 
to  say,  he  of  course  did  not  say 
it,— 

"  I  am  exceedingly  sorry — but — 
Miss  Clare  is  very  particular  about 
the  deer  not  being  driven  ;  and  so 
— just  now " 


1870.] 


Earls  Dene.— Part  III. 


15 


The  culprit,  thus  caught  red- 
haiided,  as  it  were,  turned  round 
suddenly ;  and,  finding  herself  ad- 
dressed by  one  who  was  so  evi- 
dently a  gentleman  as  Hugh  Lester, 
and  who  was  so  evidently  desirous, 
if  he  only  knew  how,  of  treating 
her  politely,  blushed  slightly,  as 
she;  answered — forgetting,  however, 
to  step  down  again  upon  the  turf 
—in  an  accent  that  was  neither 
of  Denethorp  nor  of  any  place  in 
Er  gland, — 

"Am  I  doing  wrong,  sir?" 

The  "  sir ';  grated  upon  his  ears 
a  little ;  it  was  not  as  "  good  style  " 
as  the  rest  of  her  manner  and  ap- 
pe  \rance.  But  the  voice  in  which 
the  objectionable  word  had  been 
uttered  was  altogether  superior  to 
style. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all ;  but,  as  I  said, 
my  aunt — Miss  Clare,  that  is — is 
very  particular  about  not  allowing 
any  one  in  the  Lodge  Park ;  and 
though  I  have  no  doubt  she  would 
mike  an  exception  in  your  case, 
still,  you  understand — at  least,  I 
hope  you  see — that  —  I  am  very 
sorry  to  have  interrupted  your 
walk."  Lame  and  impotent  con- 
clusion ! 

T/ie  Lady,  naively. — "  I  am  very 
scrry  too ;  but  if  Miss  Clare  does 
not  permit  it,  of  course  I  must  not 
go  there.  Of  course  I  did  not 
know  I  was  doing  wrong." 

Lester. — "Nor  were  you  —  that 
is — but,  after  all,  the  Lodge  Park 
is  not  the  pleasantest  part  of  the 
place,  and  there  can  be  no  objec- 
tion to  your  going  everywhere  else 
as  much  and  as  often  as  you  please. 
And  so  I  have  not  confined  your 
walk  so  very  much.  I  hope  you 
will  not  let  me  think  I  have  offend- 
ed you  by  avoiding  Earl's  Dene, 
or  I  should  be  sorry  indeed." 

The  Lady,  rather  stiffly.—"  Thank 
you.  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  am 
certainly  not  offended." 

Lester,  seeing  that  he  had  made 
a  blunder  in  the  form  of  his  last 
speech. — "I  am  glad  of  that.  I 
was  afraid  you  might  think  you  had 
not  been  treated  very  courteously." 


The  Lady,  descending  from  her 
perch,  and,  after  a  short  pause, 
during  which  she  had  been  con- 
sidering.— "  Pray  do  not  mention 
it.  It  is  I  who  ought  to  apologise. 
But  as  I  have  been  here  a  good 
many  mornings  now,  of  course  I 
thought  there  was  no  harm." 

Another  pause.     Then, — • 

The  Lady,  with  a  sudden  frank- 
ness, and  as  though  her  mind  was 
quite  made  up. — "  I  should  only 
have  come  once  or  twice  more." 

Lester. — "Might  I  ask  if  you  have 
any  special  purpose,  then,  for  wish- 
ing to  come  here  1  If  so,  no  doubt 
Miss  Clare  would  give  you  permis- 
sion willingly." 

The  Lady.—11  Yes ;  and  I  should 
certainly  like  to  be  able  to  come 
once  or  twice  again."  Lester  wait- 
ed for  her  to  explain.  "  In  fact  it 
was  the  deer  that  tempted  me." 

Lester,  mystified.—"  The  deer  V} 

The  Lady.— "Yes -}  to  study 
them." 

Lester. — "  Ah,  I  see.  You  are  an 
artist,  then?" 

The  Lady. — "  I  am  a  learner." 

Lester. — "  Then  I  beg  your  pardon 
more  than  ever.  I  know  Miss  Clare 
would  be  only  too  happy  to  let  you 
sketch  her  deer." 

The  Lady,  evidently  not  intend- 
ing to  let  her  chance  slip. — "I 
should  be  so  glad  !  But  she  might 
not  like  it ;  and " 

Lester. — "  Oh,  she  would  be  sure 
to  make  no  objection.  On  the 
contrary,  she  would  feel  flattered. 
But  I  cannot  give  you  leave  myself. 
I  must  speak  to  her  first " 

The  Lady.—"  Of  course.  But  I 
hope  you  will  not  put  yourself  to 
any  trouble  on  my  account " 

Lester. — "  It  would  be  no  trouble 
at  all.  How  could  it  be  1  Let  me 
see — I  will  speak  to  Miss  Clare  to- 
day ;  but  how  can  I  let  you  know 
her  answer  1  But  it  would  be  sure 
to  be  all  right ;  and  you  could 
come  here  to-morrow,  if  you  like, 
very  safely." 

The  Lady.—"  I  should  not  like 
to,  without  knowing." 

Lester,  struck  by  a  good  thought. 


16 


EarTs  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


— "  Then  she  or  I  could  write  you 
a  note.  You  would  get  it  to-day, 
if  you  live  at  Denethorp,  as  I  sup- 
pose you  do  ;  so,  if  you  would  tell 
me  your  address 

Tlie  Lady,  gratefully. — "  You  are 
most  kind  indeed,  sir,  and  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  trouble  you  or  Miss 
Clare  so  much  as  that ;  and,  as  it 
is,  I  am  ashamed  of  seeming  so 
persistent  about  what  you  must, 
I'm  sure,  think  a  mere  caprice." 

Lester. — "  What  trouble  could  it 
possibly  be  1  If  you  will  tell  me 
your  address,  I  shall  remember  it." 

The  Lady. — "  Then,  as  you  are 
so  kind  —  Miss  Lefort,  23  Market 
Street." 

Lester.  —  "  Thanks.  You  shall 
hear  to-day,  or  to-morrow  at  farth- 
est. Meanwhile  I  will  take  it  up- 
on myself  to  ask  you  to  finish  your 
sketch  this  morning." 

The  Lady.—  "Thanks  indeed; 
but  I  could  not  think  of  such  a 
thing." 

Lester. — "  But  why  not  1  Sure- 
ly  " 

The  Lady,  resolutely. — "  I  would 
rather  not  now,  indeed.  I  would 
much  rather  wait  till  I  can  come 
with  Miss  Clare's  permission." 

Lester. — "  I  am  afraid  you  are 
angry  with  me  ?  " 

The  Lady,  very  coldly.— "  Not  at 
all— why  should  I  be  1 " 

Lester. — "For  having  interrupted 
your  studies  for  a  whole  morning. 
And  the  least  I  can  do " 

The  Lady,  with  a  smile.  — "I 
daresay  you  have  not  done  my 
studies  very  much  harm." 

Lester. — "  But  I  cannot  allow  you 
to  have  had  your  long  walk  for  no- 
thing. I  must  really  ask  you  to  re- 
main this  morning,  if  only  to  set  my 
conscience  at  ease." 
>  The  Lady.—11  But  I  do  not  con- 
sider that  I  have  had  my  walk  for 
nothing,  by  any  means.  To  meet 
with  kindness  surely  cannot  be 
called  nothing.  But,  indeed,  I 
would  very  much  rather  put  off  my 
sketch  till  another  time." 

Lester,  seeing  that  she  did  not  in- 
tend to  be  persuaded. — "Then,  since 


you  will  not  do  me  this  kindness,  I 
will  see  that  it  shall  be  finished  as 
soon  as  possible.  But  I  am  sorry — 
I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  re- 
main." 

The  Lady. — "You  are  most  kind 
indeed.  It  is  I  that  ought  to  be 
sorry." 

Lester,  not  liking  to  press  her 
farther. — "  You  have  no  occasion  to 
be,  I  assure  you.  By  the  way,  Miss 
Lefort,  if  I  might  ask  you,  are  you 
living  in  Denethorp  ?  If  you  are 
visiting,  I  may  very  likely  know 
something  of  your  friends." 

Tlie  Lady.  — "We  have  been 
many  years  in  Denethorp.  My 
father  is  a  teacher  of  French." 

Lester.— "  Oh,  I  think  I  have 
heard  of  him.  I  hope  that  he  finds 
the  place  suit  him,  and  that  he  has 
no  want  of  pupils  1 " 

Tlie  Lady.—"  Oh,  he  does  well 
enough.  But  now  I  must  wish 
you  good  morning,  and  thank  you 
once  more." 

She  made  him  a  grave  bow,  which 
Lester  answered  by  raising  his  hat, 
and  was  gone.  He  wished  that  he 
had  been  able  to  persuade  her  to 
remain,  and  failing  in  this,  would 
have  willingly  invented  an  excuse 
for  seeing  her  as  far  as  the  great 
gates  :  but  as  that,  to  judge  from 
her  manner,  was  wholly  out  of  the 
question,  he  lighted  another  cigar, 
and,  with  a  good  appetite  for  break- 
fast, strolled  quietly  back  to  the 
house. 

On  reaching  the  garden  he  met 
Miss  Raymond. 

"  Why,  what  an  early  riser  you 
are  !  "  she  said. 

"  Not  in  general,  I  am  afraid." 

"So  I  hear  you  are  going  into 
Parliament?" 

"  My  aunt  has  told  you  ?  Yes, 
if  I  win." 

"  Of  course  you  will  win." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,  if  you  canvass 
for  me.  Prescot,  they  say,  turns 
the  heads  of  all  the  women  ;  but  if 
you  appear  in  the  field,  I  shall  have 
one  on  my  side  worth  a  host." 

"  But  suppose  Mr  Prescot  turned 
mine  with  the  others  ?" 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  III. 


17 


'•Then  I  should  at  once  retire 
from  the  contest.  The  election 
would  be  virtually  decided.  Will 
iny  aunt  be  down  to  breakfast  V 

"  She  is  down." 

"Already]  Is  it  so  late?  By 
Jove,  so  it  is  ! " ' 

"  Do  you  call  this  late — yon,  a 
Londoner  1" 

"  I  meant  I  did  not  know  I  had 
been  out  so  long.  I  have  been 
having  a  rendezvous  with  a  young 
lady,  you  must  know." 

"  With  a  young  lady  V 

"It  is  quite  true,  I  assure  you. 
I  arranged  it  last  night  before  I 
went  to  bed." 

''You  certainly  make  good  use 
of  your  time.  But  what  do  you 
mean  1 " 

"'  I  have  spoken  the  exact  truth." 

"  Nonsense.  Come  into  break- 
fast— that  will  be  more  amiable 
than  asking  riddles.  Miss  Clare 
has  been  down  this  half-hour." 

"  I  will  come  then,  since  you 
lead.  And  you  shall  hear  my  con- 
fession." 

At  the  breakfast-table  he  gave 
a  lively  account  of  his  adventure, 


much  to  Miss  Raymond's  amuse- 
ment ;  but,  when  he  mentioned  the 
name  Lefort, — 

"Why,  surely,"  she  said,  "it 
can't  be  Angelique  ?  " 

"  And  who  is  Angelique  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  friend — my  travelling 
companion.  She  is  staying  with 
her  friends,  while  I  am  staying 
with  mine.  Oh,  I  daresay  it  is  her 
cousin — she  has  one.  By  the  way, 
Miss  Clare,  I  ought  to  call  on  the 
Leforts.  They  were  old  proteges 
of  my  dear  mother.  Could  I,  do 
you  think1?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  wish  it."  . 

"That  will  be  capital,"  said 
Hugh.  "  I  am  going  to  drive  over 
to  Denethorp  after  breakfast  to  see 
White.  If  you  like  to  trust  your- 
self with  me,  you  can  see  your 
friends  while  I  am  doing  my  talk. 
White  will  keep  me  some  time,  I 
daresay." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  delight- 
ful !  I  should  so  like  the  drive, 
but " 

But  Miss  Clare  made  no  objec- 
tion, and  so  the  arrangement  was 
made. 


CHAPTER  v. 


Leaving  Hugh  Lester  to  the  en- 
joyment of  his  well-earned  break- 
fast, Miss  Lefort,  when  he  parted 
from  her,  walked  quickly  but 
quietly  along  the  avenue  towards 
the  lodge,  naturally  rather  flurried 
by  her  unexpected  interruption, 
and  yet  rather  pleased  at  it  too ; 
something  in  the  same  way  as  a 
child  may  feel  pleased  by  the  ex- 
citement of  having  been  caught  in 
a  piece  of  mischief,  scolded,  and 
forgiven.  She  had  liked  the  man- 
ner of  her  new  acquaintance,  and 
felt  even  flattered  by  his  evident 
cure  to  be  polite  to  her  under  dif- 
ficulties. In  short,  she  had  been 
anything  but  offended  by  her  morn- 
ing's adventure.  In  this  mood  she 
traversed  the  long  three  miles  of 
dusty  highroad  leading  to  the  town, 
and  then,  passing  the  few  villas 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLI. 


and  ornamental  cottages,  the  exact 
reverse  of  ornamental,  that  showed 
Denethorp  to  be  what  builders  call 
an  improving  place,  and  a  narrow 
old-fashioned  street  or  two,  in  which 
still  remained  not  a  few  houses  with 
the  projecting  storeys  and  pointed 
roofs  of  centuries  ago,  stopped  be- 
fore a  bootmaker's  shop  that  bore 
the  number  23.  The  shutters  were 
not  yet  taken  down,  nor  was  the 
shop-door  open ;  but,  at  the  side 
entrance,  a  shabby,  red-armed  ser- 
vant-girl was  producing  a  miniature 
and  muddy  flood  by  scrubbing  and 
mopping  the  rough  pavement  in 
front  of  it.  Stepping  as  well  as 
she  could  over  the  barricade  of 
mops  and  pails,  Miss  Lefort  made 
her  way  up  a  dark  and  dusky  stair- 
case, smelling  of  close  windows,  to 
the  second  floor. 


18 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


The  room  which  Miss  Lefort 
entered  was  in  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
narrow  Market  Street;  that  is  to  say, 
upon  a  double  row  of  second  and 
third  rate  shops,  principally  pat- 
ronised by  the  small  farmers  of 
the  neighbourhood  who  drove  into 
town  on  Thursday  —  Denethorp 
market-day — and  looked  down  up- 
on by  the  wives  and  daughters  of 
the  mill -owners,  lawyers,  doctors, 
and  parsons,  who  composed  the 
aristocracy  and  plutocracy  of  the 
place,  and  who,  for  the  most  part, 
did  their  shopping  at  Redchester. 
It  was  therefore  for  six  days  out  of 
the  seven  rather  excessively  quiet, 
not  to  say  dull ;  and,  on  the  seventh, 
very  much  too  noisy.  This  parti- 
cular room  in  No.  23  was  not  of  a 
character  in  itself  to  mitigate  the 
effect  of  the  external  dulness  that 
reigned  from  Friday  to  Wednesday ; 
and  as  its  windows  commanded  the 
whole  length  of  the  street,  it  had 
the  full  benefit  of  the  one  day  of 
bustle.  It  was  small,  and  poorly 
furnished  in  what  may  be  called 
for  the  occasion,  after  the  same 
manner  as  that  in  which  one  speaks 
of  the  style  Pompadour  or  Louis 
XIV.,  or  de  la  Renaissance,  the 
style  criniere,  or  horse-hair  style 
— a  style  too  well  known  and  too 
unvarying  even  in  its  minutest  de- 
tails to  require  special  description. 
There  are  few  so  fortunate  as  never 
to  have  met  with  it  once ;  and  who- 
ever has  seen  one  specimen  knows 
as  much  about  it  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  hundred.  The  occupants  of  the 
room,  however,  had  more  individu- 
ality than  the  chairs  on  which  they 
had  to  sit — a  remark  that  cannot  be 
made  of  all  occupants  of  all  rooms, 
even  when  the  latter  are  not  fur- 
nished in  the  horse-hair  mode. 

The  group  which  they  formed 
consisted  of  two  young  children — 
a  boy  and  a  girl  of  about  nine  and 
seven  years  old  respectively,  who 
were  romping  noisily  upon  the 
hearth-rug  in  a  manner  that  would 
have  horrified  all  believers  in  the 
virtue  of  clean  clothes;  a  man  of 


about  fifty-five  at  the  least,  or  of 
seventy  at  the  most,  short,  thin, 
narrow-chested,  pale,  stooping,  bald, 
with  meagre  sharp  features,  a  yellow 
complexion,  and  long  and  lean  but 
delicate  hands,  shabbily  dressed  and 
unmistakably  a  foreigner,  who  was 
drinking  coffee  at  the  table  ;  and  a 
girl,  or  rather  young  woman,  who 
was  engaged  in  reading  a  letter  at 
the  window. 

She  was  like  Miss  Lefort,  and 
yet  not  like  her  at  the  same  time ; 
that  is  to  say,  there  was  a  vague 
and  general  resemblance  between 
the  two  in  an  altogether  indefin- 
able way,  and  a  wide  dissimilar- 
ity between  them  in  all  matters  of 
detail. 

Now  there  are  three  ways  of 
describing  the  appearance  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  One  is  to  treat 
her  passport  fashion — Height,  five 
feet  so  many  inches  ;  age,  five-and- 
twenty,  more  or  less  ;  figure,  slight 
and  undulating;  complexion,  brown 
and  pale ;  hair,  dark  brown ;  eyes, 
the  same — large,  soft,  and  tender ; 
nose,  straight ;  and  so  on.  This,  of 
course,  is  an  accurate  way ;  but  it 
has  the  defect  of  never  producing 
anything  better  than  a  common 
form  applicable  to  many  hun- 
dreds. It  is  easy  enough  to  make 
a  catalogue  of  good  points ;  but  it 
is  not  by  a  mere  series  of  good 
points  that  any  idea  of  beauty  is 
expressed  to  the  mind.  Another 
way  is  to  adopt  the  laudatory  style, 
and  to  say,  as  might  justly  be  said 
in  this  case,  that  she  was  of  exactly 
the  right  height  for  her  style  of 
figure,  and  of  exactly  the  right 
style  of  figure  for  her  height,  and 
that  she  carried  both  with  grace; 
that  her  autumnal  complexion  com- 
bined the  merits  of  the  brunette  and 
of  the  blonde;  and  that,  beautiful  as 
she  was  in  all  respects,  her  greatest 
wealth  of  beauty  was  in  her  eyes. 
Yet  another  way  is  the  poetical, 
or  metaphorical;  but  then  that  is 
always  open  to  the  objection  that 
to  say  what  a  thing  is  like  is  very 
different  indeed  from  saying  what 
it  really  is.  Such  an  image,  for  in- 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  III. 


10 


stance,  as  that  of  a  harvest  moon 
shining  against  all  rule  in  a  night 
of  May  upon  a  garden  of  pale  hy- 
acinths, which  had  indeed  bowed 
their  heads  but  had  forgotten  to 
close  their  bells  when  the  sun  went 
down,  would  be  absolutely  out  of 
place  in  the  sober  prose  of  common 
life,  however  useful  it  might  have 
proved  to  any  lover  of  this  girl's 
who  happened  to  have  a  knack  of 
rhyming. 

These  are  about  the  only  three 
ways;  and,  perhaps,  if  any  one 
should  take  the  trouble  to  combine 
what  has  been  said  under  the  head 
of  each  method,  he  might  succeed 
in  producing  an  imaginary  portrait 
not  wildly  unlike  the  original. 

But  it  is  an  unfortunate  and  la- 
mentable fact  that,  while  it  is  dif- 
ficult, if  not  impossible,  to  praise 
intelligibly,  to  find  fault  and  point 
out  defects  intelligibly  is  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  While  it  re- 
quires something  approaching  to 
genius  to  make  a  complimentary 
speech  about  any  man  that  does 
not  sound  like  sarcasm  or  drivel, 
it  does  not  require  that  a  man 
should  be  a  Demosthenes  to  de- 
liver, without  going  beyond  the 
truth,  a  telling  philippic  against 
even  the  best  and  wisest.  To  de- 
scend, then,  from  general  to  parti- 
cular cases,  beautiful  as  this  woman 
undoubtedly  was,  it  is  far  easier  to 
point  out  her  faults  of  appearance 
than  to  describe  her  merits. 

There  was  first,  then,  a  want  of 
tl  iat  harmony  about  her  by  which 
many  women  who  are  plain  of 
feature  are  rendered  almost  if  not 
quite  beautiful.  The  moon  of 
September  in  a  night  of  spring, 
the  flower  remaining  open  after 
s  inset,  are  images  that  may  sug- 
gest beauty,  but  certainly  do  not 
suggest  harmony  or  repose.  Then 
h  er  <  admirably-shaped  mouth  was 
of  the  smallest :  a  doubtful  merit 
as  regards  beauty  of  feature,  and 
always  a  positive  fault  as  regards 
beauty  of  expression.  Then,  too, 
t  he  grace  of  her  carriage  was  plain- 
ly a  little  studied ;  unnecessarily 


so,  for  it  was  graceful  enough  by 
nature,  and  probably  less  languid 
than  she  made  it  seem.  Again, 
her  forehead  lacked  both  height 
and  breadth  without  being  more 
than  commonly  well  formed.  Her 
delicate  hand,  moreover,  wanted 
the  plumpness  that  a  young  hand 
ought  to  have,  thus  telling  either 
of  ill  health,  present  or  to  come,  or 
else  of  excess  of  nervous  excitabil- 
ity. But,  after  all,  these  were  all 
but  spots  on  the  sun.  She  seemed 
to  be  a  few  years  younger  than  Miss 
Lefort  in  point  of  figure ;  but  in 
point  of  expression,  which  is  a  far 
better  test,  she  looked  decidedly 
the  elder. 

When  Miss  Lefort  entered  the 
room,  all  looked  up  suddenly  as 
though  she  had  not  been  expected ; 
and  the  two  children  ran  up  to  her 
and  seized  her  hands  and  dress. 
In  striking  contrast  to  her  who  has 
been  last  described,  her  figure  was 
without  languor,  and  her  complex- 
ion had  been  freshened  by  the 
morning  air,  so  that,  if  she  was  far 
less  beautiful,  she  was  certainly  not 
less  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

Monsieur  Lefort. — "  Good  morn- 
ing, Marie.  You  are  back  soon." 

Marie. — "  Good  morning,  father. 
Ah,  Angelique,  you  should  have 
been  with  me  this  morning." 

Angelique,  folding  her  letter,  and 
a  little  languidly. — "  And  why  this 
morning  in  particular  1 " 

They  all  spoke  in  French;  but 
her  voice  was  of  a  kind  to  render 
almost  too  musical  that  most  un- 
musical of  languages.  But  even 
her  voice,  too,  had  a  fault — it  want- 
ed fulness. 

Marie. — "  Because  you  have  lost 
an  adventure.  You  see  what  comes 
of  being  an  early  bird." 

Angelique,  exerting  herself.  — 
"But  I  don't  like  worms,  dear 
Marie  ;  I  prefer  coffee.  I  hope, 
though,  that  yours  was  a  nice  fat 


one 


Marie.~((  Hm!  that  depends." 
Ernest  and  Fleurette.—"  Tell  us, 

Marie  !    And  have  you  made  any 

more  pictures  ? " 


20 


Earl' 8  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jan, 


Marie,  giving  them  her  sketch- 
book.— "There — see  what  I  have 
done." 

Ernest.—"  Why,  it  is  all  empty." 

Marie. — "  That  is  an  end  of  the 
story,  then.  But  I  see,  Angelique, 
that  you  have  had  your  worm  as 
well,  and  without  the  trouble  of 
going  out  to  look  for  it.  What  is 
it?  A  letter]  Why,  that  is  an 
event !  What  is  it ?  Who  is  it 
from?" 

Ang&ique. — "From  Felix.  He 
is  in  England." 

Marie.  —  "  Fe"lix  in  England  1 
You  are  joking,  surely." 

Angelique,  looking  through  her 
eyelashes. — "  Is  it,  then,  so  strange 
that  he  should  come  to  Eng- 
land^ 

Marie,  going  up  to  and  embrac- 
ing her. — "  Not  the  least ;  not  at 
all !  How  I  should  like  to  see 
him  !  But  I  am  sure  he  cannot  be 
good  enough.  If  he  is  not  the 
handsomest  and  cleverest  man  in 
the  world,  I  assure  you  that  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  hate  him. 
Are  you  not  afraid  ? " 

Angelique,  looking  at  the  chil- 
dren.— "  Hush,  dear  Marie." 

Marie. — "  But  does  he  tell  you 
nothing?  You  always  are  saying, 
you  know,  that  I  only  care  about 
facts.  Is  he  well  ?  " 

Ernest  and  Fleurette. — "  But  the 
story,  Marie ! " 

Angelique. — "He  is  quite  well; 
and  there  are  no  facts,  indeed." 

Marie.—"  Oh,  well,  I  will  have 
patience,  especially  as  I  am  hungry, 
for-  my  worm  was  not  very  satisfy- 
ing— not  half  so  interesting  as 
yours,  after  all." 

Ernest  and  JFleurette,  vociferous- 
ly.—" The  story  !  " 

Marie. — "My  dear  children,  I 
am  dying  with  hunger.  Get  me 
the  butter,  Ernest,  and  you  the 
bread,  Fleurette,  or  I  shall  have 
to  eat  my  story  instead,  and  then 
there  will  be  none  of  it  left  for  you. 
Fancy  Felix  being  in  England! 
Can  you  not  tell  me  anything  out 
of  the  letter,  just  to  relish  the  tar- 
tines  ?  there's  a  dear  girl !  " 


Angelique. — "  There  is  nothing 
that  will  not  keep." 

Marie. — "  Then  I  must  put  an 
extra  lump  of  sugar  in  my  coffee, 
to  make  up.  Have  you  any  news, 
father  ? " 

M.  Lefort.—"None  that  is  good." 

Marie. — "  I  hope  there  is  nothing 
wrong  1 " 

M.  Lefort. — "  No.  I  only  mean 
that  every  day  that  passes  without 
a  letter  makes  things  seem  more 
doubtful.  Of  course  I  know  that 
they  must  have  their  hands  full — 
but  what  then  1  Ah  !  I  remember 
forty  years  ago — 

Marie. — "  But  no  news  is  good 
news,  they  say.  As  for  myself,  I 
don't  expect  to  hear  till  all  is  set- 
tled. Why  should  any  one  trouble 
to  write  before  1 " 

M.  Lefort. — "Well,  a  man  who- 
has  waited  thirty  years  can  afford! 
to  wait  thirty-one,  I  suppose.  And 
so  we  must  be  patient, — that's  all. 

Marie.—"  And  hope." 

M.  Lefort. — "Ah !  you  are  young. 
I  did  so  once.  But  now  you  will 
have  to  hope  for  us  both,  if  you 
speak  of  hope." 

Marie. — "  But,  seriously,  dear 
father,  why  should  we  not  all  hope  ? 
Even  if  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  and  nothing  can  be  done  for 
us,  what  have  we  really  to  fear  1 
Are  we  not  happy  as  we  are? 
Should  we  be  happier  for  a  change  ? 
We  should  be  no  richer  than  now, 
and  you  would  have  to  work  just 
as  hard.  Should  we  even  be  as 
rich  as  we  shall  be  in  England? 
Angelique  must  be  a  great  singer 
one  day;  and  am  I  too  stupid  to 
teach  notes  and  scales  ?  " 

M.  Lefortj  smiling  in  spite  of 
himself.—"  Conceited  girl ! " 

Marie. — "I  thought  you  would 
agree  with  me.  Oh,  I  believe  in 
myself  immensely,  and  am  not  a 
bit  afraid  for  any  of  us.  That  was 
very  good  coffee  indeed.  Who 
made  it  ? " 

Fleurette.— "I  did.". 

Marie. — "  Then  I  believe  in  you 
most  of  all,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
story." 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


21 


firnest.—"  And  me  ? " 

Marie. — "  You  may  listen.  Well, 
once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  prin- 
ces.*—" 

Ernest. — "  Who  was  beautiful,  of 
course." 

Marie.— "  No,  not  at  all.  But 
sho  was  very  fond  of  beautiful 
things  and  beautiful  creatures — 
perhaps  for  that  very  reason — and 
so  one  day  she  set  out  to  look  for 
thorn  all  over  the  world.  First  of 
all.  she  looked  in  her  own  looking- 
glass,  but  that  wouldn't  do." 

Meurette.-— "  Why  not  1' } 

Marie. — "  Because    hers  was    a 

tlass  that  always  told  the  truth. 
o  then -" 

Ernest. — "What  was  her  name?-' 

Marie. — •"  She  had  none.  Then 
.she  looked  out  at  window,  but  she 
saw  nothing  but  people  who  were 
nearly  as  ugly  as  herself.  At  last, 
however,  she  heard  of  a  country 
a  very  long  way  off  indeed — four 
miles  at  least — where  there  lived  a 
queen;  and  as  she  heard  that  it 
was  full  of  beautiful  things,  she  set 
out  at  once  to  find  it." 

Fleurette.—"  All  by  herself  ?  " 

Marie.—11  All  by  herself.  That 
is  the  only  way  to  find  out  beauti- 
ful things." 

Fleurette.  —  "  And  wasn't  she 
afraid?" 

Marie. — •"  I'm  not  sure  she  wasn't 
a  little,  just  at  first.  Well,  she  left 
the  palace  where  the  king  her  fa- 
ther, and  the  prince  her  brother, 
and  the  princess  her  sister,  and  the 
princess  her  cousin  all  lived  to- 
gether, and  walked  on  and  on  and 
on  along  a  dusty  road,  until  she 
didn't  feel  quite  sure  about  her 
way.  At  last  she  didn't  know 
which  way  to  turn;  but  she  saw 
that  one  looked  prettier  than  an- 
other, and  so  she  took  it.  Well, 
the  road  got  prettier  and  prettier 
•  every  step  she  took  until  she  came 
to  a  white  cottage  built  of  stone 
.and  covered  with  leaves,  with  an 
old  witch  sitting  at  the  door  nurs- 
ing a  black  cat." 

Fleurette.— "  And  then,  wasn't 
sae  frightened  ? " 


Marie. — "  Anyhow  she  was  bold 
enough  to  ask  the  old  witch,  '  Is 
this  the  queen's  country  ? '  And 
the  witch  pointed  with  her  crutch 
to  a  gate,  and  said,  '  If  you  go 
through  there,  and  then  turn  to  the 
right,  and  keep  straight  on,  you'll 
come  to  the  avenue' — just  as 
though  she  was  not  a  witch  at  all, 
bat  only  a  common  old  woman." 

Ernest. — "Perhaps  that's  what 
she  was." 

Marie. — "  You  know  nothing 
about  it.  Then  the  princess  said 
'  Thank  you,'  and  walked  along  the 
avenue  till  she  looked  over  some 
palings  and  saw  the  most  beautiful 
creatures." 

Fleurette.  — "  What  were  they 
like?  Birds?" 

Marie. — "  No  ;  they  had  four 
legs,  and  large  black  eyes,  and 
some  were  dappled,  and  some  white, 
and  some  black,  and  some  grey. 
And  the  princess  said,  '  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  find  out  what  makes 
these  creatures  so  beautiful ! ' " 

Ernest. — "  She  ought  to  have 
caught  them." 

Marie. — "  She  wandered  about, 
and  went  every  day  to  look  at  the  crea- 
tures. Then  she  thought  she  would 
make  some  pictures  of  them,  and  at 
last,  just  as  she  was  beginning  to 
find  out  their  true  secret " 

Fleurette.— "Vfh&tr' 

Marie. — "  She  suddenly  heard  a 
voice  exclaim,  *  Who  is  that  in  my 
park-paling?' " 

Ernest.— "Who  was  it?  The 
queen  ?" 

Marie. — "No,  it  was  a  prince, 
the  heir  to  the  throne.  He  looked 
very  fierce  indeed,  and  had  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth." 

Ernest. — "  But  princes  in  stories 
never  used  to  smoke  cigars." 

Marie. — "  No  ;  but  they  do  now. 
Then  the  princess  got  very  fright- 
ened, and  fell  on  her  knees  and 
begged  for  mercy." 

Fleurette.  —  "  And  did  he  kill 
her?" 

Marie. — "  No  ;  he  took  pity  on 
the  princess ;  but  said  that  the 
queen,  his  aunt,  would  certainly 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  III. 


[Jaiu 


liave  her  put  to  death.  But  lie  said 
he  would  ask  the  queen  to  forgive 
her  if  she  would  promise  not  to 
frighten  the  beautiful  creatures 
again,  as  it  seems  she  had  done. 
So  you  see  she  had  been  rightly 
punished  by  being  frightened  her- 
self." 

Fleurette. — "  And  did  the  queen 
pardon  her?" 

The  red-armed  Servant,  after  tap- 
ping at  the  door. — "  A  note  for  you. 
miss." 

Marie,  eagerly. — "Forme?  From 
whom?" 

The  Servant,  with  an  air  of  awe. 
— "  Brought  by  a  young  man,  miss, 
a  groom  up  at  Earl's  Dene.  He 
said  as  there  was  no  answer." 

M.  Lefort.—"  From  Earl's  Dene !" 

Marie,  after  passing  through  a 
slight  cloud  of  disappointment. — 
"  There,  Angelique  !  I  have  let- 
ters as  well  as  you  !  The  queen 
sent  her  this  letter  : — 

"  '  DEAR  PRINCESS/ — No,  it  was 
the  prince  sent  it. — 'Dear  Princess, 
— Her  Majesty  has  much  pleasure 
in  giving  you  permission  to  use  the 
Lodge  Park  at  any  time  you  please, 
and  also  hopes  to  have  the  further 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  result.  I  pro- 


mised her  to  add  that  she"  would 
rather  you  did  not  enter  the  Lodge 
Park  at  the  great  beech,  as  it  disturbs 
the  deer,  but  through  the  gate  on 
the  other  side.  They  will  tell  you. 
the  way  to  it  at  the  lodge. 

'  Hoping  you  will  consider  this 
some  amends  for  the  rudeness  of 
which,  I  fear,  you  must  have 
thought  me  guilty  this  morning, — 
'  I  am,  yours  most  truly, 

'HUGH  LESTER. 

'As  Mr  Lefort  lives  in  Dene- 
thorp,  I  trust  you  will  not  think 
that  Miss  Clare's  permission  applies 
to  yourself  only.  The  keepers  will 
have  orders  accordingly/  " 

M.  Lefort,  having  looked  at  the 
note. — "  This  is  very  polite  indeed.. 
Why,  Marie,  this  looks  very  like  a 
real  adventure." 

Marie. — "  And  a  pleasant  one,  is 
it  not?" 

Angelique. — "What  sort  of  per- 
son is  this  Mr  Lester  1 " 

Ernest,  slily. — "And  will  the- 
prince  marry  the  princess  ?" 

Fleurette. — "  And  shall  we  all  go- 
and  see  the  beautiful  creatures  ?" 

Marie. — "  I  don't  know  anything, 
more  about  it." 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


23 


THE  FARMING   AND   PEASANTRY   OF  THE   CONTINENT. 


THIS  is  an  Address  which  highly 
merits  the  attention  of  practical 
farmers  and  political  economists. 
It  treats  of  subjects  which  possess 
the  strongest  interest  for  both ;  it 
contains  the  results  of  the  observa- 
tions which  Mr  Howard  made  dur- 
ing many  visits  to  the  Continent ; 
an«l  it  speaks  of  questions  which 
have  raised  great  controversies  in 
the  scientific  and  farming  worlds. 
Wo  do  not  propose,  on  the  present 
occasion,  to  range  over  the  whole 
extent  of  ground  covered  by  this 
Address  ;  we  intend  rather  to  con- 
fine our  notice  to  a  few  points  of 
great  importance,  on  which  Mr 
Howard  speaks  in  very  decided 
language,  and  with  an  authority 
justly  due  to  large  experience,  high 
intelligence,  and  careful  personal 
inquiry  on  the  spot.  Political 
economists  in  England  have  been 
too  much  in  the  habit  of  pronounc- 
ing dogmatically  on  certain  ques- 
tions, in  which  accurate  determina- 
tion of  facts  ought  to  have  preced- 
ed assertion.  Very  loose  and  im- 
perfect evidence  has  been  relied 
on  for  far-reaching  propositions, 
which  have  been  previously  adopted 
from  the  bias  of  passion  or  political 
feeling.  No  trustworthy  solution 
of  these  questions  can  ever  be  ob- 
tained until  careful  analysis  of  the 
results  furnished  by  experience  shall 
have  furnished  a  sure  foundation 
for  judgment.  Hence  the  process 
adopted  by  Mr  Howard  has  pecu- 
liar value  in  the  decision  of  such 
matters.  He  is  a  thorough  farmer 
h  imself ,  prof  oun  dly  acquainted  with 
the  best  and  most  productive  me- 
thods of  agriculture,  familiar  with 
every  variety  of  agricultural  imple- 
ment, and,  as  his  Address  shows, 
manifestly  competent,  by  know- 
lodge  and  reflection,  to  understand 
and  judge  the  moral  and  social  as 


well  as  economical  elements  of  these 
problems. 

First  of  all  presents  itself  the 
exceedingly  interesting  and  impor- 
tant question  of  the  condition  of 
the  agricultural  labourer  on  the  Con- 
tinent. In  this  country  his  state 
has  been  made  the  subject  of  the 
fiercest  invective.  England  has 
been  held  up  to  the  scorn  of  the 
world  for  her  treatment  of  the 
workers  whose  toil  extracts  from 
her  fields  the  food  of  her  popula- 
tion. No  invective  has  been  thought 
too  severe  for  a  description  of  their 
condition.  The  agricultural  la- 
bourer has  been  painted  as  one 
of  the  most  degraded  of  human 
beings,  and  then  his  degradation 
has  been  pointed  at  as  the  offspring 
of  a  cruel  conspiracy  directed  against 
his  happiness  by  pride  of  class  and 
avarice.  The  finger  of  warning  is 
daily  lifted  to  extort  the  recon- 
struction of  his  social  condition 
by  the  threat  of  revolution.  Po- 
liticians and  philanthropists  com- 
bine in  this  holy  crusade  for  the 
relief  of  oppressed  humanity.  The 
days  of  Jack  Cade,  it  would 
seem,  have  really  come  back  to 
this  strong,  rich,  and  prosperous 
England  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  wealthier  the  upper  strata  of 
society  become,  the  heavier,  we  are 
told,  and  more  intolerable,  is  the 
pressure  with  which  they  weigh  on 
the  classes  whose  labour  creates  their 
prosperity  ;  the  deeper  the  misery 
of  those  who,  in  the  place  of  grati- 
tude, are  repaid  with  oppression. 
To  be  a  Dorsetshire  landlord  or 
farmer  is  a  state  of  life  to  which 
a  man  might  well  be  ashamed  to 
belong.  For  the  honour  of  our 
country,  one's  heart  palpitates  with 
anxiety  to  learn  what  is  the  con- 
dition of  the  same  class  in  foreign 
lands  —  whether  England  stands 


'The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent.'     An  Address  delivered  to  the 
Farmers'  Club,  Monday,  November  1,  by  James  Howard,  M.P. 


24 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


alone  in  her  infamy,   or  whether 
the  poverty,  which  excites  so  much 
generous  commiseration  here,  may 
not  meet  with  its  miserable  repre- 
sentative on  other  soils  and  under 
other  social  and  political  arrange- 
ments.    It  is   painful   enough   to 
feel  sympathy  for  sufferings  which 
one  believes  to  be,  if  not  incurable, 
at  any  rate  susceptible  of  only  slow 
and  difficult  amelioration ;  but  to 
believe  that  the  wretchedness  which 
wounds  one's  eyes  has  been  cured 
elsewhere,  and  that  wiser  institu- 
tions   and  juster  political  combi- 
nations  have   raised    the    peasant 
to  a  position  of  comfort  and  self- 
respect —  that,   indeed,   is   a  trial 
hard  to   bear.      No   right-minded 
man — and  there  are  right-minded 
and  generous  men  in  England  by 
tens  of  thousands — will  willingly 
acquiesce  in  the  continuance  of  so 
shaming  a  contrast.     It  is  essential 
that  the  real  truth  of  the  matter 
should  be  known.     Is  it  true  that 
the  English  labourer  is  plunged  in 
misery  and  degradation,  from  which 
men  of  the  same  class  in  foreign 
countries  are  free  1  and  if  a  remedy 
has  been  discovered  elsewhere,  may 
it  not  be  applied  with  equal  suc- 
cess here?      On   this   very  grave 
matter  Mr  Howard  furnishes  us 
with  information  of  immense  value. 
He  is  an  eyewitness,  one  who  has 
taken  infinite  pains  to  reach  the 
truth  of  the  facts,  and  who  is  emi- 
nently qualified  to  take  their  mea- 
sure.     Let  us  listen  to  what  he 
says.      The  first  evidence  he  ad- 
duces comes  from  the  Sologne,  about 
150  miles  south  of  Paris.   The  region 
is  poor,  though  much  has  been  re- 
cently done  to   improve   its   agri- 
culture.    Here  "  wages  are  Is.  8d. 
a- day  in  summer,  and   Is.   3d.  in 
winter;  no  extras  in  harvest,  but 
some    piecework.      Low   as  these 
wages  are,  they  are  said  to  have 
doubled  within  a  few  years/'     10s. 
a-week    in    summer,  and    7s.   6d. 
in    winter,   without   any   increase 
in   harvest-time,  are  certainly  not 
brilliant  wages   for    any  part    of 
England;     even    the    Dorsetshire 


standard  must  be  considered  as 
up  to  this  level,  whilst  the  aver- 
age of  English  counties  presents 
a  decidedly  more  satisfactory  re- 
muneration for  the  labourer.  Yet 
even  this  moderate  scale,  we  are 
told,  is  decidedly  higher  than  what 
would  have  been  found  a  few  years 
ago,  so  that  up  to  that  period  it  is 
certain  that  wages  in  the  Sologne 
were  very  seriously  below  the  Eng- 
lish level.  But  how  many  hours 
a  -  day  do  these  labourers  work  1 
Mr  Howard's  next  instance  will 
instruct  us  on  this  vital  point ;  and 
it  is  so  very  interesting  on  many 
accounts,  that  we  venture  to  give  it 
at  full  length  :— 

"  In  my  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond I  referred  to  the  large  farm  of  M. 
Call,  which  is  situated  at  La  Briche, 
near  Tours,  200  miles  south-west  of 
Paris. "  (We  may  remark  that  Touraine 
is  one  of  the  richest  districts  of  France. 
Those  who  have  travelled  through  it 
will  remember  the  splendour  of  its  vege- 
tation. M.  Gail  is  proprietor  of  one  of 
the  largest  engineering  establishments 
in  France,  a  great  builder  of  locomo- 
tives.) "In  the  early  part  of  August 
1867,  I  accompanied  him  to  his  farm  of 
La  Briche.  It  consists  of  about  3800 
acres,  which  he  has  reclaimed  from 
waste  land,  bog,  and  wood.  Being  a 
thorough  utilitarian,  not  a  tree  or  fence 
of  any  kind  has  been  left ;  the  whole 
is  laid  out  in  large  fields,  some  nearly 
a  mile  across,  which  have  been  drained, 
and  good  hard  roads  made  through  the 
whole  property.  One  good  central 
homestead  and  eight  minor  ones  have 
been  erected.  .  .  .  The  central 
homestead,  the  most  wonderful  place  of 
the  kind  I  have  ever  seen,  is  worth  mak- 
ing the  journey  to  see.  The  corn-barn 
will  contain  1250  acres  of  unthrashed 
corn.  ...  It  has  sheds  for  600 
bullocks,  a  covered  fold  for  3000  sheep, 
a  huge  granary  for  thrashed  grain, 
tramways  to  every  part,  a  large  beet- 
root distillery,  at  which  the  roots  are 
made  into  sugar  or  spirit,  according  to 
the  prospects  of  the  market.  .  .  . 
The  condition  of  the  labourer  in  this 
part  of  France,  as  in  most  others,  is  a 
very  hard  one.  At  each  of  the  eight 
homesteads  I  have  referred  to  is  a 
married  couple,  who  supply  food  to  the 
labourers  employed  in  their  division, 
the  greater  part  of  whom  are  unmarried. 
The  team-men  sleep  with  the  cattle, 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


25 


two  in  a  bed,  or  rather  in  a  box,  on  a 
sack  of  straw,  a  rude  floor  being  put  up 
at  one  end  of  the  sheds.  Up  to  that 
period  I  had  never  seen  men  so  nearly 
reduced  to  a  state  of  slavery.  I  arrived 
at  the  farm  about  daylight,  and  found 
all  the  hands  at  work.  The  hours  in 
summer,  I  learned,  were  from  4  A.M. 
to  8  P.M. — and,  mark  you,  till  noon 
on  Sundays.  The  wages,  without  any 
perquisites,  for  these  long  hours,  were 
Is.  8d.  a-day.  A  good  crop  of  wheat 
was  being  cut,  the  men  using  fagging- 
hooks;  5s.  was  the  price  paid  for  cut- 
tii  g  and  binding  an  imperial  acre,  and 
ths  wages  paid  by  M.  Gail  are  higher 
thin  the  current  wages  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. ...  At  the  time  of  my 
visit  I  thought  the  condition  of  the 
farm-labourer  of  La  Briche  might  be 
exceptional ;  but  I  find,  upon  inquiry, 
thiit  it  is  not  at  all  an  unfavourable  spe- 
cimen of  the  condition  of  the  French 
peasantry,  and  that  a  franc  a-day  has 
not  been  an  unusual  scale  of  pay." 

This  is  a  startling  picture,  truly, 
of  the  condition  of  the  agricultural 
labourer  in  Touraine,  one  of  the 
most  favoured  regions  of  France. 
The  magnitude  of  M.  Gail's  oper- 
ations furnishes  the  most  trust- 
worthy assurance  that  labour  is 
in  unusually  high  demand  in  this 
neighbourhood,  and  commands  pro- 
portionate remuneration.  He  farms 
highly — that  is,  he  expends  large 
capital  on  appliances  and  labour. 
The  tillage  is  superior,  and  is 
assisted  by  large  manufacturing 
operations.  How  different  must  be 
the  field  for  employment  at  La 
Briche,  to  what  it  must  show  itself 
in  a  district  of  peasant-proprie- 
tors, where  no  distillery  or  sugar- 
manufactory  raises  its  head,  where 
the  capital  of  a  rich  man  is  not 
vigorously  applied  to  the  susten- 
t;ition  of  labour!  Yet  to  lie  two 
in  a  bed  of  straw,  intermingled 
•with  the  cattle,  is  the  normal  state 
of  men  who  earn  the  wages  of  an 
energetic,'  intelligent,  and  high- 
f  arming  capitalist.  What  would  be 
the  cry  of  Canon  Girdlestone  if 
such  a  spectacle  were  to  present 
itself  in  Dorsetshire  ?  What  limit 
T/ould  compress  the  invectives  of  the 
]  .liberal  press  of  the  whole  country  1 
Even  the  spirit  of  French  journal- 


ists is  profoundly  stirred  by  an  ex- 
hibition so  painful.  The  praises 
of  the  French  system,  so  loudly 
sung  by  our  economists,  might 
have  led  us  to  expect  in  France  a 
self-complacent  comparison  of  the 
French  peasant  with  the  English  ; 
yet  the  newspaper  press  of  Ven- 
dome  exclaims  "that  the  fact  of 
the  depopulation  of  the  agricultural 
districts  is  the  gravest  thing  we 
have  to  register  at  present.  It  is 
nothing  less  than  life  or  death  for 
the  whole  country.  Wages  have 
been  kept  down,  and,  with  a  view 
to  this  object,  marrying  has  been 
discouraged  by  proprietors  and 
farmers."  Here  are  the  very  pro- 
cesses which  have  brought  down 
such  vituperation  on  English  land- 
lords. English  squires  may  re- 
fuse to  build  cottages,  to  keep  the 
population  down,  but  they  are  no 
worse  than  their  French  neigh- 
bours ;  and  so  far  the  peculiar  in- 
famy which  it  has  been  the  effort  of 
many  to  affix  on  English  country 
gentlemen  has  no  justification  in 
fact. 

If  we  cross  the  frontier  of  France 
and  accompany  Mr  Howard  into 
Prussia,  we  shall  meet  with  the 
same  sights.  Prussia,  too,  has  been 
the  favourite  theme  for  the  eulogy 
of  English  economists ;  yet  what 
does  Mr  Howard  tell  us  that  he 
found  near  Cologne  ?  "  The  men, 
as  in  France  and  other  parts  of  the 
Continent,  sleep  in  the  stable  with 
their  bullocks  and  horses.  The 
wages  to  farm  -  labourers  are  paid 
all  in  money,  and  are  from  Is.  2d. 
to  Is.  6d.  per  day  in  summer,  and 
Is.  to  Is.  3d.  in  winter;"  and  this 
after  a  rise  of  25  to  30  per  cent 
within  the  last  twenty-five  years, 
and  amidst  agricultural  operations 
on  a  splendid  scale  of  expenditure. 
On  another  Prussian  farm,  where 
beet  is  largely  grown,  and  ad- 
ditional quantities  bought  for  the 
distillery,  the  wages  throughout 
the  year  are  14d.  a-day  ;  in  the 
summer  months  the  working  hours 
are  from  5.30  A.M.  to  8  P.M.  The 
women  get  lOd.  a-day ;  and  in  this 


26 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


district  of  Germany,  be  it  carefully 
observed,  "  there  are  a  great  num- 
ber of  small  holdings."  In  Prus- 
sian Silesia  life  uses  the  wretched 
labourer  still  more  cruelly.  In 
winter  he  has  4d.  a-day,  the  spring 
raises  him  to  an  additional  penny, 
and  he  attains  his  climax  in  sum- 
mer, when  7|d.  to  lOd.  constitutes 
his  share  of  the  rewards  of  the 
harvest. 

As  we  extend  our  tour  over  most 
regions  of  the  Continent,  the  same 
sights,  the  same  statements,  meet 
our  eyes  and  ears.  "  In  Austria ;J 
(that  part  visited  by  Mr  Howard) 
"  no  class  of  tenant-proprietors  ex- 
ists ;  all  are  proprietors,  except  in  a 
few  districts  and  rare  instances." 
These  are  the  famous  bauers,  or 
peasant  -  proprietors  of  German 
Austria — men  who  till  farms  of 
which  they  are  owners,  but  men  of 
substance,  often  possessing  a  dozen 
horses,  who  have  entertained  im- 
perial princes,  and  whose  peasant 
dress  has  given  them  distinction  in 
the  counsels  of  the  Reichsrath  at 
Vienna.  How  fares  the  labourer 
under  their  administration  1 — 

"The  labourers  I  find  to  be  badly  off, 
wages  being  about  9d.  to  lOd.  per  day. 
At  one  village  I  went  to,  I  had  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  how  they  were  lodg- 
ed. One  large  barn-like  building,  with 
only  a  ground-floor,  I  found  divided  into 
two  rooms.  In  one,  40  feet  long,  20 
feet  wide,  and  10  feet  high,  I  found  six 
beds  and  four  families ;  in  the  other, 
somewhat  smaller,  were  five  beds  and 
three  families.  There  was  one  common 
cooking-stove  to  the  whole,  and,  to  add 
to  the  wretchedness  of  the  place,  it  was 
infested  with  rats.  A  more  deplorable 
scene  it  had  never  been  my  lot  to  wit- 
ness." 

But  then,  can  any  good  thing 
come  out  of  Nazareth  ?  This  ever 
slow,  dull,  retrograde  Au  stria — wh  at 
could  be  expected  from  such  a 
quarter?  Well,  then,  let  us  turn 
to  Belgium,  the  far-famed  land  of 
small  tillage,  the  ideal  of  peasant- 
proprietorship,  the  delight  of  poli- 
tical economists,  and  the  shamer  of 
aristocratic  England  —  what  tale 
does  Belgium  tell  ]  "  In  Hainault 


the  average  wages  are  Is.  Id.  a-day 
without  food,  the  maximum  being 
Is.  8d.  and  the  minimum  8|d.  per 
day ;  wages,  nevertheless,  are  said 
to  have  advanced  25  to  30  per  cent 
since  1846.  These  figures  were 
given  me  by  the  Inspector-General 
of  A  griculture."  Before  1846,  there- 
fore, some  6|d.  per  day  was  the 
remuneration  of  some  Belgian 
agricultural  labourers,  and  the 
eulogy  of  Flemish  farming  had 
been  written  at  that  time.  We 
heard  much  of  the  thrift  and  the 
happiness  of  the  peasants  who  own- 
ed land,  but  Mr  Mill  and  his 
economical  friends  told  us  little 
of  the  labouring  population.  The 
juxtaposition  of  so  much  bliss  with 
so  much  misery  was  striking,  cer- 
tainly ;  it  would  have  been  well  if 
we  had  been  instructed  as  to  its 
causes  and  its  remedy.  The  com- 
bination, side  by  side,  of  great 
wretchedness  with  great  wealth,  is 
at  this  hour  held  up  as  the  peculiar 
disgrace  of  society  as  it  is  constitut- 
ed in  England  ;  yet  the  same  spec- 
tacle occurs  in  Belgium  with  equal 
vividness,  and  presumably  with 
equal  infamy.  Near  Ostend  "  the 
labourer  seemed  dejected  and  in  a 
bad  condition.  '  Poor  things ! '  ex- 
claimed a  Belgian  landlady,  *  they 
have  not  much  comfort  in  this 
life.' " 

The  preceding  extracts  abun- 
dantly show,  we  conceive,  the 
great  value  of  Mr  Howard's  ob- 
servations. They  bear  with  crush- 
ing force  on  the  widespread  delu- 
sion that  England  has  to  blush  in 
the  presence  of  foreign  countries 
for  the  treatment  she  inflicts  on 
her  agricultural  labourers.  They 
dispel  this  strange  and  most  dis- 
paraging fiction.  They  establish, 
what  is  confirmed  by  other  tes- 
timony derived  from  many  quar- 
ters, that  on  a  general  average  the 
English  agricultural  labourer  re- 
ceives higher  remuneration  than 
exists  in  any  other  part  of  Europe, 
Holland  perhaps  excepted ;  and 
we  are  not  very  sure  about  the  ex- 
ception. The  English  peasant  ob- 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


27 


tains  higher  wages  in  money ;  even 
the;  largest  of  the  sums  mentioned 
by  Mr  Howard — is.  8d.  a-day — is 
equalled  in  many  cases  in  the  low- 
est agricultural  counties,  or  nearly ; 
whilst  there  are  important  additions 
mr.de  at  mowing  and  harvest-time, 
which  swell  the  amount  received. 
The  rest — that  is,  the  overwhelming 
majority  of  English  counties — fur- 
nish a  much  higher  figure.  And 
money  will  buy  more,  we  believe, 
in  England,  taking  all  the  articles 
consumed  by  a  labourer's  family, 
thin  in  most — nay,  we  may  say  all 
— parts  of  the  Continent.  Clothing 
is  cheaper,  and  so,  in  many  cases, 
is  bread;  and  equally  cheaper  in 
m.my  English  counties  is  the  im- 
portant article  of  fuel.  And  then 
the  relative  comfort  of  the  labourers 
must  be  compared.  The  tidings  of 
men  living  with  bullocks  and  horses 
would  raise  something  like  a  frenzy 
in  England.  Where  are  the  words 
to  be  found  that  would  satisfy 
the  invective,  the  just  invective,  of 
every  humane  person  1  Their  anger 
would  then  stand  on  a  foundation  of 
fact,  which  is  often  wanting  in  the 
declamations  of  the  friends  of  the 
agricultural  poor.  And,  over  and 
above  all,  there  is  the  poor-law. 
We  hear  nothing  of  a  poor-law 
abroad.  It  is  too  true  that  work- 
houses in  not  a  few  localities  are 
not  such  as  one  can  wish  ;  but  it 
Cfinnot  be  denied  that,  as  a  whole, 
v  3ry  substantial  provision  is  made  in 
England  for  the  support  of  agricul- 
tural labourers  who  have  no  means 
ot  subsistence.  It  is  certain  that  an 
enormous  charge  is  paid  by  the  own- 
ers and  occupiers  of  land  for  this 
great  object ;  and  it  is  equally  certain 
that  the  sense  of  security  against 
actual  starvation  is  brought  home 
to  those  whose  labour  cultivates 
the  soil.  What  have  the  foreign 
labourers  that  can  be  put  on  a  level 
v.ith  the  workhouse — varied,  as  it 
so  frequently  is,  by  outdoor  al- 
lowances 1  What  guarantee  have 
those  miserable  agglomerations  of 
human  beings  in  long  sheds  on 
the  ground,  that  they  shall  not 


perish  of  hunger  1  What  hold  on 
the  purse  or  the  food  of  the  peasant- 
proprietors  of  Belgium  have  the 
workmen  at  85 d.  a-day  against  the 
infirmities  and  the  pains  of  old 
age  1  This  is  no  trifling  weight  to 
be  placed  in  the  scale  of  England, 
when  those  who  take  pleasure  in 
decrying  her  institutions  set  up 
the  excellence  of  foreign  prac- 
tice. That  the  farming  classes, 
whether  tenants  or  proprietors, 
make  heavy  contributions  to  this 
substantial  increase  of  agricultural 
wages  is  incontestable  ;  why  is  it 
so  regularly  and  so  obstinately  left 
out  of  the  account  1  Why  is  every 
item  of  good  which  can  be  assigned 
to  the  credit  of  foreign  manage- 
ment of  land  so  scrupulously  re- 
corded, and  little  but  the  evil 
computed  on  the  side  of  England  ? 
There  is  an  animus  in  the  matter, 
a  wish  to  paint  the  picture  in  pre- 
selected colours,  a  desire  to  impose 
a  conclusion  which  was  derived 
from  passion,  and  not  from  a  careful 
examination  of  facts.  On  no  other 
hypothesis  can  so  st'range  a  pheno- 
menon be  explained.  Writers  have 
painted  under  the  stimulus  of  de- 
mocratic feeling.  Was  not  Eng- 
land a  country  of  great  estates,  ten- 
anted by  non-proprietary  farmers  ; 
and  was  not  therefore  its  spirit  aris- 
tocratic, and  at  variance  with  the 
great  sentiment  of  equality  ]  What 
better,  then,  than  to  fling  discredit 
on  her  farmers,  to  hold  up  before 
the  imagination  the  glowing  ideal 
of  small  proprietors  covering  the 
land  with  a  happiness  which  it 
would  require  the  pen  of  a  Rous- 
seau to  portray  1  But  then  there 
was  the  labouring  class,  the  class 
most  peculiarly  deserving  of  the 
sympathy  of  philosophers,  the  great 
mass  of  the  population  engaged  on 
the  land,  and  whose  wellbeing  was 
the  test  of  all  true  democratic 
theory.  What  was  to  be  said  of 
their  condition  in  foreign  parts  ? 
On  this  essential  topic  a  discreet 
but  profound  silence  was  observed. 
Nothing  but  dark  and  dismal  col- 
ours could  be  obtained,  if  ever  the 


28 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


object  was  alluded  to.  But,  at  any 
rate,  common  justice  might  have 
been  respected.  A  similar  veil 
might  have  been  thrown  over  the 
life  of  the  English  peasant.  Men, 
however,  who  are  bigoted  by  pas- 
sion, seldom  think  of  justice.  The 
miseries  of  the  English  labourer 
were  placed  in  the  very  van  of  the 
battle.  His  poverty,  his  want  of 
interest  in  the  prosperity  of  his 
work,  his  scanty  wages,  his  lack  of 
the  sense  of  independence,  were 
arrayed  in  line  to  cover  the  coun- 
try which  ill  used  him  with  the 
burning  blush  of  shame.  We 
heard  much  of  the  ignoble  English 
cottage,  of  the  cruelty  of  landlords 
who  would  raise  no  additional 
shelter  for  swelling  numbers,  of  the 
tyranny  of  tenant-farmers,  of  the 
degradation  of  the  workhouse ;  but 
no  one  spoke  of  the  French  teamsman 
spending  his  nights  in  companion- 
ship with  his  horses,  of  the  black 
bread  that  fed  him,  or  of  population 
vanishing  from  impediments  to 
marriage  and  from  emigration.  Yet, 
on  the  very  basis  laid  down  by  the 
philosophers,  the  condition  of  these 
people  was  the  test  of  truth  or 
error.  Even  the  suggestions  made 
by  science  were  neglected.  The 
assumption — so  natural  to  make — 
that  the  vast  manufacturing  in- 
dustry of  England,  coupled  with 
the  known  excellence  of  her  farm- 
ing, had  done  something  for  the 
tillers  of  her  fields,  was  neither 
made  nor  examined.  It  has  been 
left  to  us  to  lay  stress  on  the  har- 
mony of  Mr  Howard's  statements 
with  what  science  would  have 
taught  us  to  expect.  It  was  pro- 
bable that  England's  agricultural 
poor  would  derive  large  advantage 
from  her  manufacturing  energy  and 
the  markets  it  supplied  ;  and  Mr 
Howard's  conclusions  can  plead  the 
authority  of  reasonable  presump- 
tion. The  superiority  of  English 
to  foreign  wages,  which  comes  forth 
so  markedly  from  Mr  Howard's 
inquiry  on  the  spot,  is  exactly 
what  a  general  knowledge  of  the 
economical  condition  of  the  several 


countries  would  have  led  us  to  look 
for,  and,  consequently,  can  claim 
that  confidence  in  its  reality  which 
the  agreement  of  statement  with 
scientific  probability  naturally  war- 
rants. 

But  we  must  not  be  understood, 
when  claiming  this  superiority  as  a 
fact,  to  be  expressing  satisfaction 
with  the  state  of  our  agricultural 
labourers.  That  is  a  very  different 
matter.  Our  peasants  may  be,  and 
are,  better  off  than  the  generality 
of  European  labourers ;  but  their 
condition,  regarded  in  itself,  pre- 
sents much  to  mourn  over,  and 
much  also  to  be  improved.  To 
dwell  on  the  wretchedness  which  is 
too  often  visible  in  our  own  system, 
without  noticing  the  still  greater 
miseries  of  our  neighbours,  in  the 
interest  of  a  foregone  conclusion,  is 
one  thing ;  to  recognise  and  expose 
sufferings  which  exist,  in  the  hope 
of  obtaining  alleviation,  is  another. 
The  condition  of  peasant-life  must, 
from  the  law  of  human  existence, 
leave  much  room  for  regret,  and 
rouse  strong  desires  for  improve- 
ment. And  progress  here,  as  every- 
where else,  can  be  gained  only  by 
first  appreciating  what  is  evil,  and 
then  making  the  effort  for  its 
diminution.  We  sympathise,  there- 
fore, heartily  with  those  who 
strive  with  so  much  zeal  to  call 
attention  to  the  position  of  the 
English  peasant,  and  suggest  means 
for  its  improvement.  Mr  Howard's 
description  of  what  the  same  class 
has  to  endure  abroad,  if  it  excites 
our  relative  thankfulness  in  look- 
ing at  England,  in  no  way  lessens 
our  sense  of  what  humanity  and 
public  policy  demand  in  behalf  of 
our  own  countrymen.  At  the  same 
time,  it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten 
that  the  agricultural  labourer  pos- 
sesses in  one  very  important  respect 
a  decided  advantage  over  the  arti- 
san of  the  town.  The  manufacturing 
people  of  England  are  exposed  to 
an  incessant  danger,  which  at  times 
overwhelms  them  with  calamity. 
If  England  manufactures  goods  for 
all  the  world,  if  her  wares  are  sold 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


in  every  market,  she  must  share  in 
the  fortunes  of  all  her  buyers.  A 
shopkeeper  who  supplies  dresses 
for  a  London  season,  may  incur 
disastrous  loss  by  the  sudden  pro- 
clamation of  a  Court  mourning.  A 
nation  which  sells  to  many  buyers 
miy  find  a  portion  of  its  population 
plunged  into  distress  by  events 
which  injure  the  power  of  her  cus- 
tomers to  buy.  A  civil  war,  as  in 
America  or  in  China,  a  bad  har- 
vest in  a  foreign  land,  or  any  other 
of  the  countless  vicissitudes  of 
human  life,  may  impoverish  the 
resources  of  those  who  are  ordinary 
purchasers  in  the  English  markets : 
and  then  the  painful,  and,  alas  ! 
too  familiar  scenes  of  unemployed 
workmen  harass  and  perplex  pub- 
lic feeling.  We  know  but  too  well 
what  miseries  want  of  employment 
has  created  in  Lancashire  and  the 
east  of  London ;  and  these  cala- 
mities spring  from  causes  wholly 
beyond  English  control.  With  the 
exception  of  the  great  Irish  famine, 
occasioned  by  the  exceptional  mis- 
fortune of  the  disease  of  the  pota- 
to, no  distress  for  many  years  has 
been  experienced  in  the  agricul- 
tural districts  which  can  be  put  in 
comparison  with  the  sufferings  of 
the  towns.  This  is  an  element  of 
great  value  in  the  lot  of  the  culti- 
vators of  the  land :  if  their  earnings 
are  not  as  good  as  those  obtained 
by  the  artisans,  they  have  a  set-off 
of  some  importance  in  their  ex- 
emption from  a  destitution  which 
springs  up  with  a  suddenness  as 
overpowering  as  it  is  incapable  of 
being  averted. 

What  measures  should  be  adopt- 
ed for  bettering  the  condition  of  the 
agricultural  labourer,  it  is  not  easy 
to  specify  with  precision.  Their 
case  admits  of  the  simultaneous 
( o-operation  of  many  combined  ef- 
forts, rather  than  of  the  intervention 
of  a  great  single  force.  Individual 
action  can  achieve  larger  results 
here  than  legislation.  Local  aid 
can  facilitate  emigration  from  agri- 
cultural districts  to  those  which 
possess  a  stronger  demand  for 


labour.  Information  can  be  sup- 
plied, and  the  transition  be  made 
easier  in  many  ways.  Still  more, 
much  may  be  expected  from 
the  progressive  enlightenment  of 
the  farmer  and  landlord  classes. 
The  days  are  nearly  over  when  a 
f armergrudged  every  shilling  which 
was  spent  on  labour ;  but  there 
are  few  who  as  yet  employ  labour 
to  the  extent  to  which  it  may 
be  made  remunerative.  Much 
more  may  be  done  with  im- 
mense profit  to  the  farmer ;  many 
an  act  of  superior  tillage  would 
enrich  abundantly  the  workman 
and  his  employer.  No  doubt  the 
improved  position  achieved  of  late 
years  for  the  peasants  is  due  to 
the  influence  of  this  cause ;  but 
if  all  the  farmers  of  England  are 
taken  into  account,  it  cannot  be 
questioned  that  an  enormous  field 
for  productive  labour  lies  open  to 
the  agricultural  world.  The  more 
the  farmer  understands  his  own 
interest,  the  more  intelligent  and 
scientific  he  becomes,  the  more  will 
he  employ  labour,  and  the  greater 
will  be  his  own  benefit  and  the 
benefit  of  every  class  in  the  com- 
munity. Here  again  landlords, 
may  render  very  effectual  aid  by 
building  more  and  better  cottages,. 
and  by  substantial  allotments  of 
land  in  connection  with  them.  Mr 
Nevile  has  shown  how  two  excel- 
lent cottages  can  be  built  for  £170, 
which  will  bring  in  interest  of  5 
per  cent  to  the  landlord,  besides 
full  agricultural  rent  for  half  an 
acre  of  land  attached  to  each. 
Great  stress  is  laid  by  many  on 
education.  We  have  not  a  word 
to  say  against  the  promotion  of  so- 
excellent  an  object ;  still,  it  may 
be  questioned,  what  are  the  pre- 
cise results  which  we  ought  to- 
expect  from  it1?  Whatever  awak- 
ens the  faculties  and  enlightens 
the  mind  must  be  a  clear  and 
most  important  gain  amidst  the 
general  chances  of  life ;  and  as- 
suredly, if  no  other  good  could  be 
realised  than  the  imparting  the 
ability  to  read  and  write,  so  as  to- 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


famish  leisure  hours  with  an  occu- 
pation at  once  amusing  and  elevat- 
ing, this  is  a  national  gain  of  great 
value.  Modern  society  can  easily 
provide  machinery  for  the  supply 
of  books  and  journals.  But  there 
remains  the  inquiry,  What  can  edu- 
cation do  for  the  agricultural  labour- 
er in  procuring  for  him  better 
wages  ?  We  confess  that  for  the 
attainment  of  this  end  special  in- 
struction seems  to  us  far  more 
promising  of  good  than  general 
education.  We  should  wish  to  see 
the  labourer  trained  to  carry  out 
every  operation  on  the  farm.  The 
farmer  is  for  him  the  best  of  school- 
masters. A  labourer  who  has 
learned  all  the  various  processes 
of  tillage,  who  knows  how  to 
plough,  manage  horses,  work  any 
Mnd  of  implement,  hoe,  drain,  and 
mow,  is  in  an  excellent  position 
for  availing  himself  of  opportuni- 
ties of  rising  to  a  higher  position  ; 
and  the  farmer  will  be  no  loser  by 
having  all  his  servants  efficient  for 
all  purposes.  An  intelligent  work- 
man returns  more  for  his  wages 
than  an  ignorant  one  ;  and  many  a 
loss  will  be  avoided  when  the  re- 
gular man  in  charge  of  any  parti- 
cular service  falls  ill  or  dies.  More- 
over, a  village  filled  with  skilful 
and  well-trained  men  will  rear  up 
lads  to  the  same  skill,  and  they 
will  be  far  abler  than  they  are 
now  to  emigrate,  if  they  wish  it,  to 
agricultural  colonies.  Canada,  New 
Zealand,  Australia,  and  the  like, 
would  find  prosperity  for  countless 
labourers,  if  only  they  were  fit 
to  occupy  and  cultivate  land  on 
their  arrival  in  the  colony.  But 
the  landlords  must  also  do  their 
part  in  this  great  national  func- 
tion. If  the  labourers  are  trained 
practically,  a  field  must  be  pro- 
Tided  for  their  efforts.  The  system 
which  so  many  advocate  —  Lord 
Leicester  for  instance — of  large 
farms  exclusively,  would  defeat  the 
end  we  aim  at,  by  withholding  from 
the  peasant  the  means  of  applying 
the  instruction  he  had  received. 
Small  holdings  must  not  be  ex- 


pelled from  the  land,  or  else  the 
agricultural  population  must  pine. 
But  the  peasant,  however  skilful, 
has  no  capital ;  how  is  it  possible 
to  intrust  him  with  a  farm  ?  what 
means  can  he  have  to  work  it  1 
But  is  there  not  the  analogy  of  the 
artisan  ?  A  succession  of  steps  lies 
before  him,  up  which  he  constantly 
mounts  to  the  highest  manufactur- 
ing and  trading  summits,  and  yet 
he  equally  starts  with  no  capital. 
Men  who  entered  Manchester  in 
the  lowest  grade  of  workmen,  have, 
in  countless  numbers,  filled  all  the 
positions  of  the  commercial  hier- 
archy, and  ended  by  owning  some 
of  the  largest  mills  in  the  whole 
world.  No  doubt  the  posts  which 
a  rising  workman  can  occupy  in 
manufacturing  industry  are  mul- 
titudinous compared  with  those 
available  for  the  agricultural  la- 
bourer }  still  the  latter  does  often 
possess  opportunities  for  advance- 
ment, and  if  the  duty  of  providing 
these  were  heartily  recognised  by 
landlords  and  farmers,  they  might 
be  largely  multiplied.  The  Flemish 
peasant  thrives  because  he  can  sell 
his  garden  produce  to  a  neighbour- 
ing town ;  the  same  thing  might 
happen  in  England,  and  we  actually 
have  witnessed  it  ourselves.  We 
know  of  small  men,  tenants  holding 
land  at  the  distance  of  some  eight 
miles  from  a  town,  cultivating  plots 
(cottier-like)  exceeding  an  acre,  and 
covering  them  with  onions,  carrots, 
and  beet,  so  thick  as  scarcely  to 
leave  space  to  plant  a  foot.  Rent 
is  paid  at  full  rates  with  the  utmost 
regularity  and  ease,  for  tradesmen 
come  from  long  distances  to  buy 
the  crops  on  the  ground  at  very 
remunerative  prices,  and  carry  them 
away  themselves  in  their  own  carts. 
The  tenant's  need  of  capital  is  not 
large,  but  he  accumulates  savings 
as  time  rolls  on  ;  and  if  the  mania 
for  gigantic  farms  has  not  seized 
upon  the  whole  country,  the  single 
acre  is  exchanged  for  a  wider  ten- 
ancy, and  the  rise  in  the  world  has 
commenced.  .  The  labourer  has  been 
market-gardener,  and  passes  into  the 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


31 


state  of  small  farmer ;  his  career, 
if  not  so  diversified,  bears  at  least 
so: ue  resemblance  to  that   of  the 
advancing  artisan.     It  is  obvious, 
however,  that  in  the   agricultural 
regions  the  will  and  ideas  of  the 
landlord  play  an  infinitely  larger 
part  than   in   the    manufacturing 
world.      In  trade,  the  variety  of 
positions  filled  by  workmen  is  end- 
less, and  they  depend  very  little  on 
the  pleasure  of  the  mill- owner  or 
the  great  manufacturer.     The  size 
of    holdings    lies,    on    the    other 
hand,    within    the    discretion    of 
the  land-owner,  and  is  not  neces- 
sarily unchangeable.     It  thus  be- 
comes a  matter  of  the  most  serious 
importance    for     our    agricultural 
population  in  England,  What  are 
the  notions  which  fill  the  minds 
of  the  land-owning  class  1     Their 
education  in  the  upper  sphere  of 
intelligence  which  they  occupy  is 
as  vital  an  element  in  the  prospec- 
tive welfare  of  their  labourers  as 
the    instruction   of  the  labourers 
themselves.    A  man  like  Lord  Lei- 
cester, who  sees  no  excellence  but 
in  large  farms — and  one  like  Lord 
Carnarvon,  who  is  convinced  of  the 
merits  of  a  mixed  system,  in  which 
farms  of  various  sizes  are  grouped 
together — are  separated  from  each 
other  in  their  action  as  landlords  by 
tlte  widest  interval.  Whilst  the  ten- 
dency of  the  one  must  be  to  extin- 
guish ultimately  small  holdings,  the 
practice  of  the  other  is  to  reject  an 
exclusive  agglomeration,  and  to  re- 
serve, avowedly  and  upon  principle, 
intermediate  holdings  on  his  estates. 
It  is  clear  that  the  course  which  is  to 
prevail  at  last  will  be  determined  by 
tl  ie  advantages  which  each  system  of- 
fers as  a  method  of  culture.  If  large 
f:,rms  are  in  the  long-run  more  pro- 
fitable instruments  of  tillage,  they 
•will  displace  other  systems  ;  if,  on 
the   contrary,  each    has    its    own 
superiorities,  though  they  may  be 
balanced  by  peculiar  disadvantages, 
then  the  mixed  system  may  main- 
tain its   ground,   to   the  manifest 
benefit  of  the  intelligent  and  pro- 
mising labourer.     Kindly  feelings 


may  retard  the  universal  domina- 
tion of  the  former  method,  but  no 
permanent  reliance  can  be  placed 
on  philanthropy  in  such  matters. 
The  occupations  of  mankind  cannot 
be  governed  by  sentiment,  though 
the  feeling   which  each  is   calcu- 
lated  to  engender  is  a  most  real 
and  important  item  in  the  general 
estimate.     A  contented  and  pros- 
perous body  of  labourers  possesses 
a  large  money  value  for  landlords. 
But  it  will  be  the  final  balance  of 
advantage  which  will  determine  the 
agricultural  position  of  the  nation. 
This  consideration  leads  us  up  to 
the  second  point  which  we  wish  to 
notice  in   Mr   Howard's  Address. 
This  Address  is  a  discussion  of  for- 
eign farming  still  more  than  of  the 
state  of  the  agricultural  labourer.  It 
reviews  the  condition  and  the  re- 
sults of  that  far-famed  petite  culture, 
that  cultivation  of  the  soil  by  peas- 
ant-proprietors,   which    has    been 
so  loudly  extolled  by  Mr  Mill  and 
other  political  economists.     Its  ex- 
cellence has  been  pronounced  to  be 
so  incontestable  that  it  has  been 
made  the  basis  of  a  plan  for  the 
settlement  of  the  Land  question  in 
Ireland.       Introduce    small     pro- 
prietors    into     Ireland,     say    Mr 
Mill,  and  in  substance  Mr  Bright, 
and   the   country  is   regenerated ; 
peasant-proprietorship  works  won- 
ders.    Mr  Mill  acknowledges  that 
the  advantage  of  small  properties 
in  land  is  one  of  the  most  disputed 
questions  in  the  range  of  political 
economy.      He,  however,  feels  no 
doubt ;    he   appeals   to   the  judg- 
ment of    Continental   authorities. 
They  are  better   acquainted  with 
the  system  than  we  are,  and  their 
opinion  must  be  correct.     We  are 
blinded  by  the  sight  of  our  large 
farms  and  broad  homesteads ;   we 
have  even  forgotten  the  traditions 
of  Old  England;    the  yeomanry, 
once  the  glory  of  England,  have 
almost    disappeared.      They  have 
been  wiser  on  the  Continent :  the 
French,   the   Swiss,   the  Belgians, 
and  many  others,  have  demonstrat- 
ed that,  after  all,  the  old  methods 


32 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  t/te  Continent. 


[Jan. 


were  the  most  energetic  and  the 
most  productive.  They  have  vin- 
dicated peasant  -  proprietorship  as 
the  most  scientific  process  even 
in  these  modern  times.  It  works 
wonders  and  sheds  blessings  wher- 
ever its  beneficent  power  is  allowed 
to  operate.  "The  magic  of  pro- 
perty" as  Mr  Mill  is  never  tired  of 
quoting  from  Arthur  Young,  "turns 
the  wilderness  into  a  garden."  It 
reclaims  wastes  by  its  constructive 
labour ;  no  limits  are  set  to  the  in- 
dustry of  the  proprietor,  for  is  not 
the  gain  all  his  own  ?  Does  he 
not  toil  from  the  dawn  of  day  to 
the  setting  sun?  and  is  not  that 
toil  given  cheerfully,  because  it  is 
devoted  to  the  beloved  object  which 
is  felt  to  be  the  labourer's  property  1 
Then  it  accumulates  capital  in  the 
very  class  which  is  most  hopeless 
and  most  degraded  in  large-farm- 
ing England.  It  may  be  true  that 
it  presents  few  signs  of  expensive 
farming  to  the  eye ;  it  shows  no 
steam-ploughs,  no  clod-crushers,  or 
huge  thrashing-machines ;  but  la- 
bour freely  given  more  than  com- 
pensates for  the  want  of  ingenious 
implements.  It  is  true,  again,  that 
the  Flemish  farmers  and  labourers 
seldom  eat  meat  except  on  Sundays 
and  in  harvest;  buttermilk  and 
potatoes,  with  brown  bread,  is  their 
daily  food.  But  the  reply  is  easy 
and  triumphant.  This  is  economi- 
cal living  upon  system  ;  it  is  a  re- 
solute and  successful  determination 
to  acquire  capital.  Their  hearts 
are  set  on  buying  land,  and  no 
sacrifice  is  too  costly  to  gratify  the 
darling  passion.  First  of  all  and 
greatest  of  virtues,  peasant- pro- 
prietorship solves  the  problem  of 
population,  the  most  perplexing 
which  the  economical  philosopher 
has  to  encounter.  It  prevents 
marriage,  or  renders  it  relatively 
unfruitful.  It  keeps  down  the 
numbers  of  the  people,  and  thus 
affords  the  means  for  every  one 
being  well  off  and  comfortable. 
Hence  no  country  is  so  beautiful 
to  traverse  as  a  land  of  peasant- 
proprietors.  The  teeming  fields  on 


every  side  bear  witness  to  the  care 
and  the  culture,  the  productiveness 
of  the  farming,  and  the  universal 
happiness  of  the  inhabitants.  What, 
then,  has  intelligent  England  to  do 
but  to  retrace  her  steps,  to  return  to 
her  forgotten  past,  to  battle  against 
her  unnatural  relation  of  landlord 
and  tenant,  and  to  convert  her 
people  into  thrifty,  energetic,  and 
prosperous  owners  of  her  soil  ] 

Such  are  some  of  the  praises 
which  have  been  passionately  sung 
of  peasant-proprietors,  and  which 
are  repeated  with  increased  vigour 
by  many  excellent  and  philanthro- 
pical  men.  Above  all,  at  the  pre- 
sent hour,  is  the  system  whose  suc- 
cess abroad  is  so  strongly  vaunted, 
urged  upon  statesmen  as  the  pana- 
cea for  the  woes  of  Ireland.  Now, 
to  investigate  on  the  spot  the  me- 
rits of  foreign  farming,  and  to  test 
by  personal  inspection  the  value  of 
these  eulogies,  was  one  of  the  chief 
objects  of  Mr  Howard's  travels  on 
the  Continent.  His  report  bears, 
as  we  see,  on  some  of  the  most  crit- 
ical questions  of  our  time;  and,  if 
accurate,  is  plainly  of  the  utmost 
value.  As  to  its  accuracy,  none  who 
have  not  enjoyed  equal  opportu- 
nities of  observation  can  speak 
with  positive  certainty ;  but  certain 
qualities  transparently  shine  in  this 
Address,  which  cannot  fail  to  in- 
spire confidence.  Mr  Howard  enu- 
merates a  number  of  localities — 
he  gives  names  in  connection  with 
minute  and  specific  statements — 
he  quotes  persons  of  eminence  and 
ability;  in  a  word,  he  furnishes  very- 
strong  guarantees  of  trustworthi- 
ness. What  is  the  evidence,  then, 
which  we  obtain  from  Mr  Howard1? 

The  first  impression  is  unfavour- 
able to  the  foreigner.  An  English 
farmer  might  naturally  infer  from 
what  Jie  saw  between  Calais  and 
Paris  that  the  whole  country  was 
going  to  the  bad;  but  Mr  How- 
ard reassures  him.  Improvement 
is  not  extinct ;  it  is  slow,  but 
still  in  'motion,  as  is  proved  by 
several  large  establishments  which 
Mr  Howard  visited  in  this  region. 


1670.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  tJie  Continent. 


03 


But  we  need  not  dwell  on  M. 
Decrombecque  with  his  farm  of 
1200  acres,  nor  on  our  old  ac- 
quaintance, M.  Gail,  with  his  gi- 
gantic establishment.  Their  suc- 
cess does  not  bear  on  the  point  we 
arc  discussing,  although  it  shows 
that  in  the  favoured  land  of  peasant- 
proprietors  great  farms  may  spring 
up  and  reach  enormous  proportions. 
The  remark  of  M.  Leconteux  is 
more  to  the  purpose — "  That  the 
peasantry  and  small  proprietors 
arc  possessed  by  the  demon  of  pro- 
perty in  land."  "  They  buy  land," 
says  Mr  Howard,  "and  have  no 
capital  to  work  it  with."  Yet  these 
small  farmers  preponderate  in  the 
greater  part  of  France.  Thousands 
of  one,  two,  and  three  acre  farms  are 
held  by  peasants,  who  fill  up  their 
time  by  working  for  the  large  far- 
mers. As  ten  acres  are  the  mini- 
mum estimated  necessary  for  the 
maintenance  of  a  farmer  and  his 
family,  it  is  clear  that  these  small 
men  are  not  in  the  beatitude  de- 
scribed by  Mr  Mill.  They  are 
mainly  labourers  with  a  freehold 
garden  and  paddock — a  very  valu- 
able addition  to  their  welfare,  if  con- 
sidered as  supplementary  resources 
to  simple  wages,  but  certainly  not 
the  foundation  of  a  general  system 
of  agriculture.  To  live  they  must 
obtain  employment,  and  this  im- 
plies the  coexistence  of  occupiers 
of  land  possessed  of  ranges  far 
exceeding  their  own.  Such  farms 
are  not  a  restoration  of  small  farm- 
ing; nor  does  the  yoking  together 
of  a  horse,  a  bull,  and  an  ass  suggest 
very  efficient  agriculture.  How- 
ever, they  exhibit  the  merit  claimed 
for  them  by  Mr  Mill.  "These— 
the  very  small  farmers — work  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  doing  double  the 
work  for  themselves  they  would  for 
an  employer,  and  they  live  far 
harder  than  English  peasants.  They 
are  sober,  live  very  hard,  scrape  to- 
gether every  penny  they  can  lay 
hands  upon,  with  a  view  to  be- 
coming one  of  the  hard-working, 
hard-living  farmers  I  have  de- 
scribed." The  produce  is  very  in- 

VOL.  CVH. — NO.  DCLI. 


ferior  in  quantity,  though  France 
is  favoured  with  a  finer  climate 
and  a  better  soil  than  what  ob- 
tain in  England.  It  is  certain 
that  under  such  management  the 
land  produces  far  less  beyond  what 
the  cultivators  of  the  soil  them- 
selves consume,  than  under  the 
ordinary  English  tenure.  The  lit- 
tle farmer  has  no  greater  enjoy- 
ments, if  so  many,  as  the  English 
labourer,  and  he  provides  much 
less  for  the  sustenance  of  the  whole 
French  people.  In  what,  then,  does 
the  gain  of  this  mode  of  life  con- 
sist ?  The  French  peasant-proprie- 
tor has  harder  work,  inferior  fare  for 
the  most  part,  and  produces  less  for 
the  community,  than  the  average 
English  labourer.  If  that  is  a 
desirable  form  of  existence,  in  what 
does  its  superiority  reside  1  If  there 
is  superiority — though  we  should 
rather  term  it  compensation  for 
material  inferiority — it  is  found  in 
the  satisfaction  of  ownership,  in 
the  sense  of  being  in  some  degree 
independent,  and  in  the  hope  and 
prospect  of  saving  enough  to  buy 
more  land.  We  do  not  wish  for  a 
moment  to  undervalue  such  a  feel- 
ing ;  yet  we  see  by  what  heavy 
material  sacrifices  it  is  purchased, 
and  what  little  practical  good  it 
brings  to  the  man  and  to  his  family. 
To  toil  from  four  in  the  morning 
till  eight  in  the  evening,  to  live  on 
the  most  scanty  fare,  to  be  desti- 
tute of  the  comforts  of  civilisation, 
solely  to  have  some  prospect  of 
acquiring  an  increase  of  property  in 
land,  is  a  state  of  existence  scarcely 
to  be  envied.  And  by  the  side  of 
such  owners  of  property,  and  such  a 
manner  of  spending  life,  be  it  care- 
fully remembered,  are  the  labour- 
ers, the  workmen  for  hire,  whom 
we  have  described  above.  The 
whole  group  combined  presents  a 
picture  of  a  life  which  can  scarcely 
be  considered  as  realising  the  ideal 
which  has  been  painted  in  such 
vivid  colours. 

But  let  us  now  pass  on  to  Belgi- 
um, the  paradise  of  a  certain  school 
of  political  economists.  Mr  Howard 


34 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


entered  it  with  eager  expectation. 
He  had  heard  of  its  fame,  of  the 
glowing  descriptions  which  Mr 
Mill  and  his  friends  had  given  of 
its  agriculture.  He  was  plunged 
at  once  into  disappointment.  The 
signs  of  industry  and  care  in  cul- 
tivation were  apparent  on  every 
side  ;  but  the  means  of  developing 
the  resources  of  the  land  were 
wanting.  Capital  was  absent, 
though  found  in  prosperous  appli- 
cation on  the  large  beetroot  farms, 
the  counterparts  of  English  til- 
lage, and  doubtless  deserving  on 
that  account  of  scientific  repro- 
bation. Except  on  these  large 
farms,  the  yield  of  Belgian  agricul- 
ture falls  decidedly  below  the  Eng- 
lish level.  Howes^er,  a  new  claim 
has  been  lately  raised  on  its  behalf, 
which  goes  far  to  turn  the  scale. 
Mr  Hoskyns,  M.P.,  has  recently 
stated  in  the  'Times/  that  "the 
number  of  beasts  fed,  and  meat 
produced  per  acre,  is  far  greater  in 
Belgium  than  in  England."  We 
confess  that  we  were  startled  by 
the  remark,  it  was  so  novel,  so 
subversive  of  all  our  previous  con- 
ceptions. We  longed  for  an  expla- 
nation of  a  fact  so  surprising,  and 
yet  announced  with  such  positive- 
ness.  It  is  furnished  by  Mr  How- 
ard, and  we  shall  be  excused  for 
quoting  it :  "  It  is  true  that  Bel- 
gium has  1,257,269  head  of  cattle, 
which  is  larger  in  proportion  than 
the  stock  of  English  cattle.  But 
to  come  to  the  conclusion  from 
such  a  fact  that  the  Belgian  meat- 
supply  is  greater  than  ours  is  a 
fallacy,  as  I  will  show.  In  the 
first  place,  the  draught  power  in 
oxen  in  this  country  is  infinitesi- 
mal ;  in  Belgium  it  forms  a  large 
proportion.  In  England,  as  soon 
as  a  bullock  is  big  enough  he  is 
slaughtered,  whilst  in  Belgium  he 
is  kept  on  for  years  for  draught 
purposes.  Again,  note  the  startling 
fact,  that  whilst  Belgium  has  but 
some  half-million  of  sheep  we  have 
over  35  millions,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  superior  size  and  weight  of  our 
animals.  I  feel  convinced  that,  were 


we  in  possession  of  full  and  reliable 
statistics,  it  would  be  conclusively 
proved  that  England  produces  far 
more  meat  per  acre  than  any  coun- 
try in  the  world,  with  perhaps  the 
exception  of  the  rich-growing  land 
of  Holland.  With  the  best  infor- 
mation, then,  at  my  command,  and 
altogether  waiving  the  question  as 
to  the  number  of  oxen  and  cows 
kept  in  Belgium  for  draught  pur- 
poses, I  make  the  total  quantity  of 
meat  raised  per  acre  to  be  only  98 
pounds  in  Belgium  against  148 
pounds  in  England  and  Wales. 
Except  upon  the  large  farms,  very 
little  stock  is  to  be  seen."  These 
figures  bring  out  a  very  clear  supe- 
riority on  the  English  side.  It 
will  be  still  more  decided  if  the 
element,  the  cattle  kept  for  draught, 
which  is  here  omitted,  is  taken  into 
account,  especially  when  it  is  re- 
membered that  only  one-half  of 
Belgium,  if  indeed  so  much,  is 
occupied  by  peasant-proprietorship. 
The  pretension  that  small  peasant 
landowners  rear  such  a  quantity  of 
cattle  as  not  only  supplies  abundant 
meat  to  the  mart,  but  also  attests 
efficiency  and  productiveness  of 
agriculture,  obtains  no  confirmation 
from  the  appeal  to  facts. 

What  Mr  Howard  proclaims  is 
corroborated  by  the  testimony  of 
other  witnesses  of  equal  competence 
and  skill.  Mr  Bead  predicted  in 
the  House  of  Commons  the  refu- 
tation which  personal  observation 
enabled  Mr  Howard  to  bring  on 
Mr  Wren  Hoskyns's  assertion.  Dr 
Voelcker  speaks  in  the  same  strain. 
Fifteen  years  ago  he  made  an  agri- 
cultural tour  in  Belgium,  and  re- 
cently again  he  has  made  another 
in  company  with  Mr  Jenkins,  the 
Secretary  of  the  Royal  Agricultural 
Society.  He  has  discovered  but 
little  progress  in  Belgium  during 
these  fifteen  years.  Some  improve- 
ment might  be  discerned  in  pigs 
and  horned  cattle,  but  no  increase 
in  the  growth  of  corn  had  been 
effected.  Dr  Voelcker  then  adds 
a  sentence  which  we  commend  to 
the  attention  of  Mr  Mill.  "One 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


35 


of  the  greatest  compliments  that 
he  had  ever  seen  paid  to  British 
agriculture,  was  the  astonishment 
expressed  by  some  of  the  more 
intelligent  men  with  whom  we 
came  in  contact,  that  two  persons 
should  have  come  over  from  Eng- 
land to  see  what  they  were  doing 
there.  They  could  not  understand 
it ;  and  several  of  them  said,  '  All 
thai  we  have  learnt  of  good  agri- 
culture we  have  picked  up  either 
directly  by  going  to  England,  or 
by  reading  English  agricultural 
publications.' " 

There  are  other  considerations  of 
great  weight,  which  must  be  taken 
into  account  in  passing  a  judgment 
on  la  petite  culture — the  system 
of  ^mall  proprietorships.  Pre-emi- 
nent amongst  these  are  the  two 
tendencies  to  subdivide  and  to 
incur  debt.  When  small  properties 
occupy  a  whole  county,  they  leave 
but  a  scanty  demand  for  labour. 
We  have  seen  how  low  is  the  rate 
of  wages  found  in  the  neighbour- 
hoc  >d  of  small  peasants  abroad. 
If  large  manufactures  are  not  at 
hand  to  carry  off  the  excess  of  the 
population,  the  father  of  the  family 
has  no  other  resource  but  to  sub- 
divide his  land  amongst  his  chil- 
dren. Thus  the  holding  is  gradual- 
ly reduced  in  size,  till  it  reaches  the 
limit  when  the  farm  can  just  afford 
subsistence.  Mr  Howard  has  told 
us  of  numerous  cases  where  the 
cottier  is  compelled  to  supplement, 
by  working  for  hire,  the  inadequate 
living  he  can  extract  from  his  land. 
Belgium,  France,  Ireland,  and  other 
countries,  furnish  striking  instances 
of  this  tendency.  It  is  calculated 
to  check,  no  doubt,  the  growth  of 
tho  population,  and  this  is  claimed 
by  Mr  Mill  as  a  merit.  But  does 
Mr  Mill  mean  to  tell  us  that  a  host 
of  cottier  proprietors,  living  on  the 
scantiest  minimum  of  subsistence, 
renring  only  two  children  to  replace 
th<)  parents,  and  developing  no  in- 
crease of  production,  is  a  healthier, 
sounder,  more  desirable  condition 
of  life  tfian  that  of  pure  agricul- 
tural labourers,  raising  ever-expand- 


ing supplies  of  food,  and,  in  spite 
of  many  drawbacks,  earning  satis- 
factory wages  1  For  our  own  part, 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  express  our 
preference  for  the  cottier  system. 
There  is  less  suffering  in  the  pre- 
sent, and  far  greater  hope  in  the 
future. 

Equally  mischievous  is  the  irre- 
pressible tendency  to   debt.     The 
weight   of    superincumbent    mort- 
gages is  the  load  which  depresses 
French  agriculture,   which   exacts 
from  it  periodical  cries  of  distress, 
and  extorts  from  the  French  Gov- 
ernment   successive    commissions 
of  inquiry.     The  one  ambition  of 
the  French  peasant  is  to  buy  more 
land.     Mr  Howard  mentions  such 
sums   as  .£192  given  for  an    acre 
of  ground.     The  peasant  will  live 
for  years  on  the  barest  and  hard- 
est fare  which  will  support  life,  and 
then  draw  from  the  ground  hoards 
of  coin  for  the  acquisition  of  more 
acres.    So  keen  is  this  passion,  that 
he  will  mortgage  deeply  what  he 
has  to  obtain  more  ;  and  at  this 
moment   a  very  large   portion   of 
French  land  belongs  to  mortgagees 
who  dwell  in  towns.     One  of  the 
worst  features  of  such  a  practice  is 
the  stinting  agriculture  of  the  capi- 
tal necessary  for  its  development. 
What  the  peasant   longs  for  is  to 
own  more  land,  and  not  to  increase 
his  wealth  and  happiness  by  a  more 
intelligent    and    superior    cultiva- 
tion of  what  he  already  possesses. 
Can  it  be  a  matter  of  wonder  that 
Dr  Voelcker,  Mr  Howard,  and  other 
observers,   perceive   so    little  pro- 
gress in  the  lands  of  small  proprie- 
tors 1     On   the    other  hand,   Eng- 
lish farming  is  achieving  new  tri- 
umphs.    The   yield   of  wheat  per 
acre  is  steadily  rising  all  over  Eng- 
land.   Processes  are  adopted  which 
combine  economy  with  efficiency. 
The  farmer  produces  more,  and  is 
richer;  and  it  is  certain  that  the 
more  successful   the  farming,  the 
better,  as  a  rule,  is  the  condition  of 
the  labourer.     The  French  peasant- 
landlord,  in  endless  cases,  is  para- 
lysed by  debt.    He  owns  more  land, 


36 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


but  his  savings  have  been  exhausted 
in  the  purchase-money,  and  he  has 
little  capital  for  cultivating  his  new 
acquisitions  with  efficiency.  Thus 
he  is  loaded  with  debt,  and  is  poor 
amidst  landed  riches.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  relation  of  the  farmer 
to  agriculture  is  radically  bad  and 
unsound.  The  means  for  progress 
are  wanting  ;  the  yield  of  the  land 
remains  below  the  power  of  produc- 
ing conferred  upon  it  by  nature. 
The  country  suffers,  and  so  does  the 
cultivator  ;  both  are  placed  in  an 
unnatural  position.  The  wealth  of 
the  country  stands  below  its  true 
level ;  there  is  less  for  all.  Food 
is  dearer  than  it  ought  to  be,  to  the 
injury  of  every  class.  If  there  is  a 
sound  and  incontestable  principle 
which  governs  the  practice  of  agri- 
culture, it  is  that  the  capital  avail- 
able for  tillage  should  be  propor- 
tionate to  the  capabilities  of  the 
land.  This  is  the  ideal.  Every 
system  is  sound  which  makes  con- 
stant approaches  to  this  ideal  ; 
every  system  is  bad,  and  calls  for 
reform,  which  forgets  this  ideal,  or 
leads  away  from  its  realisation. 
The  absence  of  a  poor-law  greatly 
aggravates  the  evil;  for  it  strength- 
ens the  desire  to  acquire  more  land 
as  the  safeguard  against  destitution. 
A  poor  cottier  with  a  couple  of 
acres,  with  no  other  resource  than 
to  eke  out  the  insufficient  mainten- 
ance he  obtains  from  them  by  the 
wretched  wages  we  have  described, 
cannot  help  longing  for  the  acqui- 
sition of  more  acres  by  the  help  of 
mortgage.  The  set  of  the  tide  of 
the  agricultural  mind  throughout 
the  nation  is  directed  to  additional 
purchases,  in  which  the  capital 
requisite  for  efficient  cultivation  is 
of  small  account.  An  unprogressive 
agriculture  is  the  inevitable  result ; 
and  it  is  very  plain  to  us  that,  were 
it  not  for  the  growth  of  large  farms, 
fostered  by  the  cultivation  of  the 
beetroot,  and  its  manufacture  on 
the  farm  into  sugar,  the  tardy  ad- 
vance of  French  and  Flemish  farm- 
ing would  move  at  a  still  feebler 
rate. 


A  remedy  may  possibly  be  found 
for  some  of  these  evils  in  co-opera- 
tion. The  application  of  this  prin- 
ciple has  already  commenced  in 
central  France,  with  the  view  of 
meeting  the  increasing  deficiency  of 
agricultural  labourers.  The  effici- 
ency of  co-operation  resides  in  the 
means  it  furnishes  of  employing 
superior  implements  of  culture.  By 
its  help  the  small  farmer  may  have 
access  to  a  better  plough,  a  steam 
thrashing-machine,  and  similar  ap- 
pliances. The  man  who  cannot 
keep  a  horse  may  obtain,  through 
co-operation,  the  services  of  his 
richer  neighbour's  team.  Drainage, 
too,  becomes  of  easier  execution. 
The  concert  of  a  number  of  co-pro- 
prietors, owning  a  drainage-basin  in 
common,  may  be  obtained  when 
they  are  working  its  fields  together, 
while  it  might  be  unobtainable 
without  co-operation.  We  cheer- 
fully admit  that  such  a  method  of 
joint  action  would  give  a  new 
aspect  to  many  of  the  present 
features  of  la  petite  culture.  Some 
of  its  most  characteristic  disadvan- 
tages would  disappear,  others  would 
be  practically  mitigated.  But  if  such 
a  system  of  agriculture  could  be 
successfully  established,  it  would  be 
in  substance  a  combination  of  large 
farming  with  small.  The  main 
impediments  to  its  establishment, 
we  conceive,  would  be  moral.  A 
large  number  of  proprietors,  in- 
vested with  individual  rights  which 
they  could  enforce  at  will,  seems  to 
us,  we  confess,  an  institution  little 
suited  for  a  large  country.  It  con- 
tains a  special  difficulty,  from  which 
co-operation  in  a  trade  is  exempt. 
If  a  partner  in  a  co-operative  store 
or  mill  chooses  to  withdraw,  his 
place  can  be  supplied  as  efficiently 
by  another.  The  association  is  in 
no  danger  of  dissolution  because 
any  particular  person  refuses  to  join 
it.  It  is  otherwise  with  agricul- 
tural co-operation.  The  refusal  of 
a  single  land-owner  might  prevent 
altogether  the  execution  of  a  great 
work  of  drainage.  Then  agricul- 
ture is  composed  of  a  succession 


1870.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


37 


of  operations  whose  completion 
extends  over  three  or  four  years  : 
under  what  conditions  can  the 
withdrawal  of  a  proprietor  take 
place  ?  Such  withdrawals  there 
must  be — they  are  inherent  in  the 
freo  exercise  of  the  right  of  pro- 
perty ;  they  would  often  become 
imperative  from  the  death  of  a 
prc  prietor.  Under  what  covenants 
must  the  land  come  so  as  to  over- 
come the  difficulty  1  We  cannot 
easily  picture  to  ourselves  what 
they  ought  to  be  upon  a  system 
which  would  deserve  to  be  called 
national,  or  even  general.  We 
do  not  see,  therefore,  speaking  of 
broad  regions,  that  co-operation  can 
be  carried  much  farther  than  work- 
ing a  common  district  by  all  the 
labourers  in  it  combined,  and  the 
uso  by  the  smaller  men  of  the  large 
implements  possessed  by  those  of 
greater  means ;  and  then  some 
of  the  distinctive  excellences  of 
peasant-proprietorship  will  be  lost. 
Those  who  are  tilling  the  lands  of 
their  neighbours  will  measure  their 
hours  of  toil  in  the  same  manner  as 
hired  labourers  ;  and  substantially 
the  chief  elements  of  such  a  method, 
when  successfully  at  work,  will  be 
those  of  large  farming. 

We  have  used  the  expression 
"  the  distinctive  excellences  ;'  of 
small  farming,  and  we  desire  to 
recognise  them  most  clearly.  The 
owner  of  a  small  plot  of  land  does 
work  with  a  care,  a  perseverance, 
and  an  ungrudging  bestowal  of  his 
time  and  labour,  which  cannot  be 
found  in  an  agriculture  whose 
operations  are  carried  out  on  a 
great  scale.  But  here  we  come 
upon  a  principle  which  has  not  been 
duly  estimated  by  political  econo- 
mists. The  merits  of  small  farming 
have  been  exclusively  attributed  to 
the  element  of  ownership.  It  is 
because  the  land  is  his  own,  it  is 
said,  that  the  peasant  -  proprietor 
works  so  hard  and  so  unceasingly. 
The  fact  of  the  excellence  displayed 
we  admit  \  the  theory  of  the  secret  in 
which  its  virtue  dwells  we  hold  to 
"be  erroneous.  The  proof  of  our 


assertion  is,  in  our  opinion,  easy 
and  decisive.  Small  cultivators, 
who  are  not  owners  of  the  soil  on 
which  their  labour  is  expended,  ex- 
hibit the  same  characteristics.  Their 
labour  is  as  untiring,  their  care  and 
watchfulness  as  active,  the  absence 
of  all  calculation  of  the  length  of 
the  day's  work  as  marked,  and  the 
results  at  the  last  as  fruitful.  In 
Scotland  and  elsewhere,  tenants 
have  reclaimed  waste  lands  with 
an  energy  as  powerful  as  any  shown 
by  peasant-proprietors.  They  have 
had  leases  long  enough  to  secure  to 
them  such  fruits  of  their  industry 
as  shall  repay  the  efforts  they  have 
made  ;  still  they  are  tenants,  and 
not  proprietors.  The  length  of  the 
lease,  it  may  be  said — a  lease,  of 
course,  founded  on  a  trifling  rent — 
has  placed  them  for  the  time  in  the 
position  of  peasant  -  proprietors. 
This  is  true ;  yet  the  distinction  is 
very  important.  It  proves,  on  the 
one  side,  that  the  concession  of  the 
land  in  full  or  imperfect  proprietor- 
ship is  one  of  the  most  effective 
instruments  available  for  the  reduc- 
tion of  wastes  into  cultivated  fields; 
but  it  equally  shows,  on  the  other, 
that  a  suitable  lease  will  perform 
this  work  as  successfully  as  owner- 
ship, and  that  the  compulsory 
substitution  of  proprietorship  for 
tenancy  is  not  necessary  for  secur- 
ing these  particular  benefits. 

But  the  evidence  is  not  confined 
to  the  reclamation  of  wastes.  There 
is  a  yet  more  decisive  field  in  which 
the  quality  of  small  tenancies  may 
be  tested.  There  are  many  hold- 
ings still  existing  in  England,  in 
which  the  man  of  40  acres  has  to 
compete  with  him  who  has  400, 
or  even  1000.  And  what  does  ex- 
perience tell  here  ?  That  the  small 
tenant  is  crushed  to  the  earth ; 
that  he  is  struck  down  in  the 
competition  with  the  skill  and 
science  of  the  great  farmer  ;  and 
that  he  and  his  brethren  are  in 
process  of  extinction  ?  Very  far 
from  it.  The  yeomen,  the  small 
proprietors,  the  statesmen  of  West- 
moreland and  Cumberland,  are  dis- 


38 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


[Jan. 


appearing,  beyond  doubt.  They  do 
not  hold  their  own  in  this  modern 
England  of  our  day.  But  the  cause 
is  not  their  inability  to  cultivate 
their  land  with  profit :  they  suc- 
cumb to  the  temptation  of  selling. 
They  are  unable  to  resist  the  glit- 
tering shine  of  high  prices.  Rich 
men  can  afford,  and  have  the  will 
to  offer  them,  prices  for  their  acres 
which  are  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  profits  of  their  own  agriculture. 
Their  small  estates  are  bought  up 
by  rich  land-owners,  who  add  field 
to  field,  and  trust  to  their  posterity 
receiving  compensation  for  the  pre- 
sent sacrifice.  In  still  larger  num- 
bers they  pass  into  building-plots, 
whose  beauty  commands  the  open 
purses  of  eager  purchasers.  The 
extinction  of  the  yeomen  has  but 
a  slight  connection  with  the  condi- 
tion of  agriculture  in  England;  it 
does  not  demonstrate  the  impossi- 
bility of  small  farms  being  culti- 
vated with  success,  even  under  the 
pressure  of  the  severe  competition 
of  large  ones.  Evidence  may  be 
found  in  all  directions  to  make 
good  this  assertion.  Small  tenan- 
cies do  thrive  in  abundance;  they  not 
only  pay  their  way,  but  they  work 
often  on  equal  terms  with  their  great 
neighbours.  We  are  ourselves  ac- 
quainted with  such  minor  holdings 
of  some  40  or  50  acres.  We  have 
seen  on  them  crops  as  flourishing 
as  on  the  most  famed  farms  of  the 
kingdom  —  cattle  and  sheep  as 
abundant,  and  rent  as  high  and  as 
punctually  paid.  We  know  of  a 
very  high  agricultural  authority 
who  has  declared  that  it  is  not 
these  small  tenants,  but  those  who 
are  intermediate  between  them  and 
the  great  farmers,  who  exhibit  the 
least  satisfactory  results.  Land- 
lords within  our  knowledge,  men 
who  have  dealt  with  their  property 
on  strict  principles  of  business, 
sustain  these  small  holdings  as 
sound  agricultural  arrangements  ; 
and  what  leads  to  their  success  1 
These  small  tenants  cannot  possess 
large  teams  of  horses,  for  they  have 
no  constant  employment  for  them 


which  shall  defray  their  cost ;  they 
do  not  own  great  agricultural  im- 
plements, much  less  have  they 
capital  or  skill  for  important  exper- 
iments and  improvements.  How, 
then,  do  they  hold  their  own  1  By 
the  very  virtues  which  Mr  Mill  has 
celebrated  so  enthusiastically  in 
peasant-proprietors  :  by  the  con- 
spicuous devotion  of  their  own 
time  and  labour ;  by  their  presence 
in  the  field  by  the  side  of  the 
labourers  they  employ ;  by  working 
long  days  when  rain  threatens  the 
hay  crop  ;  by  the  turning  of  the 
master's  eye  to  every  detail  of  the 
petty  holding.  These  are  the  qua- 
lities which  enable  them  to  culti- 
vate with  as  large  a  production,  and 
with  inferior  cost  to  the  great  farm- 
ers. It  is  true  that  no  one  can 
contemplate  the  practicability  of 
converting  all  England  into  such 
farms.  Their  success  implies  the 
neighbourhood  of  bigger  men,  and 
of  their  resources.  They  need  to 
borrow  horses  for  ploughing  at 
times  ;  they  must  have  recourse  to 
the  thrashing  and  winnowing  ma- 
chines of  their  neighbours  ;  and  if 
cultivation  by  steam  advances,  they 
will  require  the  occasional  help  of 
implements  which  are  not  their 
own.  When  these  resources  exist, 
we  say  fearlessly  that  small  farms 
prosper,  both  for  landlord  and  ten- 
ant. The  secret  of  their  wellbeing 
lies  in  the  moderate  size  of  the 
holding,  which  admits  of  its  being 
superintended  by  the  farmer  in 
person,  and  of  being  in  no  small 
degree  worked  by  his  own  hands. 
And  thus  these  small  tenancies 
bring  out  a  scientific  result  of 
great  value.  They  correct  and 
change  a  great  chapter  in  political 
economy.  They  efface  a  one-sided 
and  passionate  explanation  of  a 
fact  by  substituting  the  true  for 
an  imaginary  cause.  They  proclaim 
that  it  is  not  necessary  for  the  man 
who  cultivates  a  small  farm  to  be 
its  owner  in  order  to  produce  the 
results  which  excite  admiration. 
They  point  out  the  identity  of  posi- 
tion between  the  small  proprietor 


isro.] 


The  Farming  and  Peasantry  of  the  Continent. 


39 


and  the  small  tenant.  They  prove 
that  it  is  the  small  size  of  the  area 
tilled  which  generates  success,  by 
enabling  the  personal  qualities  of 
the  cultivator  to  bear  directly  on 
every  process  of  the  agriculture. 
And  in  England  they  have  this  dis- 
tinguishing merit,  that  whilst  the 
small  statesman  is  unable  to  resist 
the  allurements  of  a  strong  pur- 
chaser of  his  land,  the  small  tenant 
may  thrive,  and  continue  as  long 
as  agriculture  shall  last. 

Another  merit  of  these  small 
tenancies  possesses  extreme  impor- 
tance in  our  eyes.  They  supply 
th  3  vacuum  between  the  labourer 
and  the  richer  agriculturists.  They 
shed  the  ray  of  hope  upon  his  toil ; 
they  cheer  him  with  the  prospect 
of  advancement;  and  they  concil- 
iate his  affection  for  the  walk  in 
life  which  Providence  has  marked 
out  for  him.  The  social  value 
of  such  intermediate  steps  cannot 
be  well  exaggerated.  It  is  true 
that  the  difficulty  of  providing 
adequate  capital  for  cultivation  is 
considerable,  but  it  is  not  insuper- 
able. That  difficulty  must  effec- 


tually prevent  small  tenancies  from 
being  the  main  instrument  of  agri- 
culture ;  but  no  one  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  rural  districts  of 
England  can  doubt  that  instances 
abound  where  small  men,  even 
labourers,  possess  a  sagacity  in 
discerning  and  a  thrift  in  saving 
which  lay  the  foundations  of  a 
real  rise  in  life.  The  kindness 
of  a  landlord  may  contribute 
very  effective  aid  at  times.  But 
we  cannot  and  do  not  rest  on  such 
sentiments  as  a  trustworthy  ele- 
ment of  a  business  relation.  It  is 
a  vast  matter  that  these  narrow 
holdings  offer  to  many  a  rescue  from 
hopeless  and  stationary  poverty; 
and  the  effects  generated  in  the 
minds  of  the  most  intelligent 
and  the  most  aspiring  cannot 
fail  to  spread  themselves  over  the 
whole  mass.  The  condition  of  a 
healthy  profession,  embracing  large 
masses  of  mankind,  is  the  penetra- 
tion of  life  and  progress  to  its  lowest 
members ;  and  this  invaluable  bless- 
ing, we  are  persuaded,  a  judicious 
admixture  of  small  with  large  ten- 
ancies can  supply. 


40 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


JOHN. — PAKT    III. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


"Miss  CREDITON,"  said  John  Mit- 
ford,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  you 
don't  know  what  a  very  serious  ques- 
tion that  is ;  it  has  been  my  burden 
for  half  my  life.  I  have  never 
spoken  of  it  to  any  one,  and  you 
have  taken  me  a  little  by  surprise. 
Td  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  but 
you — would  not  care  to  hear." 

"Indeed  I  should,"  said  Kate, 
eagerly.  "  Oh,  I  do  so  hope  you 
have  not  quite  made  up  your  mind. 
It  would  be  such  a  sacrifice.  Fan- 
shawe  Regis  is  very  nice — but  to  be 
buried  here  all  your  life,  and  never 
to  take  part  in  anything,  nor  to 
have  any  way  of  rising  in  the 
world,  or  improving  your  position ! 
If  I  were  a  man,  I  would  rather  be 
anything  than  a  clergyman.  It  is 
like  making  a  ghost  of  yourself  at 
the  beginning  of  your  life." 

"  A  ghost  of  myself  ?  "  said 
John. 

"  Yes — of  course  it  just  comes  to 
that ;  other  men  will  go  on  and 
on  while  you  remain  behind,"  cried 
Kate.  "  I  could  not  bear  it.  That 
Fred  Huntley,  for  example — he  is 
reading  for  the  bar,  I  believe,  and 
he  is  clever,  and  he  will  be  Lord 
Chancellor,  or  something,  while  you 
are  only  Rector  of  Fanshawe  Regis. 
That  is  what  I  could  not  bear." 

John  shook  his  head,  softly 
bending  over  her  more  and  more, 
with  a  gesture  which  was  half 
pity.  "That  is  not  my  feeling," 
he  said.  "I  don't  think  you 
would  care  for  that  either  if  you 
looked  into  it  more.  Huntley  has 
more  brains  than  I  have  ;  he  will 
always  rise  higher  if  he  takes  the 
trouble — but  I  don't  care  for  that. 
The  thing  is — but,  Miss  Crediton, 
it  would  bore  you  to  listen  to  such 
a  long  story ;  suppose  we  go  in 
to  my  mother — she  knows  nothing 
about  my  vain  thoughts,  thank 
heaven !  " 


"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  Kate,  cling- 
ing still  closer  to  his  arm  ;  "tell  me 
everything — I  shall  not  be  bored. 
That  is,  if  you  will — if  you  don't 
mind  trusting  me." 

**  Trusting  you  !  "  It  was  curi- 
ous how  much  more  impressive  his 
voice  was,  coming  out  of  the  dark- 
ness. His  awkwardness,  his  dif- 
fidence, everything  that  made  him 
look  commonplace  in  the  daylight, 
had  disappeared.  Kate  felt  a  little 
thrill,  half  of  excitement,  half  of 
pride.  Yes,  he  would  trust  her, 
though  nobody  else  (he  said)  in  all 
the  world.  It  was  not  John  that 
thus  moved  her;  it  was  the  sense 
of  being  the  one  selected  and 
chosen-one  out  of  a  hundred — one 
out  of  the  world — which  is  the 
sweetest  flattery  which  can  be  ad- 
dressed to  man  or  woman.  She 
looked  up  to  him,  though  he  could 
not  see  her,  raising  that  face  which 
John  already  felt  was  the  sweetest 
in  the  world.  And  he  bent  over 
her,  and  her  little  hand  trembled 
on  his  arm,  and  the  darkness 
wrapped  them  round  and  round, 
so  that  they  could  not  see  each 
other's  faces  —  the  very  moment 
and  the  very  circumstances  which 
make  it  sweet  to  confide  and  to  be 
confided  in.  It  was  not  yet  ten 
days  since  he  had  seen  her  first, 
and  she  had  not  as  yet  shown  the 
least  trace  of  a  character  likely  to 
understand  his,  and  yet  he  was 
ready  to  trust  her  with  the  deepest 
secrets  of  his  heart. 

"  It  is  not  that,"  said  John.  "  I 
am  sure  you  are  not  the  one  to  bid 
a  man  forsake  his  duty  that  he 
might  rise  in  the  world.  If  I  were 
as  sure  about  everything  I  ought  to 
believe  as — as  my  father  is,  I  should 
go  into  the  Church  joyfully  to- 
morrow." 

"  Should  you  ?"  said  Kate,  feel- 
ing chilled  in  spite  of  herself. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  III. 


41 


'•  I  should ;  and  you  would  ap- 
prove me  for  doing  so,  I  know,"  he 
said,  earnestly.  "  But  don't  think 
me  worse  than  I  am,  Miss  Crediton. 
I  am  not  a  sceptic  nor  an  infidel, 
that  you  should  draw  away  from 
me.  Yes,  you  did,  ever  so  little 
— but  if  it  had  only  been  a  hair- 
breadth, I  should  have1  felt  it.  It 
is  not  so  much  that  I  doubt — but 
I  can't  feel  sure  of  things.  My 
father  is  sure  of  everything;  that  is 
the  superiority  of  the  older  genera- 
tions. They  knew  what  they  be- 
lieved, and  so  they  were  ready  to 
go  to  the  stake  for  it " 

:'  Or  send  other  people  to  the 
stake,"  said  Kate.  The  conver- 
sation was  getting  so  dreadfully 
serious  that  she  turned  it  where 
she  could  to  the  side  of  laughter ; 
but  it  was  not  possible  in  this  case. 

"  Yes,  I  know/'  he  said,  softly, 
altogether  ignoring  her  lighter  tone ; 
"the  one  thing  implies  the  other. 
I  acknowledge  it  does  ;  we  are  such 
confused  creatures.  But  as  for  me, 
I  could  neither  die  for  my  belief 
nor  make  any  one  else  die.  I  don't 
feel  sure.  I  say  to  myself,  how  do 
you  know  he  is  wrong  and  you  are 
right  1  How  do  I  know  1  But  you 
see  my  father  knows;  and  most  of 
the  old  people  in  the  village  are 
just  as  certain  as  he.  Is  it  because 
we  are  young,  I  wonder?"  said 
John. 

"Oh,  don't  speak  like  that— 
pi-ay  don't.  Why  should  it  be  be- 
cause we  are  young?" 

"  That  I  can't  tell,"  said  John,  in 
the  darkness.  "  It  might  be  out  of 
opposition,  perhaps,  because  they 
are  so  sure — so  sure — cruelly  sure, 
I  often  think.  But  when  a  man 
his  to  teach  others,  I  suppose  that 
is  how  he  ought  to  be ;  and  my 
vary  soul  shrinks,  Miss  Credi- 
ton  " 

JYesI" 

"  You  will  not  say  anything  to 
my  mother?  She  has  brought  me 
up  for  it,  and  set  her  heart  on  it, 
and  I  would  not  fail  her  for  the 
world." 

"But,  Mr  John,". said  Kate,  "I 


don't  understand  ;  if  you  are  not  a 
— I  mean,  if  you  don't  believe — the 
Bible — should  you  be  a  clergyman 
for  any  other  reason  ?  Indeed  I 
don't  understand." 

"No,"  he  said,  vehemently;  "  you 
are  right  and  I  am  wrong.  I  ought 
not,  I  know.  But  then  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  don't  believe.  I  think 
I  do.  I  believe  man  must  be 
taught  to  serve  God.  I  believe 
that  He  comforts  them  in  their 
distress.  You  are  too  true,  too 
straightforward,  too  innocent  to 
know.  I  believe  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve. But  the  thing  is,  how  can  I 
teach,  how  can  I  pronounce  with 
authority,  not  being  sure  1 — that  is 
what  stops  me." 

Kate  stopped  too,  being  perplex- 
ed. "  I  don't  like  the  thought  of 
your  being  a  clergyman,"  she  said, 
with  what  would  have  been,  could 
he  have  seen  it,  a  pleading  look  up 
into  his  face. 

And  then  a  long  sigh  came  from 
John's  breast.  She  heard  that,  but 
she  did  not  know  that  he  shook 
his  head  as  well ;  and  in  her  igno- 
rance she  went  on. 

"  You  would  be  so  much  better 
doing  anything  else.  Of  course,  if 
you  had  had  a  very  strong  disposi- 
tion for  it — but  when  you  have  not. 
And  you  would  do  so  very  much 
better  for  yourself.  If  you  were  to 
give  it  up " 

"  Give  it  up  !"  cried  John  ;  "the 
only  work  that  is  worth  doing  on 
earth  !  " 

"  But,  good  heavens !  Mr  Mit- 
ford,  what  do  you  mean,  for  I  don't 
understand  you  1  If  it  is  the  only 
work  worth  doing  on  earth,  why 
do  you  persuade  people  you  don't 
mean  to  do  it  ?  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  Where  is  there  any  other  work 
worth  doing  ?"  said  John.  "  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  soldier,  which  might 
mean  something.  Could  I  be  a 
doctor,  pretending  to  know  how  to 
cure  people  of  their  illnesses — or  a 
lawyer,  taking  any  side  he  is  paid 
for  ]  No,  that  is  the  only  work 
worth  doing  :  to  devote  one's  whole 


42 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


life  to  the  service  of  men — to  save 
them,  mend  them,  bring  them 
from  the  devil  to  God.  Where  is 
there  any  such  work  1  And  yet  I 
pause  here  on  the  threshold,  all 
for  a  defect  of  nature.  I  know  you 
are  despising  me  in  your  heart." 

"No,  no,"  said  Kate,  quite  be- 
wildered. She  did  not  despise  him ; 
on  the  contrary,  it  just  gleamed 
across  her  mind  that  here  was  some- 
thing she  had  no  comprehension  of 
— something  she  had  never  met 
with  before.  "  Mr  John,  it  is  you 
who  will  think  me  very  stupid. 
But  I  don't  understand  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  certain  humility.  The 
answer  he  made  was  involuntary. 
He  had  no  right  to  do  it  on  such 
short  acquaintance — a  mere  stran- 
ger, you  might  say.  He  pressed  to 
his  side  with  unconscious  tender- 
ness the  hand  that  rested  on  his 
arm. 

"  You  don't  understand  such 
pitiful  weakness,"  he  said.  "You 
would  see  what  was  right  and  do 
it,  without  lingering  and  hesitating. 
I  know  you  would.  Don't  be  an- 
gry with  me.  "VVe  two  are  nearer 
each  other  than  anybody  else  can 
be — are  not  we  1  We  were  very 
near  for  one  moment,  like  one  life ; 
and  we  might  have  died  so — to- 
gether. That  should  make  us  very 
close — very  close — friends." 

"  Oh,  Mr  John." 

"  Don't  cry.  I  should  not  have 
reminded  you,"  he  said,  with  sud- 
den compunction.  "I  am  so  self- 
ish ;  but  you  said  you  felt  as  if — I 
belonged  to  you.  So  I  do — to  be 
your  servant — your — anything  you 
please.  And  that  is  why  I  tell  you 
all  this  weakness  of  mine,  because  it 
was  just  a  chance  that  we  did  not 
die  in  a  moment — together.  Oh, 
hush,  hush !  I  said  it  to  rouse 
myself,  and  because  it  was  so 
sweet.  I  forgot  it  must  be  terrible 
to  you." 

"I— I  understand,"  said  Kate, 
with  a  sob.  "  It  makes  us  like — 
brother  and  sister.  But  I  never 
can  do  anything  like  that  for  you. 
I  can  only  help  you  with— a  little 


sympathy ;  but  you  shall  always 
have  that — as  if  you  were— my  bro- 
ther. Oh,  never  doubt  it.  I  am 
glad  you  have  told  me — I  shall 
know  you  better  now." 

"And  here  I  have  gone  and 
made  her  cry  like  a  selfish  beast," 
said  John.  "  Just  one  more  walk 
round — and  lean  heavier  on  me,  and 
I  will  not  say  another  word  to  vex 
you — not  one." 

"I  am  not  vexed,"  said  Kate, 
with  a  soft  little  smile  among  her 
tears,  which  somehow  diffused  it- 
self into  the  darkness,  one  could 
not  tell  how.  He  felt  it  warm  him 
and  brighten  him,  though  he  could 
not  see  it ;  and  thus  they  made 
one  silent  round,  pausing  for  a 
moment  where  the  lilies  stood  up 
in  that  tall  pillar,  glimmering 
through  the  night  and  breathing 
out  sweetness.  John,  whose  heart 
was  full  of  all  unspeakable  things, 
came  to  a  moment's  pause  before 
them,  though  he  was  faithful  to  his 
promise,  and  did  not  speak.  Some 
angel  seemed  to  be  by,  saying  Ave, 
as  in  that  scene  which  the  old 
painters  always  adorn  with  the 
stately  flower  of  Mary.  John  be- 
lieved all  the  poets  had  said  of 
women  at  that  moment,  in  the 
sweetness  of  the  summer  dark. 
Hail,  woman,  full  of  grace  !  The 
whole  air  was  full  of  angelic  salu- 
tation. But  it  was  he,  the  man, 
who  had  the  privilege  of  support- 
ing her,  of  protecting  her,  of  saving 
her  in  danger.  Thus  the  young 
man  raved,  with  his  heart  full. 
And  Kate  in  the  silence,  leaning 
on  his  arm,  dried  her  tears,  and 
trembled  with  a  strange  mixture 
of  courage  and  perplexity  and  emo- 
tion. And  then  she  wondered  what 
Mrs  Mitford  would  say. 

Mrs  Mitford  said  nothing  when 
the  two  came  in  by  the  open  win- 
dow, with  eyes  dazzled  by  the 
sudden  entrance  into  the  light. 
Kate's  eyes  were  more  dazzling 
thatf  the  lamp,  if  anybody  had 
looked  at  them.  The  tears  were 
dry,  but  they  had  left  a  humid 
radiance  behind,  and  the  fresh 


1870.] 


John.— Part  111. 


43 


night  air  had  ruffled  the  gold  in  her 
hair,  and  heightened  the  colour  on 
her  cheeks,  which  betrayed  the 
commotion  within.  Mrs  Mitford 
made  no  special  remark,  except  that 
she  feared  the  tea  was  cold,  and 
that  she  had  just  been  about  to 
ring  to  have  it  taken  away.  "  You 
must  have  tired  her  wandering  so 
lor.g  about  the  garden.  You  should 
not  be  thoughtless,  John,"  said  his 
mother ;  "  and  it  is  almost  time  for 
prayers." 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  said  Kate ; 
"  it  was  so  pleasant  out  of  doors, 
and  quiet,  and  sweet.  I  am  sorry 
we;  have  kept  you  waiting.  I  did 
not  know  it  was  so  late." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  do  not  mind," 
said  Mrs  Mitford,  smothering  a 
half-sigh ;  for,  to  be  sure,  she  had 
been  alone  all  the  time  while 
they  were  wandering  among  the 
lilies;  and  she  was  not  used  to 
it_yet.  "  But  Dr  Mitford  is  very 
particular  about  the  hour  for  pray- 
ers, and  you  must  make  haste,  like 
a  good  child,  with  your  tea.  I 
never  like  to  put  him  out." 

"  Oh,  not  for  the  world  ! "  cried 
Kate  ;  and  she  swallowed  the  cold 
tea  very  hurriedly,  and  went  for  Dr 
Mitford's  books,  and  arranged  them 
on  the  table  with  her  own  hands ; 
and  then  she  came  softly  behind 
John's  mother,  and  gave  her  a  kiss, 
as  light  as  if  a  rose-leaf  had  blown 
against  her  cheek.  She  did  not 
olfer  any  explanation  of  this  sud- 
den caress,  but  seated  herself  close 
by  Mrs  Mitford,  and  clasped  her 
h  mds  in  her  lap  like  a  young  lady 
in  a  picture  of  family  devotion ; 
and  then  Dr  Mitford's  boots  were 
heard  to  creak  along  the  long  pas- 
sage which  led  from  his  study,  and 
the  bell  was  rung  for  prayers. 

This  conversation  gave  Kate  a 
great  deal  to  think  about  when  she 
went  up-stairs.  John's  appeal  to 
her  had  gone  honestly  to  her  heart. 
She  was  touched  by  it  in  quite  a 
different  way  from  what  she  would 
have  been  had  he  been  making 
love.  "  Yes,  indeed,  we  do  belong 
to  each  other — he  saved  my  life," 


she  said  to  herself ;  "  we  ought 
always  to  be  like — brother — and 
sister/'  When  she  said  it,  she  felt 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  this  did 
not  quite  state  the  case ;  but  let  it 
be,  to  save  trouble.  And  then  she 
tried  to  reflect  upon  the  confes- 
sion he  had  made  to  her.  But  that 
was  more  difficult.  Kate  was  far 
better  acquainted  with  ordinary 
life  than  John.  She  would  have  be- 
haved like  an  accomplished  woman 
of  the  world  in  an  emergency  which 
would  have  turned  him  at  once  into 
a  heavy  student  or  awkward  coun- 
try lad ;  but  in  other  matters  she 
was  a  baby  beside  him.  She  had 
never  thought  at  all  on  the  sub- 
jects which  had  occupied  his  mind 
for  years.  And  she  was  thunder- 
struck by  his  hesitation.  Could  it 
be  that  people  out  of  books  really 
thought  and  felt  so  1  Could  it  be  1 
She  was  so  perplexed  that  she 
could  not  draw  herself  out  of  the 
maze.  She  reflected  with  all  her 
might  upon  what  she  ought  to  do 
and  say  to  him ;  but  could  not  by 
any  means  master  his  difficulty. 
He  must  either  decide  to  be  a 
clergyman  or  not  to  be  a  clergy- 
man— that  was  the  distinct  issue ; 
and  if  he  could,  by  any  sort  of  pres- 
sure put  upon  him,  be  made  to  give 
up  the  notion,  that  would  be  so 
much  the  better.  Going  into  the 
Church  because  he  had  been 
brought  up  to  it,  and  because  his 
friends  desired  it,  was  a  motive 
perfectly  comprehensible  to  Kate. 
But  then  had  not  she,  whatever 
might  come  of  it,  stolen  into  his 
confidence  closer  than  any  of  his 
friends  1  and  it  was  his  own  life  he 
had  to  decide  upon;  and,  in  the 
course  of  nature,  he  must  after  a 
while  detach  himself  from  his  fa- 
ther and  mother,  and  live  accord- 
ing to  his  own  judgment,  not  by 
theirs.  If  she  could  move  him 
(being,  as  he  said,  so  close  to  him) 
to  choose  a  manner  of  life  which 
would  be  far  better  for  him  than 
the  Church,  would  not  that  be 
exercising  her  influence  in  the  most 
satisfactory  way  1  As  for  the  deeper 


44 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


question,  it  puzzled  her  so  much, 
that  after  one  or  two  efforts  she 
gave  it  up.  The  progress  of  ad- 
vanced opinions  has  been  suffici- 
ently great  to  render  it  impossible 
even  for  a  fashionable  young  lady 
not  to  be  aware  of  the  existence  of 
"doubts;"  but  what  did  he  mean 
by  turning  round  upon  her  in  that 
incomprehensible  way,  and  talking 
of  "  the  only  work  worth  doing," 
just  after  he  had  taken  refuge  in 
that  sanctuary  of  uncertainty  which 
every  man,  if  he  likes,  has  a  right 
to  shelter  himself  in1?  To  have 
doubts  was  comprehensible,  too  j 
but  to  have  doubts  and  yet  to 
think  a  clergyman's  work  the  only 
work  worth  doing  !  Kate's  only 
refuge  was  to  allow  to  herself  that 
he  was  a  strange,  a  very  strange 
fellow ;  was  he  a  little — cracked  1 
— was  he  trying  to  bewilder  her  1 
"  Anyhow,  he  is  nice/'  Kate  said 
to  herself ;  and  that  covered  a  mul- 
titude of  sins. 

Meanwhile  John,  poor  fellow, 
went  put  after  they  had  all  gone 
up-stairs,  and  had  a  long  walk  by 
himself  in  the  night,  to  tone  him- 
self down  a  little  from  the  exalta- 
tion of  the  moment  in  which  he  had 
told  her  that  he  and  she  had  almost 
died  together.  There  was  the  strang- 
est subtle  sweetness  to  himself  in 
the  thought.  To  have  actually  died 
with  her,  and  for  her,  seemed  to 
him,  in  his  foolishness,  as  if  it 
would  have  been  so  sweet.  And 
then  he  felt  that  he  had  opened  his 
heart  to  her,  and  that  she  knew  all 
his  thoughts.  He  had  told  them  to 
her  in  all  their  inconsistency,  in  all 
their  confusion,  and  she  had  under- 
stood. So  he  thought.  He  went 
out  in  the  fervour  of  his  youth 
through  the  darkling  paths,  and 
brushed  along  the  hedges,  all  crisp 
with  dew,  and  said  to  himself  that 
henceforth  one  creature  at  least  in 
the  world  knew  what  he  meant. 
His  feelings  were  such  as  have  not 
been  rare  in  England  for  half  a 
century  back.  He  had  been  trained, 
as  it  were,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Church,  and  natural  filial  reverence, 


and  use  and  wont,  had  blinded  him 
to  the  very  commonplace  character 
of  its  labours  as  fulfilled  by  his  fa- 
ther. His  father  was — his  father  ; 
a  privileged  being,  whose  actions 
had  not  yet  come  within  the  range 
of  things  to  be  discussed.  And  the 
young  man's  mind  was  full  of  the 
vague  enthusiasm  and  exaltation 
which  belong  to  his  age.  Ideally, 
was  not  the  work  of  a  Christian 
priest  the  only  work  in  the  world  ? 
A  life  devoted  to  the  help  and 
salvation  of  one's  fellow- creatures 
for  here  and  for  hereafter — no  en- 
terprise could  be  so  noble,  none  so 
important.  And  must  he  relinquish 
that,  because  he  felt  it  difficult  to 
pronounce  with  authority,  "  without 
doubt  he  shall  perish  everlasting- 
ly"1? Must  he  give  up  the  only 
purely  disinterested  labour  which 
man  can  perform  for  man — the  art 
of  winning  souls,  of  ameliorating 
the  earth,  of  cleansing  its  hidden 
corners,  and  brightening  its  melan- 
choly face  ?  No,  he  could  not  give 
it  up  ;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
how  could  he  utter  certain  words, 
how  make  certain  confessions,  how 
take  up  that  for  his  faith  which 
was  not  his  faith  1  John's  heart 
had  been  wrung  in  many  a  melan- 
choly hour  of  musing  with  this 
struggle,  which  was  so  very  diffe- 
rent from  Kate's  conception  of  his 
difficulties.  But  now  there  stole 
into  the  conflict  a  certain  sweetness 
— it  was,  that  he  was  understood. 
Some  one  stood  by  him  now,  si- 
lently backing  him,  silently  follow- 
ing him  up, — perhaps  with  a  shy 
hand  on  his  arm  ;  perhaps — who 
could  tell? — with  a  shy  hand  in  his, 
ere  long.  It  did  not  give  him  any 
help  in  resolving  his  grand  problem, 
but  it  was  astonishing  how  it  sweet- 
ened it.  He  walked  on  and  on,  not 
knowing  how  far  he  went,  with  a 
strange  sense  that  life  was  changed — 
that  he  was  another  man.  It  seemed 
as  if  new  light  must  come  to  him 
after  this  sudden  enhancement  of 
life  and  vigour.  Was  it  true  that 
there  were  two  now  to  struggle  in- 
stead of  one  ]  John  was  not  far 


1870.] 


John.— Part  III. 


45 


enough  gone  to  put  such  a  question 
definitely  in  words  to  himself,  but 
it  lingered  about  the  avenues  of  his 
mind,  and  sweet  whispers  of  re- 
sponse seemed  to  breathe  over  him. 
Two,  and  not  one !  and  he  was  un- 
derstood, and  his  difficulties  appre- 
ciated ;  and  surely  now  the  guiding 
light  at  last  must  come. 

His  mother  heard  him  come  in, 
as  she  lay  awake  thinking  of  him, 
and  wondered  why  he  should  go 
out  so  late,  and  whether  he  had 
sh  ut  the  door,  and  thanked  heaven 
his  father  was  fast  asleep,  and  did 
not  hear  him ;  for  Dr  Mitford 
would  have  become  alarmed  had 
he  heard  of  such  nocturnal  walks — • 
first,  for  John's  morals,  lest  he  should 
have  found  some  unlawful  attrac- 
tion in  the  village  ;  and,  second, 
for  the  plate,  if  the  house  was  known 
to  be  deprived  of  one  of  its  defend- 
ers. His  anxious  mother,  though 
she  had  thought  of  little  else  since 
his  birth  except  John's  ways  and 
thoughts,  had  yet  no  inkling  of 
anything  deeper  that  might  be  in 
his  mind.  That  he  might  love  Kate, 
and  that  Kate  might  play  with  him 
an  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse — en- 
courage him  for  her  own  amuse- 
ment while  she  stayed  at  Fanshawe 
Begis,  and  throw  him  off  as  soon  as 
she  left  —  that  was  Mrs  Mitford's 
only  fear  respecting  him.  It  was  so 
painful  that  it  kept  her  from  sleep- 
ing. She  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  any  one  so  wounding,  so  mis- 
appreciating,  her  boy.  If  she  but 
knew  him  as  I  know  him,  she  would 
go  down  on  her  knees  and  thank 
God  for  such  a  man's  love,  she 
said  to  herself  in  the  darkness,  dry- 
ing her  soft  eyes.  But  how  was  his 
mother  —  a  witness  whose  impar- 
tiality nobody  would  believe  in — 
to  persuade  the  girl  of  this  1  And 
Mrs  Mitford  was  a  true  woman,  and 
ranked  a  "disappointment  "at  a  very 
high  rate  among  the  afflictions  of 
men.  And  it  was  very,  very  griev- 
ous to  her  to  think  of  this  little 
coquette  trifling  with  her  son,  and 
giving  the  poor  boy  a  heartbreak. 
She  was  nearly  tempted  half-a-dozen 


times  to  get  up  and  throw  her  dress- 
ing-gown about  her,  and  make  her 
way  through  the  slumbering  house, 
and  through  the  ghostly  moonlight 
which  fell  broadly  in  from  the 
staircase-window  upon  the  corridor, 
to  Kate's  room,  to  rouse  her  out  of 
her  sleep,  and  shake  her,  and  say, 
"  Oh  you  careless,  foolish,  naughty 
little  Kate  !  You  will  never  get 
the  chance  of  such  another,  if  you 
break  my  boy's  heart."  It  would 
have  been  very,  very  foolish  of  her 
had  she  done  so  ;  and  yet  that  was 
the  impulse  in  her  mind.  But  it 
never  occurred  to  Mrs  Mitford  that 
when  he  took  that  long,  silent, 
dreary  walk,  he  might  be  thinking 
of  something  else  of  even  more 
importance  than  Kate's  acceptance 
or  refusal.  She  had  watched  him 
all  his  life,  day  by  day  and  hour 
by  hour,  and  yet  she  had  never 
realised  such  a  possibility.  So  she 
lay  thinking  of  him,  and  wondering 
when  he  would  come  back,  and 
heard  afar  off  the  first  faint  touch 
of  his  foot  on  the  path,  and  felt 
her  heart  beat  with  satisfaction, 
and  hoped  he  would  lock  the 
door;  but  never  dreamed  that  his 
long  wandering  out  in  the  dark 
could  have  any  motive  or  object 
except  the  first  love  which  filled 
his  heart  with  restlessness,  and  all 
a  young  man's  passionate  fears  and 
hopes.  Thank  heaven!  his  father 
slept  always  as  sound  as  a  top,  and 
could  not  hear. 

Poor  Mrs  Mitford  !  how  bitter  it 
would  have  been  to  her  could  she 
have  realised  that  Kate  was  lying 
awake  also,  and  heard  him  come 
in,  and  knew  what  he  was  think- 
ing of  better  than  his  mother  did  ! 
"  Poor  boy  !  "  Kate  murmured  to 
herself,  between  asleep  and  awake, 
as  she  heard  his  step  ;  "  I  must 
speak  to  him  seriously  to-morrow." 
There  was  a  certain  self-importance 
in  the  thought ;  for  it  is  pleasant 
to  be  the  depositary  of  such  con- 
fidences, and  to  know  you  have 
been  chosen  out  of  all  the  world 
to  have  the  secret  of  a  life  confided 
to  you.  The  difference  was  that 


46 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


Kate,  after  this  little  speech  to  her- 
self, fell  very  fast  asleep,  and  re- 
membered very  little  of  it  when 
she  woke  in  the  morning.  But 
Mrs  Mitford's  mind  was  so  full 
that  she  could  neither  give  up  the 
subject  nor  go  to  sleep.  As  for  the 
Doctor,  good  man,  he  heard  nothing 
and  thought  of  nothing,  and  had 
never  awakened  to  the  fact  that 
John  was  likely  to  bring  any  dis- 
turbance whatever  into  his  life. 
Why  should  anything  happen  to 
him  more  than  to  other  people1? 
Dr  Mitford  would  have  said;  and 
even  the  love-story  would  not  have 
excited  him.  Thus  the  son  of  the 


house  stole  in,  in  the  darkness, 
with  his  candle  in  his  hand,  through 
the  shut-up  silent  dwelling,  pass- 
ing softly  by  his  mother's  door  not 
to  wake  her,  with  the  fresh  air 
still  blowing  in  his  face,  and  the 
whirl  of  feeling  within,  uncalmed 
even  by  fatigue  and  the  exertion 
he  had  been  making.  And  the  two 
women  waked  and  listened,  open- 
ing their  eyes  in  the  dark  that  they 
might  hear  the  better — a  very,  very 
usual  domestic  scene  ;  but  the  men 
who  are  thus  watched  and  listened 
for  are  seldom  such  innocent  men 
as  John. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Some  time  passed  after  this  event- 
ful evening  before  Kate  had  any 
opportunity  of  making  the  assault 
upon  John's  principles  which  she 
proposed  to  herself.  There  were 
some  days  of  tranquil  peaceful 
country  life,  spent  in  doing  no- 
thing particular — in  little  walks 
taken  under  the  mother's  eye — in 
an  expedition  to  St  Biddulph's,  the 
whole  little  party  together,  in  which, 
though  Dr  Mitford  took  the  office 
of  cicerone  for  Kate's  benefit,  there 
was  more  of  John  than  of  his  father. 
This  kind  of  intercourse  which 
threw  them  continually  together, 
yet  never  left  them  alone  to  under- 
go the  temptation  of  saying  too 
much,  promoted  the  intimacy  of 
the  two  young  people  in  the  most 
wonderful  way.  They  were  each 
other's  natural  companions,  each 
other's  most  lively  sympathisers. 
The  father  and  the  mother  stood 
on  a  different  altitude,  were  looked 
up  to,  respected  perhaps,  perhaps 
softly  smiled  at  in  the  expression 
of  their  antiquated  opinions ;  but 
the  young  man  and  the  young 
woman  were  on  the  same  level,  and 
understood  each  other.  As  for  poor 
John,  he  gave  himself  up  absolutely 
to  the  spell.  He  had  never  been 
so  long  in  the  society  of  any  young 
woman  before :  his  imagination  had 


not  been  frittered  away  by  any  pre- 
ludes of  fancy.  He  fell  in  love  all  at 
once,  with  all  his  heart  and  strength 
and  mind.  It  was  his  first  great 
emotion,  and  it  took  him  not  at 
the  callow  age,  but  when  his  mind 
(he  thought)  was  matured,  and  his 
being  had  reached  its  full  strength. 
He  was  in  reality  four-and-twenty, 
but  he  had  felt  fifty  in  the  grav- 
ity of  his  thoughts ;  and,  with  all 
the  force  of  his  serious  nature,  he 
plunged  into  the  extraordinary  new 
life  which  opened  like  a  garden  of 
Paradise  before  him.  It  was  all  a 
blaze  of  light  and  splendour  to  his 
eyes.  The  world  he  had  thought  a 
sombre  place  enough  before,  full  of 
painful  demands  upon  his  patience, 
his  powers  of  self-renunciation,  and 
capacity  of  self-control.  But  now 
all  at  once  it  had  changed  to  Eden. 
And  Kate,  of  whom  he  knew  so 
little,  was  the  cause. 

And  she,  too,  was  falling  under 
this  natural  fascination.  She  was 
very  much  interested  in  him,  she 
said  to  herself.  It  was  so  sad  to 
see  such  a  man,  so  full  of  talent 
and  capability,  immolate  himself 
like  this.  Kate  felt  as  if  she  would 
have  done  a  great  deal  to  save  him. 
She  represented  to  herself  that,  if 
he  had  felt  a  special  vocation  for 
the  Church,  she  would  have  passed 


1870.] 


John.— Part  111. 


47 


on  her  way  and  said  nothing,  as 
became  a  recent  acquaintance  ;  but 
when  he  was  not  happy  !  Was  it 
not  her  duty,  in  gratitude  to  her 
preserver,  to  interfere  according  to 
her  ability,  and  deliver  him  from 
temptation  1  Yes  !  she  concluded 
it  was  her  duty  with  a  certain  en- 
thusiasm ;  arid  even,  if  that  was 
necessary,  that  she  would  be  willing 
to  do  something  to  save  him.  She 
would  make  an  exertion  in  his  be- 
halj',  if  there  was  anything  she  could 
do.  She  did  not,  even  to  herself, 
explain  what  wras  the  anything  she 
could  do  to  influence  John  one  way 
or  .'mother.  Such  details  it  is  per- 
haps better  to  leave  in  darkness. 
But  she  felt  herself  ready  to  exert 
herself  in  her  turn — to  make  an 
effort — what,  indeed,  if  it  were  a 
sacrifice? — to  preserve  him  as  he 
had  preserved  her. 

It  was  only  on  what  was  to  be 
the  day  before  her  departure  that 
Kate  found  the  necessary  oppor- 
tunity. About  a  mile  from  Fan- 
shawe  Regis  was  a  river  which  had 
been  John's  joy  all  his  life ;  and 
on  Kate's  last  day,  he  was  to  be 
permitted  the  delight  of  introducing 
her  to  its  pleasures.  Mrs  Mitford 
was  to  have  accompanied  them,  but 
she  had  slackened  much  in  her 
ferocity  of  chaperonage,  and  had 
grown  used  to  Kate,  and  not  so 
much  alarmed  on  her  account.  And 
it  was  a  special  day  at  the  schools, 
and  her  work  was  more  than  usual. 
"  My  dear,  if  you  wish  it,  of  course 
I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said  to  her 
young  guest;  "and  you  must  not 
think  me  unkind  to  hesitate — but 
yon  are  used  to  him  now,  and  you 
will  be  quite  safe  with  John.  You 
don't  mind  going  with  John  ?" 

•'Oh,  I  don't  mind  it  at  all," 
said  Kate,  with  a  little  blush,  which 
would  have  excited  John's  mother 
wonderfully  two  days  before.  But 
custom  is  a  great  power,  and  she 
had  got  used  to  Kate.  So  Mrs 
Mitford  went  to  her  parish  work, 
and  the  two  young  people  went  out 
on  their  expedition.  They  had 
nearly  a  mile  to  walk  across  fields, 


and  then  through  the  grateful  shade 
of  a  little  wood.  It  was  a  pretty 
road,  and  from  the  moment  at 
which  they  entered  the  wood,  the 
common  world  disappeared  from 
about  the  pair.  They  walked  like 
a  pair  in  romance,  often  silent, 
sometimes  with  a  touch  of  soft 
embarrassment,  in  that  silent  world, 
full  of  the  flutter  of  leaves  and 
the  flitting  of  birds,  and  the  notes 
of,  here  and  there,  an  inquir- 
ing thrush  or  dramatic  black- 
bird. Boughs  would  crackle  and 
swing  suddenly  about  them,  as  if 
some  fairy  had  suddenly  swung 
herself  within  the  leafy  cover.  Un- 
seen creatures — rabbits  or  squirrels 
— would  dart  away  under  the  brush- 
wood. Arrows  of  sunshine  came 
down  upon  the  brown  underground. 
The  leaves  waved  green  above  and 
black  in  shadow,  strewing  the  check- 
ered path.  They  walked  in  an 
atmosphere  of  their  own,  in  dream- 
land, fairyland,  by  the  shores  of 
old  romance  ;  the  young  man  bend- 
ing his  head  in  that  attitude  of 
worship,  which  is  the  attitude  of 
protection  too,  towards  the  lower, 
slighter,  weaker  creature,  who  rais- 
ed her  eyes  to  his  with  soft  supre- 
macy. It  was  hers  to  command 
and  his  to  obey.  She  had  no  more 
doubt  of  the  loyalty  of  her  vassal 
than  he  had  of  her  sweet  supe- 
riority to  every  other  created  thing. 
And  thus  they  went  through  the 
wood  to  the  river, — two  undevelop- 
ed lives  approaching  the  critical 
point  of  their  existence,  and  going 
up  to  it  in  a  dream  of  happiness, 
without  shadow  or  fear. 

The  river  ran  through  the  wood 
for  about  a  mile ;  but  as  it  is  a  law 
of  English  nature  that  no  stream 
shall  have  the  charm  of  woodland 
on  both  sides  at  once,  the  northern 
bank  was  a  bit  of  meadowland, 
round  which  ran,  at  some  distance, 
a  belt  of  trees.  Kate  recovered  a 
little  from  the  spell  of  silence  as 
she  took  into  her  hands  the  cords  of 
the  rudder,  and  looked  on  at  her 
companion's  struggle  against  the 
current.  "  It  must  be  hard  work," 


48 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


she  said.  "How  is  it  you  are  so 
fond  of  taking  trouble,  you  men  ? 
They  say  it  ruins  your  health  row- 
ing in  all  those  boat-races  and  things 
— all  for  the  pleasure  of  beating  the 
other  colleges  or  the  other  univer- 
sity ;  and  you  kill  yourselves  for 
that !  I  should  like  to  do  it  for  some- 
thing better  worth,  if  it  were  me." 

"  But  if  you  don't  get  the  habit 
of  the  struggle,  you  will  want  train- 
ing when  you  try  for  what  is  better 
worth,"  said  John.  "  How  one 
talks!  I  say  you,  as  if  by  any 
chance  you  could  want  to  struggle 
for  anything.  Pardon  the  profanity 
— I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  want  to 
struggle  1 "  said  Kate,  opening  her 
eyes  very  wide.  "  I  do,  sometimes 
— that  is,  I  don't  like  to  be  beaten ; 
nobody  does,  I  suppose.  But  hard 
work  must  be  a  great  bore.  I  sit 
and  look  at  my  maid  sometimes, 
and  think,  after  all,  how  much 
superior  she  is  to  me.  There  she 
sits,  stitching,  stitching  the  whole 
day  through,  and  it  does  not  seem 
to  do  her  any  harm — whereas  it 
would  kill  one  of  us.  And  then  I 
orderthis  superiorbeing  about — me, 
the  most  useless  wretch  !  and  she 
gets  up  from  her  work  to  do  a  hun- 
dred things  for  me  which  I  could 
quite  well  do  for  myself.  Life  is 
very  odd,"  said  the  young  moralist, 
pulling  the  wrong  string,  and  send- 
ing the  boat  high  and  dry  upon  a 
most  visible  bank  of  weeds  and 
gravel.  "  Oh,  Mr  John,  I  am  sure 
I  beg  your  pardon  !  What  have  I 
done  ?  " 

"Nothing  of  the  least  import- 
ance," said  John  ;  and  while  Kate 
sat  dismayed  and  wondering,  he 
had  plunged  into  the  sparkling 
shallow  stream,  and  pushed  the 
fairy  vessel  off  into  its  necessary 
depth  of  water.  "  Only  pardon  me 
for  jumping  in  in  this  wild  way  and 
sprinkling  your  dress,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  his  seat  and  his  oars  again. 
Kate  was  silent  for  the  moment. 
She  gazed  at  him  with  her  pretty 
eyes,  and  her  lips  apart,  wondering 
at  the  water-god;  from  which  it 


will  be  clear  to  the  reader  that  Kate 
Crediton  was  unused  to  river  navi- 
gation, and  the  ways  of  boating 
men. 

"  But  you  will  catch  your  death 
of  cold,  and  what  will  your  mother 
say?"  said  Kate;  and  this  danger 
filled  her  with  such  vivid  feminine 
apprehensions,  that  it  was  some 
time  before  she  could  be  consoled. 
And  then  the  talk  ran  on  about  a 
multitude  of  things — about  nothing 
in  particular — while  the  one  inter- 
locutor steered  wildly  into  all  the 
difficulties  possible,  and  the  other 
toiled  steadily  against  the  current. 
It  was  a  rapid,  vehement  little  river, 
more  like  a  Scotch  or  Welsh  stream 
than  a  placid  English  one  ;  and 
sometimes  there  were  snags  to  be 
avoided,  and  sometimes  shallows  to 
be  run  upon,  so  that  the  voyage 
was  not  without  excitement,  with 
such  a  pilot  at  the  helm. 

But  when  John  turned  his  little 
vessel,  and  it  began  to  float  down 
stream,  the  dreamy  silence  of  the 
woodland  walk  began  to  steal  over 
the  two  once  more.  "  Ah  !  now  the 
work  is  over,"  Kate  said,  with  a 
little  sigh  ;  "  yes,  it  is  very  nice  to 
float — but  then  one  feels  as  if  one's 
own  will  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I  begin  to  understand  why  the 
other  is  the  best." 

"  I  suppose  they  are  both  best," 
said  John — which  was  not  a  very 
profound  observation;  and  yet  he 
sighed  too.  "And  then  it  is  so 
much  easier  in  everything  to  go 
with  the  stream,  and  to  do  what 
you  are  expected  to  do." 

"But  is  it  right?"  said  Kate, 
with  solemnity.  "  Ah  !  now  I 
know  what  you  are  thinking  about. 
I  have  so  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
ever  since  that  night.  Don't  you 
think  that  doing  what  you  are  ex- 
pected to  do  would  be  wrong?  I 
have  thought  so  much  about 

"  Have  you  1 "  said  John;  and  a 
delicious  tear  came  to  the  foolish 
fellow's  eye.  "  It  was  too  good  of 
you  to  think  of  me  at  all." 

"  Of  course   I   could   not  help 


1870.] 


John.— Part  I  IT. 


49 


thinking  of  you,"  said  Kate,  "  after 
what  you  said.  Perhaps  you  will 
not  think  my  advice  of  much  value  ; 
but  I  don't  think — I  don't  really 
think  you  ought  to  do  it.  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  wrong." 

'•  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
whose  advice  would  be  so  much  to 
me."  cried  foolish  John.  "  My 
sight  is  clouded  by — by  self-inte- 
rest, and  habit,  and  a  thousand 
things.  I  have  never  opened  my 
heart  to  any  one  but  you — and  how 
I  presumed  to  trouble  you  with  it 
I  can't  tell,"  he  went  on,  gazing  at 
her  with  fond  eyes,  which  Kate 
found  it  difficult  to  meet. 

<;  Oh,  that  is  natural  enough. 
Don't  you  remember  what  you 
said  1"  she  answered,  softly;  "what 
you  did  for  me — and  that  moment 
when  you  said  we  might  have  died ; 
— we  should  be  like — brother  and 
sisi  er — all  our  lives." 

''Not  that,"  said  John,  with  a 

little  start ;  "  but Yes,  I  hold 

by  my  claim.  I  wish  I  had  done 
something  to  deserve  it,  though. 
If  I  had  known  it  was  you " 

"  How  could  you  possibly  know 
it  was  me  when  you  did  not  know 
there  was  such  a  person  as  me  in 
the  world?"  said  Kate.  "Don't 
talk  such  nonsense,  please." 

"  Yes;  was  it  possible  that  there 
was  once  a  time  when  I  did  not 
know  there  was  you  in  the  world  ? 
What  a  cold  world  it  must  have 
been  !  —  how  sombre  and  miser- 
able!" cried  the  enthusiast.  "I 
can't  realise  it  now." 

"  Oh,  please,  what  nonsense  you 
do  talk,  to  be  sure  ! "  cried  Kate  ; 
and  then  she  gave  her  pretty  head 
a  little  shake  to  dissipate  the  blush 
and  the  faint  mist  of  some  emotion 
that  had  been  stealing  over  her 
eyt  s,  and  took  up  the  interrupted 
strain.  "  Now  that  you  do  know 
there  is  a  me,  you  must  pay  atten- 
tion to  me.  I  have  thought  over  it 
a  great  deal.  You  must  not  do  it 
— indeed  you  must  not.  A  man 
who  is  not  quite  certain,  how  can 
he  teach  others  1  It  would  be  like 
me  steering — now  there  !  Oh,  I  am 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLI. 


sure,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Who  was 
to  know  that  nasty  bank  would 
turn  up  again  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  John,  when 
he  had  repeated  the  same  little 
performance  which  had  signalised 
their  upward  course  ;  "  that  is  no- 
thing— except  that  it  interrupted 
what  you  were  saying.  Tell  me 
again  what  you  have  thought." 

"  But  you  never  mean  to  be  guid- 
ed by  me  all  the  same,"  said  Kate, 
incautiously,  though  she  must  have 
foreseen,  if  she  had  taken  a  moment 
to  think,  that  such  a  remark  would 
carry  her  subject  too  far. 

"  Ah !  how  can  you  say  so — how 
can  you  think  so  1 "  cried  John, 
crossing  his  oars  across  the  boat, 
and  leaning  over  them,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "  when  you 
must  know  I  am  guided  by  your 
every  look.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me.  It  is  so  hard  to  look  at  you 
and  not  say  all  that  is  in  my  heart. 
If  you  would  let  me  think  that  I 
might — identify  myself  altogether 
— I  mean,  do  only  what  pleased  you 
— I  mean,  think  of  you  as  caring 
a  little " 

"  I  care  a  great  deal,"  said  Kate, 
with  sudden  temerity,  taking  the 
words  out  of  his  mouth,  "  or  why 
should  I  take  the  trouble  to  say  so 
much  about  it  1  I  consider  that 
we  are — brother  and  sister ;  and 
that  gives  me  a  sort  of  right  to 
speak.  Stay  till  I  have  done,  Mr 
John.  Don't  you  think  you  could 
be  of  more  use  in  the  world,  if  you 
were  in  the  world  and  not  out  of 
it  1  Now  think  !  Looking  at  it  in 
your  way,  no  doubt,  it  is  very  fine 
to  be  a  clergyman  ;  but  you  can 
only  talk  to  people  and  persuade 
them,  you  know,  and  don't  have  it 
in  your  power  to  do  very  much  for 
them.  Now  look  at  a  rich  man 
like  papa.  He  does  not  give  his 
mind  to  that,  you  know.  I  am 
very  sorry,  but  neither  he  nor  I 
have  had  anybody  to  put  it  in  our 
heads  what  we  ought  to  do — but 
still  he  does  some  good  in  his  way. 
If  you  were  as  rich  as  he  is,  how 
much  you  could  do  !  You  would 
D 


50 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


be  a  good  angel  to  the  poor  people. 
You  could  set  right  half  of  those 
dreadful  things  that  Mrs  Mitford 
tells  us  of,  even  in  the  village.  You 
could  give  the  lads  work,  and  keep 
them  steady.  You  could  build 
them  proper  cottages,  and  have 
them  taught  what  they  ought  to 
know.  Don't  shake  your  head.  I 
know  you  would  be  the  people's 
good  angel,  if  you  were  as  rich  as 
papa." 

Poor  John's  countenance  had 
changed  many  times  daring  this 
address.  His  intent  gaze  fell  from 
her,  and  returned  and  fell  again. 
A  shade  came  over  his  face — he 
shook  his  head,  not  in  contradic- 
tion of  what  she  said  so  much  as 
in  despondency ;  and  when  he 
spoke,  his  voice  had  taken  a  chill, 
as  it  were,  and  lost  all  the  musical 
thrill  of  imagination  and  passion 
that  was  in  it.  "Miss  Crediton,"  he 
said,  mournfully,  "  you  remind  me 
of  what  I  had  forgotten — the  great 
gulf  that  is  between  you  and  me. 
I  had  forgotten  it,  like  an  ass.  I 
had  been  thinking  of  you  not  as  a 

rich  man's  daughter,  but  as 

And  I,  a  poor  aimless  fool,  not  able 
to  make  up  my  mind  as  to  how  I 
am  to  provide  for  my  own  life. 
Forgive  me — you  have  brought  me 
to  myself." 

"  Now  I  should  like  to  know 
what  that  has  to  do  with  it/'  cried 
Kate,  with  a  little  air  of  exaspera- 
tion— exasperation  more  apparent 
than  real.  "  I  tell  you  I  want  you 
to  be  rich  like  papa,  and  you  answer 
me  that  I  remind  you  I  am  a  rich 
man's  daughter !  Well,  what  of 
that  1  I  want  you  to  be  a  rich  man 
too.  I  can't  help  whose  daughter 
I  am.  I  did  not  choose  my  own 
papa — though  I  like  him  better  than 
any  other  all  the  same.  But  I  want 
you  to  be  rich  too,  you  understand ; 
for  many  reasons." 

"  For  what  reasons  ?  "  said  John, 
lighting  up  again.  She  had  drooped 
her  head  a  little  when  she  said  these 
last  words.  A  bright  blush  had 
flushed  all  over  her.  Could  it  be 
that  she  meant John  was 


not  vain,  and  yet  the  inference  was  so 
natural ;  he  sat  gazing  at  her  for  one 
long  minute  in  a  suggestive  tremu- 
lous silence,  and  then  he  went  fal- 
tering, blundering  on.  "  I  would 
be  anything  for  your  sake — that 
you  know.  I  would  be  content  to 
labour  for  you  from  morning  to 
night.  I  would  be  a  ploughman 
for  your  sake.  To  be  a  rich  man  is 
not  so  easy  ;  but  if  you  were  to  tell 
me  to  do  it — for  you — I  would 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  ;  I 
would  die,  but  I  should  do  it — 
for  you.  Am  I  to  be  rich  for 
you  ] " 

"  Oh,  fancy !  here  we  are  already," 
cried  Kate,  in  a  little  tremor,  feel- 
ing that  she  had  gone  too  far,  and 
he  had  gone  too  far,  and  thinking 
with  a  little  panic,  half  of  horror, 
half  of  pleasure,  of  the  walk  that 
remained  to  be  taken  through  the 
enchanted  wood.  "How  fast  the 
stream  has  carried  us  down !  and  yet 
I  don't  suppose  it  can  have  been 
very  fast  either,  for  the  shadows  are 
lengthening.  We  must  make  haste 
and  get  home." 

"But  you  have  not  answered  me," 
he  said,  still  leaning  across  his  oars 
with  a  look  which  she  could  not 
face. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  just  now,"  she 
cried  ;  "  let  us  land,  please,  and  not 
drift  farther  down.  You  are  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  where  the  boat 
is  going.  There  !  I  knew  an  acci- 
dent would  happen,"  cried  Kate, 
with  half -mischievous  triumph, 
running  the  boat  into  the  bank. 
She  thought  nothing  now  of  his  feet 
getting  wet,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
water  again  to  bring  it  to  the  side 
that  she  might  land.  She  even 
sprang  out  and  ran  on,  telling  him 
to  follow  her,  while  he  had  to  wait 
to  secure  the  boat,  and  warn  the 
people  at  the  forester's  cottage  that 
he  had  left  it.  Kate  ran  on  into 
the  wood,  up  the  broad  road  grad- 
ually narrowing  among  the  trees, 
where  still  the  sunshine  penetrated 
like  arrows  of  gold,  and  the  leaves 
danced  double,  leaf  and  shadow, 
and  the  birds  carried  on  their  cease- 


1870.] 


John.— Part  III. 


51 


less  inter-lading,  and  the  living  crea- 
tures stirred.  She  ran  on  mis- 
chievously, with  a  little  laugh  at 
her  companion  left  behind.  But 
that  mood  did  not  long  balance  the 
influence  of  the  place.  Her  steps 
slackened — her  heart  began  to  beat. 
All  at  once  she  twined  her  arms 
about  a  birch  to  support  herself, 
and,  leaning  her  head  against  it, 
cried  a  little  in  her  confusion  and 
excitement.  "  Oh,  what  have  I 
dene  ?  what  shall  I  say  to  him  1" 
Kate  said  to  herself.  Was  she  in 
love  with  John  that  she  had  brought 
him  to  this  declaration  of  his  senti- 
ments? She  did  not  know — she 
did  not  think  she  was — and  yet  she 
had  done  it  with  her  eyes  open. 
And  in  a  few  minutes  he  would  be 
by  her  side  insisting  on  an  answer. 
"  And  what  shall  I  say  to  him  ?  " 
within  herself  cried  Kate. 

But  when  John  came  up  breath- 
less, she  was  going  along  the  road 
very  demurely,  without  any  signs 
of  emotion,  and  glanced  at  him 
with  the  same  look  of  friendly 
sovereignty,  though  her  heart  was 
quailing  within  her.  He  joined  her, 
breathless  with  haste  and  excite- 
ment, and  for  a  moment  neither 
spoke.  Then  it  was  Kate  who,  in 
dt operation,  resumed  the  talk. 

"  You  must  tell  me  what  you 
think  another  time,"  she  said,  with 
an  air  of  royal  calm.  "  Perhaps 
what  I  have  said  has  not  been  very 
w  ise  ;  but  I  meant  it  for  good.  I 
meant,  you  know,  that  the  man  of 

action  can  do  most.  I  meant 

Bat,  please,  let  us  get  on  quickly, 
for  I  am  so  afraid  we  shall  be  too 
late  for  dinner.  Your  father  does 
not  like  to  wait.  And  you  can  tell 
me  what  you  think  another  time." 

"  What  I  think  has  very  little  to 
do  with  it,3'  said  John.  "  It  should 
bo  what  you  think — what  you  or- 
d;dn.  For  you  I  will  do  anything 
• — everything.  Good  heavens,  what 
a  nuisance  !"  cried  the  young  man. 

At  this  exclamation  Kate  looked 
up,  and  saw, — was  it  Isaac's  substi- 
tute—  the  ram  caught  in  the 
thicket  ?  —  Fred  Huntley  riding 


quietly  towards  them,  coming 
down  under  the  trees,  like  another 
somebody  in  romance.  "  It  is  Mr 
Huntley,"  said  Kate,  with  a  mental 
thanksgiving  which  she  dared  not 
have  put  into  words.  "  It  is  like 
an  old  ballad.  Here  is  the  knight 
on  the  white  horse  appearing  under 
the  trees  just  when  he  is  wanted — • 
that  is,  just  when  you  were  begin- 
ning to  tire  of  my  society ;  and  here 
am  I,  the  errant  damosel.  What  a 
nice  picture  it  would  make  if  Fred 
were  only  handsome,  which  he  is 
not !  But  all  the  same,  his  horse 
is  white." 

"  And  I  suppose  I  am  the  magi- 
cian who  is  to  be  discomfited  and 
put  to  flight,"  said  John,  with  a 
grim  attempt  at  a  smile. 

And  here  Kate's  best  qualities 
made  her  cruel.  "  You  are — 
whatever  you  please,"  she  said, 
turning  upon  him  with  the  brightest 
sudden  smile.  She  could  not  bear, 
poor  fellow,  that  his  feelings  should 
be  hurt,  when  she  felt  herself  so 
relieved  and  easy  in  mind;  and  John, 
out  of  his  despondency,  went  up  to 
dazzling  heights  of  confidence  and 
hope.  Fred,  riding  up,  saw  the 
smile,  and  said  to  himself,  "What ! 
gone  so  far  already  ? "  with  a  curious 
sensation  of  pique.  And  yet  he 
had  no  occasion  to  be  piqued.  He 
had  never  set  up  any  pretensions 
to  Kate's  favour.  He  had  foreseen 
how  it  would  be  when  he  last  saw 
them  together.  It  was  something 
too  ridiculous  to  feel  as  if  he  cared. 
Of  course  he  did  not  care.  But 
still  there  was  a  little  pique  in  his 
rapid  reflection  as  he  came  up  to 
them.  And  they  were  all  three  a 
little  embarrassed,  which,  on  the 
whole,  seemed  uncalled  for,  con- 
sidering the  perfectly  innocent  and 
ordinary  circumstances,  which  the 
boating-party  immediately  began 
with  volubility  to  explain. 

"  We  have  been  on  the  river," 
said  Kate.  "  Mr  Mitford  so  kindly 
offered  to  take  me  before  I  went 
away.  And  we  hoped  to  have  Mrs 
Mitford  with  us  ;  but  at  the  last 
moment  she  could  not  come." 


52 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


I  daresay  not,  indeed,  Fred 
Huntley  said  in  his  heart ;  but  he 
only  looked  politely  indifferent, 
and  made  a  little  bow. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  better  she  did 
not,  for  the  boat  is  very  small," 
said  John,  carrying  on  the  explana- 
tion. Was  it  an  apology  they  were 
making  for  themselves  1  And  so 
all  at  once,  notwithstanding  Kate's 
romance  about  the  knight  on  the 
white  horse,  all  the  enchantment 
disappeared  from  the  fairy  wood. 
Birds  and  rabbits  and  squirrels,  crea- 
tures of  natural  history,  pursued 
their  common  occupations  about, 
without  any  fairy  suggestions.  It 
was  only  the  afternoon  sun  that 
slanted  among  the  trees,  showing 
it  was  growing  late,  and  not  showers 
of  golden  arrows.  The  wood  be- 
came as  commonplace  as  a  railroad, 
and  Kate  Crediton  related  to  Fred 
Huntley  how  she  was  going  home, 
and  what  was  to  happen,  and  how 
she  hoped  to  meet  his  sisters  at  the 
Camelford  ball. 

Thus  the  crisis  which  John 
thought  was  to  decide  everything 
for  him  passed  off  in  bathos  and 
commonplace.  He  walked  on  beside 
the  other  two,  who  did  all  the  talk- 
ing, eating  his  heart.  Had  she  been 
playing  with  him,  making  a  joke  of 
his  sudden  passion  1  But  then  she 
would  give  him  a  glance  from  time 
to  time  which  spoke  otherwise. 
"  There  is  still  an  evening  and  a 
morning,"  John  said  to  himself  ; 
and  he  stood  like  a  churl  at  the 
Eectory  gate,  and  suffered  Huntley 
to  ride  on  without  the  slightest 
hint  of  a  possibility  that  he  should 
stay  to  dinner.  Such  inhospitable 
behaviour  was  not  common  at  Fan- 
sha we  Regis.  But  there  are  mo- 
ments in  which  politeness,  kindness, 
neighbourly  charities,  must  all  give 
way  before  a  more  potent  feeling, 
and  John  Mitford  had  arrived  at 
one  of  these.  And  his  heart  was 
beating,  his  head  throbbing,  all  his 
pulses  going  at  the  highest  speed 
and  out  of  tune— or,  at  least,  that 
was  his  sensation.  Kate  disap- 
peared while  he  stood  at  the  gate, 


shutting  it  carefully  upon  Fred, 
and  heaven  knows  what  fright- 
ful interval  might  be  before  him 
ere  he  could  resume  the  inter- 
rupted conversation,  and  demand 
the  answer  to  which  surely  he  had 
a  right !  John's  mind  was  in  such 
a  whirl  of  confusion  that  he  could 
not  realise  what  he  was  about  to  do. 
If  he  could  have  thought  it  over 
calmly,  and  asked  himself  what 
right  he  had  to  woo  a  rich  man's 
daughter,  or  even  to  dream  of  bring- 
ing her  to  his  level,  probably  poor 
John  would  not  only  have  stopped 
short,  but  he  might  have  had  reso- 
lution enough  to  turn  back  and 
leave  his  father's  door,  and  put  him- 
self out  of  the  reach  of  temptation 
till  she  was  safe  in  her  own  father's 
keeping.  He  had  strength  enough 
and  resolution  enough  to  have  made 
such  a  sacrifice,  had  there  been  any 
time  to  think ;  but  sudden  passion 
had  swept  him  up  like  a  whirlwind, 
and  conquered  all  his  faculties. 
He  wanted  to  have  an  answer;  an 
answer — nothing  more.  He  wanted 
to  know  what  she  meant — why  it 
was  that  she  was  so  eager  with 
him  to  bring  his  doubtfulness  to 
a  conclusion — why  he  was  to  do 
at  once  what  he  so  hesitated  and 
wondered  if  he  should  do.  If  he 
did,  what  would  follow  ?  There 
was  a  singing  in  his  ears,  and  a 
buzzing  in  his  brain.  He  could 
not  think,  nor  pause  to  consider 
which  was  right.  There  was  but 
one  thing  to  do — to  get  his  answer 
from  her ;  to  know  what  she  meant. 
And  then  the  Deluge  or  Paradise — 
one  thing  or  the  other — would  come 
after  that;  but  were  it  Paradise, 
or  were  it  the  Flood,  John's  an- 
chors were  pulled  up,  and  the  port 
was  gone  from  him.  All  his  old 
prospects  and  hopes  and  intentions 
had  vanished.  He  could  no  more 
go  back  to  the  position  in  which  he 
had  stood  when  he  first  opened  his 
heart  to  Kate  than  he  could  fly. 
His  hesitation  existed  no  longer ; 
all  that  phase  was  over  for  him. 
Fanshawe  Regis,  and  his  parents' 
hopes,  and  the  old  placid  existence 


1870.] 


John.— Part  III. 


53 


to  which  he  had  been  trained,  all 
melted  away  into  thin  air.  He 
was  standing  on  the  threshold  of 
a  new  world,  with  an  unknown 
wind  blowing  in  his  face,  and  an 
unknown  career  before  him.  If  it 
might  be  that  she  was  about  to  put 
her  little  hand  in  his,  and  go  with 
him  across  the  wilderness !  But, 
anyhow,  it  was  a  wilderness  that 
had  to  be  traversed ;  not  those 
quiet  waters  and  green  pastures 
wiiich  had  been  destined  for  him 
at  home. 

"  How  late  you  are,  John  !  "  his 
mother  said,  meeting  him  on  the 
stair.  She  was  coming  down  dressed 
for  dinner,  with  just  a  little  cloud 
over  the  brightness  of  her  eyes. 
"You  must  have  stayed  a  long  time 
on  the  river.  Was  that  Kate  that 
hi  is  just  gone  up-stairs  ?  " 

"  Miss  Crediton  went  on  before 
me.  I  had  to  stop  and  speak  to 
Huntley  at  the  gate." 

"  You  should  have  asked  him  to 
stay  dinner,"  said  Mrs  Mitford. 
"  My  dear,  I  am  sure  you  have  a 
headache.  You  should  not  have 
rowed  so  far,  under  that  blazing 
sun.  But  make  haste  now.  Your 
papa  cannot  bear  to  be  kept  wait- 
ing. I  will  tell  Jervis  to  give  you 
five  minutes.  And,  oh,  make  haste, 
my  dear  boy." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  make  haste," 
said  John,  striding  past — as  if  ten 
minutes  more  or  less  could  matter 
tc  anybody  under  the  sun  ! 

"  It  is  for  your  papa,  John,"  said 
Mrs  Mitford,  half  apologetic,  half 
reproachful;  and  she  went  down  to 


the  drawing-room  and  surrepti- 
tiously moved  the  fingers  of  the 
clock  to  gain  a  little  time  for  her 
boy.  "  Jervis,  you  need  not  be  in 
such  a  hurry — there  are  still  ten 
minutes,"  she  said,  arresting  the  man 
of  all  work  who  was  called  the  butler 
at  Fanshawe,  as  he  put  his  hand  on 
the  dinner-bell  to  ring  it ;  and  she 
was  having  a  little  discussion  with 
him  over  their  respective  watches, 
when  the  Doctor  approached  in  his 
fresh  tie.  "  The  drawing-room  clock 
is  never  wrong,"  said  the  deceitful 
woman.  And  no  doubt  that  was 
why  the  trout  was  spoiled  and  the 
soup  so  cold.  For  Kate  did  not 
hurry  with  her  toilette,  whatever 
John  might  do ;  and  being  a  little 
agitated  and  excited,  her  hair  took 
one  of  those  perverse  fits  peculiar 
to  ladies'  hair,  and  would  not  per- 
mit itself  to  be  put  up  properly. 
Kate,  too,  was  in  a  wonderful  com- 
motion of  mind,  as  well  as  her  lover. 
She  was  tingling  all  over  with  her 
adventure,  and  the  hairbreadth  es- 
cape she  had  made.  But  had  she 
escaped  1  There  was  a  long  even- 
ing still  before  her,  and  it  was  pre- 
mature to  believe  that  the  danger 
was  over.  When  Kate  went  down- 
stairs, she  had  more  than  one  reason 
for  being  so  very  uncomfortable. 
Dr  Mitford  was  waiting  for  his 
dinner,  and  John  was  waiting  for 
his  answer ;  she  could  not  tell  what 
might  happen  to  her  before  the 
evening  was  over,  and  she  could 
scarcely  speak  with  composure  be- 
cause of  the  frightened  irregular 
beating  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Dinner  falling  in  a  time  of 
excitement  like  that  which  I  have 
just  described,  with  its  suggestions 
of  perfect  calm  and  regularity,  the 
u.ibroken  routine  of  life,  has  a  very 
curious  effect  upon  agitated  minds. 
John  Mitford  felt  as  if  some  catas- 
trophe must  have  happened  to  him 
as  he  sat  alone  at  his  side  of  the 
tiible,  and  looked  across  at  Kate, 


who  was  a  little  troubled  too,  and 
reflected  how  long  a  time  he  must 
sit  there  eating  and  drinking,  or 
pretending  to  eat  and  drink  ; 
obliged  to  keep  at  that  distance 
from  her — to  address  common  con- 
versation to  her — to  describe  the 
boating,  and  the  wood,  and  all  that 
had  happened,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
most  ordinary  expedition  in  the 


54 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


world.  Kate  was  very  kind  to  him 
in  this  respect,  though  perhaps  he 
was  too  far  gone  to  think  it  kind. 
She  took  upon  herself  the  frais  of 
the  conversation.  She  told  Mrs 
Mitford  quite  fluently  all  about  the 
boat  and  her  bad  steering,  and  all 
the  accidents  that  had  happened, 
and  how  John  had  jumped  into 
the  water.  "  I  feel  you  will  never 
forgive  me  if  he  has  caught  cold," 
Kate  said,  glibly,  with  even  a  mis- 
chievous look  in  her  eye  ;  "  but  I 
must  tell.  And  I  do  hope  you 
changed  your  stockings,"  she  said, 
leaning  across  the  table  to  him 
with  a  smile.  It  was  a  mocking 
smile,  full  of  mischief,  and  yet  there 
was  in  it  a  certain  softened  look. 
It  was  then  that  poor  John  felt  as 
if  some  explosion  must  take  place, 
as  he  sat  and  restrained  himself, 
and  tried  to  look  like  a  man  in- 
terested in  his  dinner.  Nobody  else 
took  any  notice  of  his  agitation, 
and  probably  even  his  mother  did 
not  perceive  it ;  but  Jervis  the 
butler  did,  as  he  stood  by  his  side, 
and  helped  Mr  John  to  potatoes. 
He  could  not  dissimulate  the  shak- 
ing of  his  hand. 

"  My  dear,  I  should  never  blame 
you"  said  Mrs  Mitford,  with  a  lit- 
tle tremor  in  her  voice ;  "  he  is 
always  so  very  rash.  Of  course 
you  changed,  John  1 " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh,  which  sounded  cynical  and 
Byronic  to  his  audience.  And  then 
he  made  a  violent  effort  to  master 
himself.  "  Miss  Crediton  thought 
the  river  was  rather  pretty,"  he 
added,  with  a  hard-drawn  breath 
of  agitation,  which  sounded  to  his 
mother  like  the  first  appearance  of 
the  threatened  cold. 

"Jervis,"  she  said,  mildly,  "will 
you  be  good  enough  to  fetch  me 
the  camphor  from  my  cupboard, 
and  two  lumps  of  sugar '?  My  dear 
boy,  it  is  not  nasty ;  it  is  only  as  a 
precaution.  It  will  not  interfere 
with  your  dinner,  and  it  is  sure  to 
stop  a  cold." 

John    gave  his  mother  a  look 


under  which  she  trembled.  It  said 
as  plain  as  possible,  you  are  making 
me  ridiculous,  and  it  was  pointed 
by  a  glance  at  Kate,  who  certainly 
was  smiling.  Mrs  Mitford  was 
quick  enough  to  understand,  and 
she  was  cowed  by  her  son's  gravity. 
"  Perhaps,  on  second  thought,"  she 
said,  faltering,  "  you  need  not  mind, 
Jervis.  It  will  do  when  Mr  John 
goes  to  bed." 

"  The  only  use  of  camphor  is 
at  the  moment  when  you  take  a 
cold,"  said  Dr  Mitford  ;  "  identify 
that  moment,  and  take  your  dose, 
and  you  are  all  safe.  But  I  have 
always  found  that  the  great  diffi- 
culty was  to  identify  the  moment. 
Did  you  point  out  to  Miss  Crediton 
the  curious  effect  the  current  has 
had  upon  the  rocks?  I  am  not  geo- 
logical myself,  but  still  it  is  very 
interesting.  The  constant  friction 
of  the  water  has  laid  bare  a  most 
remarkable  stratification.  Ah  !  I 
see  he  did  not  point  it  out,  from 
your  look." 

"  Indeed  I  don't  think  Mr  John 
showed  me  anything  that  was  in- 
structive," said  Kate,  with  a  demure 
glance  at  him.  At  present  she  was 
having  it  all  her  own  way. 

p"Ah!  youth,  youth,"  said  Dr 
Mitford,  shaking  his  head.  "  He 
was  much  more  likely  to  tell  you 
about  his  boating  exploits,  I  fear. 
If  you  really  wish  to  understand 
the  history  and  structure  of  the 
district,  you  must  take  me  with  you, 
Miss  Crediton.  Young  men  are 
so  foolish  as  to  think  these  things 
slow." 

"  But  then  I  am  going  away 
to-morrow,"  said  Kate,  with  a  little 
pathetic  inflection  of  her  voice. 
"  And  perhaps  Mrs  Mitford  will 
never  ask  me  to  come  back  again. 
And  I  shall  have  to  give  up  the 
hope  of  knowing  the  district.  But 
anybody  that  steers  so  badly  asj  I 
do," — Kate  continued,  with  humi- 
lity, "  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if 
the  gentleman  who  is  rowing  them 
should  think  they  were  too  igno- 
rant to  learn." 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IIL 


55 


"  Then  the  gentleman  who  was 
rowing  you  was  a  stupid  fellow," 
said  the  Doctor.  "  I  never  had  a 
more  intelligent  listener  in  my  life ; 
but,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  must 
come  back  when  the  Society  is 
lisre.  Their  meeting  is  at  Camel- 
ford,  and  they  must  make  an  excur- 
sion to  the  Camp." 

"  And  you  will  come  and  stay 
with  us,  Dr  Mitford,"  said  Kate, 
coaxingly ;  "  now,  promise.  It  will 
ba  something  to  look  forward  to. 
You  shall  have  the  room  next  the 
library,  that  papa  always  keeps  for 
his  learned  friends,  he  says.  And 
if  Mrs  Mitford  would  be  good,  and 
lot  the  parish  take  care  of  itself, 
and  come  too " 

"  Oh  hush  !  my  dear  ;  we  must 
not  look  forward  so  far/'  said  Mrs 
Mitford,  with  a  little  cloud  upon  her 
face.  She  had  found  out  by  this 
time  that  John  was  in  trouble,  and 
she  had  no  heart  to  enter  into  any 
discussion  till  she  knew  what  it 
was.  And  then  she  opened  out 
suddenly  into  a  long  account  of 
the  Fanshawe  family,  apropos  de 
lien.  Mrs  Fanshawe  had  been 
calling  that  afternoon,  and  they  had 
heard  from  their  granddaughter, 
Cicely,  who  was  abroad  for  her 
health — for  all  that  family  was  un- 
fortunately very  delicate.  And 
poor  Cicely  would  have  to  spend 
t  he  winter  at  Nice,  the  doctor  said. 
Kate  bent  her  head  over  her  plate, 
;md  ate  her  grapes  (the  very  first 
of  the  season,  which  Mr  Crediton's 
gardener  had  forced  for  his  young 
nistress,  and  sent  to  Fanshawe  Regis 
to  aid  her  cure),  and  listened  with- 
out paying  much  attention  to  the 
story  of  Cicely  Fanshawe' s  troubles. 
Nobody  else  took  any  further  part 
in  the  conversation  after  Mrs  Mit- 
ford had  commenced  that  mono- 
logue, except  indeed  the  Doctor, 
who  now  and  then  would  ask  a 
question.  As  for  the  two  young 
people,  they  sat  on  either  side  of 
the  table,  and  tried  to  look  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  And  Kate, 
for  one,  succeeded  very  well  in  this 


laudable  effort — so  well  that  poor 
John,  in  his  excitement  and  agita- 
tion, sank  to  the  depths  of  despair 
as  he  twisted  one  of  the  great  vine- 
leaves  in  his  fingers,  and  watched 
her  furtively  through  all  the  wind- 
ings of  his  mother's  story.  He  said 
to  himself,  it  is  nothing  to  her.  Her 
mind  is  quite  unmoved  by  any- 
thing that  has  happened.  She  could 
not  have  understood  him,  John 
felt — she  could  not  have  believed 
him.  She  must  have  thought  he 
was  saying  words  which  he  did 
not  mean.  Perhaps  that  was  the 
way  among  the  frivolous  beings  to 
whom  she  was  accustomed  ;  but  it 
was  not  the  way  with  John.  While 
the  mother  was  giving  that  account 
of  the  young  Fanshawes,  and  the 
father  interposing  his  questions 
about  Cicely's  health,  their  son 
was  working  himself  up  into  a 
fever  of  determination.  He  eyed 
Kate  at  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
with  a  certain  rage  of  resolution 
mingling  with  his  love.  She  should 
not  escape  him  like  this.  She 
should  answer  him  one  way  or 
another.  He  could  bear  anything 
or  everything  from  her  except  this 
silence  ;  but  that  he  would  not 
bear.  She  should  tell  him  face  to 
face.  He  might  have  lost  the  very 
essence  and  joy  of  life,  but  still 
he  should  know  downright  that  he 
had  lost  it.  This  passion  was  grow- 
ing in  him  while  the  quiet  slum- 
berous time  crept  on,  and  all  was 
told  about  Cicely  Fanshawe.  Poor 
Cicely!  just  Kate's  age,  and  sent 
to  Nice  to  die  ;  but  that  thought 
never  occurred  to  the  vehement 
young  lover,  nor  did  it  occur  to 
Kate,  as  she  sat  and  ate  her  grapes, 
and  gave  little  glances  across  the 
table,  and  divined  that  he  was  ris- 
ing to  a  white  heat,  "  I  must  run 
off  to  my  own  room,  and  say  it  is 
to  do  my  packing,"  Kate  said  to 
herself,  with  a  little  quake  in  her 
heart;  and  yet  she  would  rather 
have  liked — behind  a  curtain  or 
door,  out  of  harm's  way — to  have 
heard  him  say  what  he  had  to  say. 


56 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


Mrs  Mitford  was  later  than  usual 
of  leaving  the  table,  arid  she  took 
Kate  by  the  arm,  being  determin- 
ed apparently  to  contrarier  every- 
body on  this  special  evening,  and 
made  her  sit  down  on  the  sofa  by 
her  in  the  drawing-room.  "My 
dear,  I  must  have  you  to  myself  for 
a  little  while  to-night,"  she  said, 
drawing  the  girl's  hands  into  her 
own.  And  then  she  sat  and  talked. 
It  seemed  to  Kate  that  she  talked 
of  everything  in  heaven  and  earth  ; 
but  the  old  singing  had  come  back 
to  the  listener's  ears,  and  she  could 
not  pay  attention.  "  Now  he  is 
coming,"  she  said  to  herself  ;  "  now 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  sit  still  all  the 
evening  ;  now  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  escape  from  him.'J  By-and-by, 
however,  Kate  began  to  feel  piqued 
that  John  should  show  so  little 
eagerness  to  follow  her.  "Yes, 
indeed,  dear  Mrs  Mitford,  you  may 
be  sure  I  shall  always  remember 
your  kindness,"  she  said,  aloud. 
But  in  her  heart  she  was  saying  in 
the  same  breath,  "  Oh,  very  well ; 
if  he  does  not  care  I  am  sure  I  do 
not  care.  I  am  only  too  glad  to  be 
let  off  so  easy ; "  which  was  true,  and 
yet  quite  the  reverse  of  true. 

But  then  Kate  did  not  see  the 
watcher  outside  the  window  in  the 
darkness,  who  saw  all  that  was 
going  on,  and  bided  his  time,  though 
he  trembled  with  impatience  and 
excitement.  Not  knowing  he  was 
there,  she  came  to  have  a  very  dis- 
dainful feeling  about  him  as  the 
moments  passed  on.  To  ask  such 
a  question  as  that,  and  never  to  in- 
sist on  an  answer !  Well,  he  might 
be  very  nice  ;  but  what  should  she 
do  with  a  man  that  took  so  little 
pains  to  secure  his  object  Or  was 
it  his  object  at  all  ?  He  might  be 
cleverer  than  she  had  taken  him 
for  ;  he  might  be  but  playing  with 
her,  as  she  had  intended  to  play 
with  him.  Indignant  with  these 
thoughts,  she  rose  up  when  Mrs 
Mitford's  last  words  came  to  a  con- 
clusion, and  detached  herself,  not 
without  a  slight  coldness,  from  that 


kind  embrace.  "  I  must  go  and  see 
to  my  things,  please/'  she  said, 
raising  her  head  like  a  young  queen. 
"  But,  my  dear,  there  is  Parsons/' 
said  Mrs  Mitford.  "Oh,  but  I 
must  see  after  everything  myself/' 
replied  Kate,  and  went  away,  not 
in  haste,  as  making  her  escape,  but 
with  a  certain  stateliness  of  despite. 
She  walked  out  of  the  room  quite 
leisurely,  feeling  it  beneath  her  dig- 
nity to  fly  from  an  adversary  that 
showed  no  signs  of  pursuing ;  and 
even  turned  round  at  the  door  to 
say  something  with  a  boldness 
which  looked  almost  like  bravado. 
He  will  come  now,  no  doubt,  and 
find  me  gone,  and  I  hope  he  will 
enjoy  the  tete-h-tete  with  his  mother, 
she  mused,  with  a  certain  ferocity  ; 
and  so  went  carelessly  out,  with 
all  the  haughtiness  of  pique,  and 
walked  almost  into  John  Mitford's 
arms  ! 

He  seized  her  hand  before  she 
knew  what  had  happened,  and  drew 
it  through  his  arm,  first  throwing 
a  shawl  round  her,  which  he  had 
picked  up  somewhere,  and  which, 
suddenly  curling  round  her  like  a 
lasso,  was  Kate's  first  indication  of 
what  had  befallen  her.  "  I  have 
been  watching  you  till  I  am  half 
wild,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 
"  Oh  come  with  me  to  the  garden, 
and  say  three  words  to  me.  I  have 
no  other  chance  for  to-night." 

"  Oh,  please,  let  me  go.  I  must 
see  to  rny  packing — indeed  I  must," 
cried  Kate,  so  startled  and  moved 
by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack, 
and  by  his  evident  excitement,  that 
she  could  scarcely  keep  from  tears. 

"  Not  now,"  said  John,  in  her 
ear — "  not  now.  I  must  have  my 
answer.  You  cannot  be  so  cruel  as 
to  go  now.  Only  half  an  hour — 
only  ten  minutes — Kate  ! " 

"Hush!  oh  hush!"  she  cried, 
feeling  herself  conquered  ;  and  ere 
she  knew,  the  night  air  was  blowing 
in  her  face,  and  the  dark  sky,  with 
its  faint  little  summer  stars,  was 
shining  over  her,  and  John  Mitford, 
holding  her  close,  with  her  hand  on 


1870.] 


John.-— Part  III. 


57 


his  arm,  was  bending  over  her,  a 
dark  shadow.  She  could  not  read 
in  his  face  all  the  passion  that  pos- 
sessed him,  but  she  felt  it,  and  it 
made  her  tremble,  woman  of  the 
WDrld  as  she  was. 

"Kate/'  he  said,  "I  cannot  go 
searching  for  words  now.  I  think 
I  will  go  mad  if  you  don't  speak  to 
me.  Tell  me  what  I  am  to  hope  for. 
Give  me  my  answer.  I  cannot 
bear  any  more." 

His  voice  was  hoarse ;  he  held 
her  hand  fast  on  his  arm,  not  caress- 
in  g,  but  compelling.  He  was  driven 
out  of  all  patience  ;  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  Kate's  spirit 
was  cowed,  and  her  wit  failed  to 
the  command  of  the  situation. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  said;  "oh,  do 
let  me  go  !  you  frighten  me,  Mr 
John." 

"  Don't  call  me  Mr  John.  I  am 
your  slave,  if  you  like ;  I  will  be 
anything  you  please.  You  said 
just  now  we  belonged  to  each 
other;  so  we  do.  No,  I  can't  be 
generous  ;  it  is  not  the  moment  to 
bo  generous.  I  have  a  claim  upon 
you — don't  call  me  Mr  John." 

"  Then  what  shall  I  call  you  ? " 
Kate  said,  with  a  little  hysterical 
giggle.  And  all  at  once,  at  that 
most  inappropriate  moment,  there 
flashed  across  her  mind  the  first 
name  she  had  recognised  his  iden- 
tity by.  My  John — was  that  the 
al  ternative  1  She  shrank  a  little  and 
trembled,  and  did  not  know  whether 
she  should  laugh  or  cry.  Should 
she  call  him  that  just  as  an  experi- 
ment, to  see  how  he  would  take  it  1 
— or  what  else  could  she  do  to 
escape  from  him  out  of  this  dark 
place,  all  full  of  dew,  and  odours, 
and  silence,  into  the  light  and  the 
safety  of  her  own  room  1  And  yet 
all  this  time  she  made  no  attempt 
to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his  arm. 
She  wanted  something  to  lean  on 
at,  such  a  crisis,  and  he  was  very 
handy  for  leaning  on — tall,  and 
strong,  and  sturdy,  and  affording 
a  very  adequate  support.  "Oh,  do 
h  t  me  go  ! ;>  she  burst  out  all  at 


once.  "  It  was  only  for  your  own 
good  I  spoke  to  you ;  I  did  not 
mean — this.  Why  should  you  do 
things  for  me  ?  I  don't  want — to 
make  any  change.  I  should  like 
to  have  you  always  just  as  we  have 
been — friends.  Don't  say  any  more 
just  yet — listen.  I  like  you  very 
very  much  for  a  friend.  You  said 
yourself  we  were  like  brother  and 
sister.  Oh,  why  should  you  vex 
me  and  bother  me,  and  want  to  be 
anything  different  ?  "  said  Kate,  in 
her  confusion,  suddenly  beginningto 
cry  without  any  warning.  But  next 
moment,  without  knowing  how  it 
was,  she  became  aware  that  she  was 
crying  very  comfortably  on  John's 
shoulder.  Her  crying  was  more 
than  he  could  bear.  He  took  her 
into  his  arms  to  console  her  with- 
out any  arriere  pensee.  "  Oh,  my 
darling,  I  am  not  worth  it,"  he 
said,  stooping  over  her.  "  Is  it 
for  me — that  would  never  let  the 
wind  blow  on  you?  Kate  !  I  will 
not  trouble  you  any  more."  And 
with  that,  before  he  was  aware,  in 
his  compunction  and  sympathy,  his 
lips  somehow  found  themselves 
close  to  her  cheek.  It  was  all  to 
keep  her  from  crying — to  show  how 
sorry  he  was  for  having  grieved  her. 
His  heart  yearned  over  the  soft 
tender  creature.  What  did  it  mat- 
ter what  he  suffered,  who  was  only 
a  man  ?  But  that  Kate  should  cry  ! 
— and  that  it  should  be  his  fault ! 
He  felt  in  his  simplicity  that  he 
was  giving  her  up  for  ever,  and  his 
big  heart  almost  broke,  as  he  bent 
down  trembling,  and  encountered 
that  soft  warm  velvet  cheek. 

How  it  happened  I  cannot  tell. 
He  did  not  mean  it,  and  she  did 
not  mean  it.  But  certainly  Kate 
committed  herself  hopelessly  by 
crying  there  quite  comfortably  on 
his  shoulder,  and  suffering  herself 
to  be  kissed  without  so  much  as  a 
protest.  He  was  so  frightened  by 
his  own  temerity,  and  so  surprised 
at  it,  that  even  had  she  vindicated 
her  dignity  after  the  first  moment, 
and  burst  indignant  from  his  arms, 


58 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


John  would  have  begged  her  par- 
don with  abject  misery,  and  there 
would  have  been  an  end  of  him, 
But  somehow  Kate  was  bewildered, 
and  let  that  moment  pass ;  and 
after  the  surprise  and  shock  which 
his  own  unprecedented  audacity 
wrought  in  him,  John  grew  bolder, 
as  was  natural.  She  was  not  angry ; 
she  endured  it  without  protest. 
Was  it  possible  that  in  her  trouble 
she  was  unconscious  of  it]  And 
involuntarily  John  came  to  see  that 
boldness  was  now  his  only  policy, 
and  that  it  must  not  be  possible  for 
her  to  ignore  the  facts  of  the  case. 
That  was  all  simple  enough.  But  as 
for  Kate,  I  am  utterly  unable  to 
explain  her  conduct.  Even  when 
she  came  to  herself,  all  she  did  was 
to  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face, 
and  to  murmur  piteously,  humbly, 
"  Don't !  oh,  please,  don't !  "  And 
why  shouldn't  he,  when  that  was 
all  the  resistance  she  made  1 

After  this,  the  young  man  being 
partly  delirious,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  it  was  Kate  who 
had  to  come  to  the  front  of  affairs 
and  take  the  lead.  "  Do,  please,  be 
rational  now,"  she  said,  shaking 
herself  free  all  in  a  moment.  "  And 
give  me  your  arm,  you  foolish 
John,  and  let  us  take  a  turn  round 
the  garden.  Oh,  what  would  your 
mother  say  if  she  knew  how  ridicu- 
lous you  have  been  making  your- 
self 1  Tell  me  quietly  what  it  is 
you  want  now,"  she  added,  in  her 
most  coaxing  tone,  looking  up  into 
his  face. 

Upon  which  the  bewildered  fel- 
low poured  forth  a  flood  of  ascrip- 
tions of  praise  and  paeans  of  victory, 
and  compared  Kate,  who  knew  she 
was  no  angel,  to  all  the  deities  and 
excellences  ever  known  to  man. 
She  listened  to  it  all  patiently,  and 
then  shook  her  head  with  gentle 
half-maternal  tolerance. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "let  us  take 
all  that  for  granted,  you  know.  Of 
course  I  am  everything  that  is  nice. 
If  you  did  not  think  so  you  would 
be  a  savage;  but,  John,  please 


don't  be  foolish.  Tell  me  properly. 
I  have  gone  and  given  in  to  you 
when  I  did  not  mean  to.  And  now, 
what  do  you  want  1 " 

"  I  want  you,"  he  said ;  "  have 
you  any  doubt  about  that  ]  And, 
except  for  your  sake,  I  don't  care 
for  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"  Oh,  but  I  care  for  a  great  many 
things,"  said  Kate.  "  And,  John," 
she  went  on,  joining  both  her  hands 
on  his  arm,  and  leaning  her  head 
lightly  against  it  in  her  caressing 
way,  "  first  of  all,  you  have  accept- 
ed my  conditions,  you  know,  and 
taken  my  advice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  said  John  ; 
and  then  somehow  his  eye  was 
caught  by  the  lights  in  the  windows 
so  close  at  hand,  the  one  in  the 
library,  the  other  in  the  drawing- 
room,  where  sat  his  parents,  who 
had  the  fullest  confidence  in  him  ; 
and  he  gave  a  slight  start  and  sigh, 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Perhaps  you  repent  your 
bargain  already,"  said  impetuous 
Kate,  being  instantly  conscious  of 
both  start  and  sigh,  and  of  the 
feeling  which  had  produced  them. 

"  Ah  !  how  can  you  speak  to  me 
so,"  he  said,  "  when  you  know  if  it 
was  life  I  had  to  pay  for  it  I  would 
do  it  joyfully]  No  ;  even  if  I  had 
never  seen  you  I  could  not  have 
done  what  they  wanted  me.  That 
is  the  truth.  And  now  I  have  you, 
my  sweetest " 

"  Hush,"  she  said,  softly,  "  we 
have  not  come  to  that  yet.  There 
is  a  great  deal,  such  a  great  deal, 
to  think  about ;  and  there  is  pa- 
pa  " 

"  And  I  have  so  little  to  offer," 
said  John  ;  "  it  is  only  now  I  feel 
how  little.  Ah  !  how  five  minutes 
change  everything  !  It  never  came 
into  my  mind  that  I  had  nothing 
to  offer  you — I  was  so  full  of  your- 
self. But  now  ! — you  who  should 
have  kingdoms  laid  at  your  feet — 
what  right  had  a  penniless  fellow 
like  me " 

"  If  you  regret  you  can  always 
go  back,"  said  Kate,  promptly ; 


1870.] 


John.— Part  111. 


59 


1 '  though,  you  know,  it  is  a  kind 
of  insinuation  against  me,  as  if  I 
had  consented  far  too  easy.  And, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  never  did  con- 
sent." 

Here  poor  John  clutched  at  her 
hand,  which  seemed  to  be  sliding 
from  his  arm,  and  held  it  fast 
without  a  word. 

*'  No,  I  never  did  consent,"  said 
Kfite.  "  It  was  exactly  like  the 
savages  that  knock  a  poor  girl  down 
and  then  carry  her  off.  You  never 
asked  me  even — you  took  me.  Well, 
but  then  the  thing  to  be  drawn 
from  that,  is  not  any  nonsense  about 
gr.dng  up.  If  you  will  promise  to 
be  good,  and  do  everything  I  tell 
you,  and  let  me  manage  with 
papa " 

"  But  it  is  my  business  to  let 
him  know,"  said  John.  "  No,  my 
darling — not  even  for  you.  I  could 
not  skulk,  nor  do  anything  under- 
hand. I  must  tell  him,  and  I  must 
tell  them " 

"  Then  you  will  have  your  way, 
and  we  shall  come  to  grief,"  said 
Kite;  "  as  if  I  did  not  know  papa 
best.  And  then — I  am  not  half  nor 
quarter  so  good  as  you ;  but  in 
some  things  I  am  cleverer  than  you, 
John." 

"  In  everything,  dear,"  he  said, 
with  one  of  those  ecstatic  smiles 
peculiar  to  his  state  of  folly,  though 
in  the  darkness  Kate  did  not  get 
the  benefit  of  it.  "I  never  have, 
never  will  compare  myself  to  my 
darling.  It  is  all  your  goodness 
letting  me — all  your  sweetness  and 
humility  and " 

"Please  don't,"  said  Kate,  "please 
stop — please  don't  talk  such  non- 
sense. Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  never 
behave  so  badly  that  you  will  be 
forced  to  find  me  out.  But  now 
about  papa.  It  must  be  me  to  tell 
him  ;  you  may  come  in  afterwards, 
if  you  like.  I  know  what  I  shall 
do.  I  will  drive  the  phaeton  to  the 
station  to  meet  him.  I  will  be  the 
one  to  tell  him  first.  John,  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  of,  and  I  must 
have  my  own  way." 


"  Are  you  out  there,  John,  in  the 
dark]  and  who  have  you  got  with 
you1?"  said  Mrs  Mitford's  voice  sud- 
denly in  their  ears.  It  made  them 
jump  apart  as  if  it  had  been  the 
voice  of  a  ghost.  And  Kate,  pant- 
ing, blazing  with  blushes  in  the 
darkness,  feeling  as  if  she  never 
could  face  those  soft  eyes  again,  re- 
coiled back  into  the  lilies,  and  felt 
the  great  white  paradise  of  dew  and 
sweetness  take  her  in,  and  busk  her 
round  with  a  garland  of  odour. 
Oh,  what  was  she  to  do  1  Could 
Jie  do  anything  1  would  he  be  equal 
to  the  emergency  1  Thus  it  will 
be  seen  that,  though  she  was  very 
fond  of  him,  she  had  not  yet  the 
most  perfect  confidence  in  the  reli- 
ability of  her  John. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  am  here,"  said 
John,  with  a  mellow  fulness  in  his 
voice  which  Kate  could  not  under- 
stand, so  different  was  it  from  his 
usual  tone,  "  and  I  have  Kate  with 
me — my  Kate — your  Kate  ;  or,  at 
least,  there  she  is  among  the  lilies. 
She  ought  to  be  in  your  arms  first, 
after  mine." 

"  After  yours  !  "  His  mother 
gave  a  little  scream.  And  Kate  held 
up  her  head  among  the  flowers, 
blushing,  yet  satisfied.  It  was 
shocking  of  him  to  tell ;  but  yet  it 
settled  the  question.  She  stood 
irresolute  for  a  moment,  breathing 
quick  with  excitement,  and  then 
she  made  a  little  run  into  Mrs  Mit- 
ford's arms.  "  He  has  made  me  be 
engaged  to  him  whether  I  will  or 
not,"  she  said,  half  crying  on  her 
friend's  shoulder.  "He  has  made 
me.  Won't  you  love  me  too  1 " 

"OKate!"  was  all  the  mother 
could  say.  <;  O  my  boy  !  what 
have  you  done  1 — what  have  you 
done  1  John,  her  father  is  ten 
times  as  ricli  as  we  are.  He  will 
say  we  have  'abused  his  trust.  Oh  ! 
what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Abused  his  trust  indeed  !"  said 
Kate.  "  John,  you  are  not  to  say  a 
word;  she  does  not  understand. 
Why,  it  was  I  who  did  it  all !  I 
gave  him  no  peace.  I  kept  talk- 


60 


John.— Part  III. 


[Jan. 


ing  to  him  of  things  I  had  no 
business  with  ;  and  he  is  only  a 
man  —  indeed  he  is  only  a  boy. 
Mamma,  won't  you  kiss  me,  please  1 " 
said  Kate,  all  at  once  sinking  into 
the  meekest  of  tones  ;  upon  which 
Mrs  Mitford,  quite  overcome,  and 
wanting  to  kiss  her  son  first,  and 
with  a  hundred  questions  in  her 
mind  to  pour  out  upon  him,  yet 
submitted,  and  put  her  arm  round 
the  stranger  who  was  clinging  to 
her  and  kissed  Kate — but  not  with 
her  heart.  She  had  kissed  her 
a  great  deal  more  tenderly  only 
yesterday,  just  to  say  good-night ; 
and  then  the  three  stood  silent  in 
the  darkness,  and  the  scene  took 
another  shape,  and  John's  beatitude 
was  past.  The  moment  the  mother 
joined  them  another  world  came 
in.  The  enchanted  world,  which 
held  only  two  figures,  opened  up 
and  disappeared  like  a  scene  at  a 
theatre ;  and  lo !  there  appeared  all 
round  a  mass  of  other  people  to 
whom  John's  passion  was  a  matter 
of  indifference  or  a  thing  to  be  dis- 
approved. Suddenly  the  young 
pair  felt  themselves  standing  not 


only  before  John's  anxious  mother, 
but  before  Mr  Crediton,  gloomy 
and  wretched  ;  before  Dr  Mitford, 
angry  and  mortified  ;  before  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  who  would 
judge  them  without  much  con- 
sideration of  mercy.  John's  re- 
flections at  this  moment  were 
harder  to  support  than  those  of 
Kate,  for  he  had  the  sense  of 
giving  up  for  her  sake  the  vocation 
he  had  been  trained  to,  and  the 
awful  necessity  of  declaring  his 
resolution  to  his  father  and  mother 
before  him.  Whereas  the  worst 
that  could  be  said  of  Kate  was 
that  she  was  a  little  flirt,  and  had 
turned  John  Mitford's  head — and 
she  had  heard  as  much  before. 
But,  notwithstanding,  they  were 
both  strangely  sobered  all  in  a 
moment  as  they  stood  there,  fallen 
out  of  their  fairy  sphere,  by  Mrs 
Mitford's  side. 

"  My  dears,  I  must  hear  all  about 
this  after,"  she  said,  with  a  kind 
of  tremulous  solemnity,  "  but  in 
the  mean  time  you  must  come  in 
to  tea.  Whatever  we  do,  we  must 
not  be  late  for  prayers." 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durlar. 


61 


LORD  MAYO  AND  THE  UMBALLA  DURBAR. 


WE  think  it  will  be  admitted 
that  the  time  has  now  arrived 
when  a  pointed  conclusion  may  be 
drawn  as  to  the  purport  and  object 
of  the  frontier  policy  adopted  in 
March  18G9  by  Lord  Mayo  at  Um- 
balla. A  brief  examination  of  the 
subject  will  show  what  has  been 
the;  result  of  that  policy  on  the  ex- 
ternal relations  of  Great  Britain 
whh  her  Asiatic  neighbours  ;  what 
on  the  internal  condition  of  the 
most  powerful  of  those  neighbours. 
In  both  aspects  the  subject  is  deep- 
ly interesting.  In  the  first,  because 
in  the  solution  arrived  at  by  Lord 
Muyo  we  may  trace  the  germs  of 
tho  true  principles  of  Anglo-Indian 
foreign  policy;  in  the  second,  be- 
cause the  spectacle  of  a  semi-bar- 
barous prince  endeavouring  to  en- 
gnift  on  a  feudal  nobility  and  a 
rude  people  some  of  the  adminis- 
trative principles  which  he  learned 
to  admire  during  his  short  progress 
th.-ough  a  portion  of  British  India, 
cannot  fail  to  arrest  the  attention 
and  rivet  the  sympathy  of  the 
thoughtful  minds  of  all  civilised 
communities.  It  is  a  picture 
unique  of  its  kind — an  experiment 
the  importance  of  which  to  the 
people  of  Central  Asia  can  scarcely 
IDC  exaggerated. 

The  question  of  an  interview 
with  the  ruler  of  Afghanistan, 
Amir  Shir  Ali,  had  been  mooted, 
towards  the  close  of  1868,  by  the 
illustrious  predecessor  of  Lord 
Mayo.  For  five  years,  almost  from 
ths  death  of  Dost  Mahomed  in 
June  1863,  Afghanistan  had  been 
a  prey  to  civil  war.  From  all  in- 
terference in  the  events  of  the  civil 
war  Sir  John  Lawrence  had  rigidly 
abstained.  He  had  withheld  even 
all  expressions  of  sympathy  with 
either  party,  being  desirous  that 
the  question  of  rulership  should  be 
d(  cided  by  the  Afghans  themselves. 
But  when,  after  many  changes  of 
fortune,  the  legitimate  successor  of 


Dost  Mahomed,  Amir  Shir  Ali,  on 
the  llth  September  1868,  entered 
Caubul  in  triumph — one  of  his  ri- 
vals having  died,  the  other  being 
a  helpless  fugitive,  without  money 
and  without  resources  —  Sir  John 
Lawrence  deemed  that  the  happy 
moment  to  which  he  had  so  long 
looked  forward  had  at  length  ar- 
rived, and  that  he  might  venture 
to  renew  with  Shir  Ali  the  cordial 
alliance  which  British  India  had, 
during  the  later  years  of  his  life, 
maintained  with  his  father.  He 
accordingly  listened  eagerly  to  the 
friendly  overtures  which  Shir  Ali 
lost  no  time  in  making  to  the  Brit- 
ish representative  at  Caubul,  Atta 
Mahomed  Khan ;  and  he  even  ex- 
pressed his  entire  readiness  to  meet 
Shir  Ali  at  Peshawur,  to  arrange 
with  him,  at  a  personal  interview, 
the  relations  which  should  in  fu- 
ture subsist  between  the  ruler  of 
Afghanistan  and  the  Viceroy  of  the 
Queen. 

Apparently  Sir  John  Lawrence 
was  not  impelled  to  this  course  by 
any  dread  of  the  proceedings  of 
Russia  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Samarkhand  and  Bokhara.  He 
had  always  expressed  an  opinion 
that  if  Russia  should  advance  to- 
wards the  possessions  of  the  Eng- 
lish in  India — a  contingency  which 
he  doubted  —  the  English  would 
only  weaken  themselves  if  they 
moved  beyond  their  present  fron- 
tier. On  that  frontier  should  they, 
in  his  opinion,  await  the  foe.  Nor 
had  he  a  very  exalted  opinion  of 
the  power  of  Afghanistan  to  offer 
any  effectual  resistance  to  a  Rus- 
sian army.  He  was  equally  scep- 
tical of  our  power  to  bind  Afghan- 
istan irrevocably  to  our  interests. 
Our  best  policy,  in  his  opinion, 
consisted  in  maintaining  towards 
her  a  friendly  attitude,  in  endeav- 
ouring to  win  her  confidence  by 
showing  her  how  entirely  her  in- 
terests necessitated  an  alliance  with 


Lord  Mayo  and  tJie  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


ourselves,  and  especially  by  demon- 
strating that  under  no  pretext  and 
under  no  temptation  would  British 
India  advance  one  single  yard  be- 
yond her  own  frontier  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Afghanistan  with  the  idea 
of  making  any  territorial  acquisi- 
tion. 

It  was  with  a  view  to  the  latter 
object  that  Sir  John  Lawrence  had 
always  abstained  from  interference 
with  Afghan  politics  during  the  civil 
war.  He  had  thus,  he  conceived, 
proved  to  the  Afghan  people  that 
our  friendship  was  not  affected  by 
their  misfortunes,  and  that  we  were 
the  disinterested  allies  of  their  na- 
tion. But  now  that  the  war  had 
ended  in  the  predominance  of  Shir 
Ali,  he  was  of  opinion  that  we 
might  fairly  advance  from  our 
seclusion,  and,  though  still  abstain- 
ing from  any  offensive  alliance 
with  that  prince,  give  a  somewhat 
more  positive  character  to  our 
friendship.  With  this  in  view  he 
consented  to  meet  Shir  Ali  at 
Peshawur. 

The  interview,  however,  did  not 
take  place.  Before  the  letter  of 
Sir  John  Lawrence  reached  the 
Amir,  that  prince  had  received  in- 
telligence that  a  considerable  Tur- 
coman army,  under  the  command 
of  his  nephew,  Abdul  Ruhman, 
was  marching  upon  Caubul.  This 
army  constituted  the  last  hope  of 
his  rivals.  Were  this  to  be  beaten 
or  dispersed,  there  would  remain  no 
one  to  dispute  his  authority.  It 
was  strong  in  numbers  and  in  or- 
ganisation, and  was  commanded  by 
a  man  who  possessed  the  highest 
character  as  a  leader.  To  neglect 
to  oppose  that  army — to  leave  any- 
thing undone  to  vanquish  it — in 
order  to  meet  the  Viceroy  on 
British  ground,  would,  the  Amir 
thought,  be  tantamount  to  political 
suicide.  He  wrote,  therefore,  to 
state  that,  before  he  could  fix  a 
time  and  place  for  an  interview,  it 
was  first  indispensable  that  he 
should  put  down  his  enemies.  He 
did  not  doubt  his  success,  but  he 
felt  that  to  attain  it  he  must  put 


into  action  all  the  resources  at  his 
disposal. 

He  did  succeed.  In  the  month 
of  December  1868  the  army  of 
Abdul  Ruhman  was  completely 
routed,  and  Shir  Ali  became  the 
unchallenged  ruler  of  Afghanistan. 
But  before  intelligence  of  this  event 
reached  Calcutta,  Sir  John  Law- 
rence had  made  over  his  high  office 
to  the  Earl  of  Mayo. 

This  event  occurred  on  the  12th 
January  1869.  Probably,  of  all 
the  appointments  in  the  gift  of  the 
Crown,  and  to  which  a  British 
statesman  desirous  of  serving  his 
country  is  liable  to  be  called,  there 
is  not  one  more  onerous,  not  one 
requiring  a  greater  grasp  of  mind, 
not  one  that  calls  more  immediately 
into  action  the  higher  faculties  of  a 
man,  than  the  Governor-General- 
ship of  India.  The  statesman  who 
may  be  nominated  First  Minister 
of  the  Crown  has  invariably  served 
a  long  apprenticeship  to  that  high 
office.  He  comes  to  it  almost 
always  from  the  leadership  of  the 
Opposition,  familiar,  therefore,  with 
all  the  moves  of  the  political  chess- 
board, fresh  from  the  battle-field  on 
which  he  is  called  to  assume  com- 
mand. But,  in  India,  the  in-coming 
Viceroy  is  brought  suddenly  upon 
a  scene  in  which  all  is  new  to  him. 
The  various  races  of  the  Indian 
peninsula,  their  differing  customs 
and  religions,  their  mutual  enmities, 
their  relations  to  the  conquering 
nation,  present  social  problems 
hardly  to  be  understood  except 
upon  the  spot.  There  are  men  in 
Europe  who  talk  glibly  of  the 
people  of  Hindostan,  and  who  are 
yet  little  aware  that  between  the 
hardy  and  martial  Sikh  of  the  fron- 
tier and  the  weak  and  effeminate 
native  of  Bengal  proper,  there  is  a 
difference  far  wider  than  between 
any  races  of  Europe — a  difference 
approaching  more  nearly  that  be- 
tween the  Bengalee  and  the  Euro- 
pean. These  differences  apply,  in 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  to  all  the 
races  of  Hindostan.  The  thorough 
appreciation  of  the  relations  of  the 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  tfic  Uinballa  Durbar, 


63 


panmount  power  with  those  quasi- 
independent  princes  who  occupy 
the  position  of  feudatories,  as  well 
as  with  the  really  independent 
princes  who  lie  on  our  frontier,  is 
a  still  more  difficult  and  not  less 
important  task.  When,  moreover, 
it  is  recollected  that  the  new  Vice- 
roy is  brought  suddenly  in  contact 
with  an  administration  with  the 
personnel  of  which  he  is  utterly 
unacquainted — that  he  has,  unas- 
sisted, to  read  their  characters,  to 
find  out  their  capacities,  and,  with- 
out being  himself  under  the  influ- 
ence of  any,  to  adapt  from  each  the 
peculiar  knowledge  he  may  possess, 
— it  will,  we  think,  be  admitted  that 
the  position  is  one  which  might 
test  the  capacity  of  the  ablest,  to 
which  only  a  man  strong  in  his 
own  strength  could  be  equal. 

There  are,  nevertheless,  very 
groat  advantages  resulting  from  the 
appointment  of  an  English  noble- 
man, untried  in  Indian  affairs  as 
he  may  be,  to  the  office  of  Viceroy. 
Ho  arrives  in  the  country  unfet- 
tered and  unprejudiced;  he  is  ig- 
norant, and  happily  ignorant,  of 
the  jealousies,  the  intrigues,  the 
service  influences,  of  Anglo-Indian 
society;  he  belongs  to  no  particular 
school  of  Indian  politics  ;  he  brings 
to  bear  upon  the  administration  of 
affairs  the  fresh  mind  of  an  English 
statesman.  In  any  differences  of 
opinion  among  his  colleagues  he  is 
able  to  assume  the  position,  not  of 
partisan,  but  of  arbiter.  Experi- 
ence has  shown  that  this  alone  is  a 
gr3at  advantage.  We  may  safely 
conclude,  then,  that  though  the 
di'Bculties  to  be  encountered  by  an 
E  iglish  statesman  coming  to  India 
m  ly  be  greater  than  those  attaching 
to  any  other  office  in  the  gift  of  the 
Ci  own,  they  are  not  altogether  in- 
surmountable, provided  only  the 
Viceroy  be  endowed  with  capacity 
and  tact;  and  that,  those  difficul- 
ties once  surmounted,  he  occupies 
a  position  to  which  no  man  trained 
only  in  India,  however  brilliant  his 
abilities,  could  hope  to  attain. 

One  of  the  first  subjects  to  which 


the  attention  of  Lord  Mayo  was 
drawn  after  his  arrival  at  Calcutta 
was  the  state  of  our  relations  with 
Afghanistan.  Within  a  week  or 
two  of  that  event  he  received  offi- 
cial intimation  of  the  removal  of 
the  obstacle  which  had  prevented 
the  meeting  of  the  Amir  with  his 
predecessor.  He  learned,  in  fact, 
the  defeat  of  the  Turcoman  army, 
and  the  complete  triumph  of  Shir 
Ali.  A  few  days  later,  intelligence 
was  forwarded  to  him  by  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Go vernor  of  the  Punjaubthat 
the  Amir,  now  stronger  than  he 
had  ever  been,  was  more  than  ever 
anxious  to  renew  with  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  those  friendly  per- 
sonal relations  which,  since  the 
death  of  his  father,  had  remained 
interrupted  ;  and  that  he  had  ex- 
pressed a  strong  desire  to  meet  the 
new  Viceroy  in  British  territory. 

There  were,  at  this  time,  two 
courses  open  to  Lord  Mayo.  Should 
he  continue  the  policy  of  complete 
abstention  which  had  characterised 
all  but  the  last  three  months  of  the 
preceding  five  years,  the  policy  of 
holding  aloof  even  from  courteous 
intercourse  with  the  rightful  sov- 
ereign, lest  such  intercourse  should 
be  interpreted  to  signify  a  recogni- 
tion of  his  claims  and  an  intention 
to  support  them  ?  or  should  he  re- 
cur to  that  other  policy  to  which 
his  predecessor  had  reverted  dur- 
ing the  last  three  months  of  his 
rule,  the  frank  and  generous  policy 
which  had  guided  our  relations 
with  the  Amir  Dost  Mahomed  dur- 
ing the  last  nine  years  of  his  life — 
the  policy  of  giving  to  the  ruler  of 
the  country  a  friendly  support,  not 
only  by  recognising  his  rights,  but 
by  the  occasional  grant  of  such 
timely  aid  in  the  hour  of  his  ne- 
cessities as  might  enable  him  to 
beat  down  rebellion  within,  and 
to  resist  hostilities  from  without  ? 
There  would  be  no  occasion  to 
specify  the  nature  of  the  aid  to  be 
thus  afforded.  Its  grant  might  be 
regulated  rather  by  mutual  under- 
standing than  by  treaty ;  whilst 
the  nature  of  it — whether  it  were 


64 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


to  consist  of  presents  of  muskets 
or  gifts  of  money,  might  depend 
upon  the  actual  wants  of  the  Amir. 
The  aim  to  be  arrived  at  may  be 
described  as  the  policy  of  making 
the  Amir  strong  relatively  to  his 
immediate  neighbours,  and  of  show- 
ing him  that  he  owed  the  strength 
so  acquired  to  the  disinterested 
friendship  of  the  power  on  his 
eastern  frontier. 

It  was  a  fortunate  circumstance 
that  Lord  Mayo  had  come  out 
committed  to  no  policy.  Not  only 
was  he  unfettered  by  the  action  of 
his  predecessor,  but  the  turn  of 
events  by  which  the  fortunes  of 
Shir  Ali  triumphed  about  the  time 
that  he  assumed  the  reins  of  gov- 
ernment, would,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, have  given  free  scope 
to  his  action.  Viewing  the  ques- 
tion, therefore,  with  an  unprej  udiced 
mind,  he  could  not  but  see  how 
important  it  was  for  British  India 
that  the  most  powerful  neighbour 
on  her  frontier  should  look  to  her 
for  friendship  and  support.  More 
especially  did  this  seem  to  him  to 
be  advisable  at  a  period  when  the 
outposts  of  the  Russian  army  had 
reached  the  banks  of  the  Oxus, 
and  when  that  power  seemed  about 
to  take  up,  on  the  northern  borders 
of  the  territories  of  the  Amir,  a 
position  nearly  analogous  to  that 
held  by  us  on  the  eastern.  It 
cannot  be  doubted  that  he  felt, 
with  all  this,  as  much  averse  as  his 
predecessor  to  any  movement  which 
should  assume  the  form  of  actual 
interference,  either  by  force  of 
arms  or  by  diplomacy.  He  wished 
neither  to  extend  our  frontier  by 
the  occupation  of  Khoorm,  nor  to 
send  English  officers  to  drill  the 
troops  of  the  Amir,  nor  to  despatch 
a  British  envoy  to  CaubuL  In  all 
these  respects  he  held  entirely  to 
his  predecessor's  views.  But  he 
was  decidedly  of  opinion  that  true 
policy  counselled  him  to  respond 
to  the  friendly  overtures  of  the 
Amir,  to  abandon  the  system  of 
indifference,  to  show  him  that  we 
were  prepared  to  grant  him  such 


friendly  aid,  as  short  of  armed  in- 
terference, a  neighbour  in  distress 
might  demand  of  a  neighbour  in 
affluence — to  recur,  in  short,  to  the 
policy  of  Lords  Dalhousie  and 
Canning  towards  his  father. 

But,  whilst  arriving  at  this  sound 
conclusion,  it  is  evident  that  Lord 
Mayo  was  determined  to  abstain 
from  the  display,  on  the  part  of  his 
Government,  of  too  great  eagerness 
in  responding  to  the  overtures  of 
Shir  Ali.  He  was  of  opinion,  more- 
over, that  the  meeting,  should  it  take 
place,  ought  to  be  held  at  a  point 
well  within  our  own  frontier.  He 
thought,  and  in  this  he  showed  a 
rare  sagacity,  which  has  been  pre- 
eminently fruitful  of  results,  that 
the  opportunity  should  not  be  ne- 
glected of  displaying  to  the  Amir 
some  of  the  wonders  of  Western 
civilisation  ;  of  showing  him  our 
admirably-equipped  mountain  bat- 
teries ;  the  splendid  organisation  of 
our  troops  ;  of  pointing  out  to  him 
our  railways  and  electric  telegraphs. 
But,  above  all,  the  occasion  was  not 
to  be  neglected  of  affording  to  an 
Eastern  prince,  reigning  over  feudal 
vassals,  an  opportunity  'of  judging 
of  the  contentment  of  our  people; 
their  material  prosperity;  their  sat- 
isfaction with  our  rule  ;  the  peace- 
able working  of  our  revenue  system. 
For  such  purposes  no  opportunity 
could  be  afforded  at  the  frontier 
station  of  Peshawur.  Even  were 
Lahore  to  be  appointed  as  the  place 
of  meeting,  it  might  be  objected  that 
the  Viceroy  had  consented  to  travel 
out  of  his  way  to  meet  the  Amir. 
Lord  Mayo  evidently  thought  that 
in  dealing  with  a  people  so  jealous 
of  etiquette,  and  so  particular  re- 
garding ceremonial  as  are  all  East- 
ern races,  it  was  most  important 
that  it  should  be  impossible  to  draw 
such  an  inference.  An  easy  mode 
of  preventing  this,  and  at  the  same 
time  of  affording  to  the  Amir 
the  opportunity  above  referred  to, 
presented  itself  to  his  mind.  He 
had  intended  to  proceed  in  the 
month  of  March  to  the  sanatorium 
of  Simla.  To  reach  that  place  it 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


65 


was  necessary  to  pass  through  the 
military  cantonment  of  Umballa. 
At  that  cantonment,  then,  Lord 
Mayo  proposed  to  meet  the  Amir. 
He  would  reach  it  in  the  natural 
course  of  his  journey  to  the  head- 
quarters of  his  Government.  The 
Amir,  on  the  other  hand,  would 
have  to  traverse  the  Punjaub— would 
thus  have  an  opportunity  of  noting 
all  that  was  novel  to  him  in  our 
system — and  would  actually  travel 
by  railway,  with  a  brief  intermis- 
sion, from  Lahore  to  Umballa. 

There  were  other  reasons  which 
appeared  to  the  Viceroy  to  render 
tie  selection  of  Umballa  incontes- 
tably  superior  to  that  of  any  other 
station  nearer  the  frontier.  Short 
as  had  been  his  sojourn  in  India, 
Lord  Mayo  had  yet  found  time  to 
dovote  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
relations  existing  between  the  para- 
mount power  and  the  dependent 
feudatories.  It  can  be  readily  be- 
lieved that  the  study  of  this  subject 
must  have  awakened  no  little  sur- 
prise at  the  state  of  disaffection 
which  had  been  produced  on  the 
minds  of  the  ill  disposed  amongst 
those  feudatories  by  the  bugbear  of 
Eussian  invasion.  He  found  that, 
in  some  cases,  these  men  had  actu- 
ally persuaded  themselves  to  believe 
that  we  were  afraid  of  the  Afghans 
a^  a  nation,  that  we  dreaded  lest 
they  should  be  induced  to  act  as  the 
advanced  guard  of  a  Russian  in- 
vider.  The  arrival  on  our  frontier 
o  f  the  Amir  of  Caubul — his  progress 
through  our  northern  provinces  as 
a  guest,  suppliant  for  our  friend- 
ship and  support,  to  meet  the  Vice- 
roy on  his  way  to  the  summer  head- 
quarters of  his  Government — must 
inevitably  tend,  it  seemed  to  Lord 
Mayo,  to  convince  those  chieftains 
o  f  the  absurdity  of  the  ideas  they 
tad  been  led  to  entertain.  A 
similar  effect,  resulting  from  the 
choice  of  Umballa  as  the  place  of 
meeting,  would  likewise  be  pro- 
duced on  those  wild  border  tribes, 
v  ho,  ever  since  the  annexation  of 
the  Punjaub,  had,  with  a  few  inter- 
vals of  cessation,  acted  the  part  of 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCUU 


robbers  and  plunderers,  keeping  our 
troops  incessantly  on  the  move. 
These  borderers  had  heretofore  re- 
garded the  ruler  of  Caubul  as  the 
Hetman  of  all  their  tribes,  of  whose 
connivance  at,  or  at  least  sympathy 
with,  their  raids  they  might  ever 
feel  secure.  To  see  that  same  ruler 
proceed  voluntarily  to  a  station  in 
the  heart  of  the  British  territories, 
to  solicit  the  protection  of  the 
Viceroy  of  India,  would  certainly 
awaken  in  their  minds  sensations 
as  novel  as  they  would  be  striking. 

For  these  reasons  Umballa  was 
chosen.  Before  adverting  to  the 
events  which  made  the  meeting  at 
that  station  so  memorable,  we  may 
state  that  the  result,  with  respect 
to  each  and  all  of  the  reasons  we 
have  assigned,  fully  justified  Lord 
Mayo's  prescience.  The  Amir  was 
impressed  by  the  observations 
made  by  him  in  his  journey 
through  the  Punjaub,  to  an  extent 
which  no  one  was  prepared  for, 
and  which  has  subsequently  made 
itself  felt  all  over  Afghanistan ; 
the  disaffected  tributaries  under 
our  own  sway  were  beyond  mea- 
sure amazed  and  disturbed  at  the 
power  shown  by  the  British  Gov- 
ernment to  bring  the  ruler  of 
Caubul  so  far  from  his  own  fron- 
tier ;  whilst  upon  the  border  tribes, 
with  whom  incursions  into  their 
neighbours'  lands  had  so  long  been 
a  law  of  their  existence,  the  effect 
was  reported  to  have  been  wonder- 
fully soothing. 

It  is  clear,  then,  that  in  its  pre- 
liminary action  Lord  Mayo's  policy 
was  based  upon  solid  foundations. 
He  wished  to  show  to  Central  Asia 
and  the  world,  the  still  latent  power 
of  the  British  in  the  East.  He  de- 
termined, therefore,  not  to  go  out 
of  his  own  way;  not  to  give  the 
smallest  colour  to  the  million  ru- 
mours afloat,  current  in  every  ba- 
zaar in  India,  that  the  Government 
was  afraid  of  the  advance  of  Russia, 
and  wished  on  that  account  to  seek 
the  favour  of,  and  to  subsidise,  the 
Amir  of  Caubul.  He  was  anxious 
that  a  clear  and  a  satisfactory  proof 


66 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


should  be  given  to  the  world,  that 
the  request  for  a  meeting  came  from 
the  Amir,  and  that  he,  the  Viceroy, 
granted  that  interview  solely  as  a 
favour  to  that  prince.  To  place 
the  terms  upon  which  his  guest 
was  to  be  received  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  Lord  Mayo 
issued  instructions  that  the  hon- 
ours of  an  independent  sovereign 
should  be  accorded  to  him.  Whilst 
thus  the  Amir  would  be  deprived 
of  the  excuse  of  pressing  demands 
upon  our  Government  as  a  tribut- 
ary of  the  British,  he  and  his  chief- 
tains would  be  alike  convinced  that 
it  was  one  unalterable  principle  of 
British  policy  to  see  Afghanistan 
free  and  independent,  saved  from 
the  horrors  of  further  civil  war,  and 
enabled  by  the  advice,  support, 
and  countenance  of  the  British,  to 
form  a  strong,  just,  and  efficient 
government. 

In  accordance  with  the  views  we 
have  endeavoured  to  trace  out,  the 
Amir  was  informed  that  the  Viceroy 
would  arrive  at  Umballa  en  route  to 
Simla  on  the  27th  March,  and  that 
it  would  afford  his  Excellency  very 
great  pleasure  to  avail  himself  of 
that  opportunity  of  meeting  the 
Amir  to  discuss  with  him  the  mea- 
sures best  adapted  to  cement 
friendly  feelings  between  the  two 
countries ;  that  from  the  date  of 
his  reaching  British  territory  to 
that  of  his  return  to  the  frontier, 
the  Amir  would  be  the  guest  of  the 
British ;  and  that  throughout  his 
journey  all  honours  would  be  paid 
him  by  the  chief  civil  officers  of  the 
districts  and  provinces  through 
which  he  would  pass. 

Eagerly  seizing  the  opportunity 
for  which  he  had  been  longing  ever 
since  the  death  of  his  father  had 
made  him  legitimate  ruler  of  Af- 
ghanistan, the  Amir  left  Caubul 
on  the  16th  February  1869,  arid 
reached  Pesbawur  on  the  3d 
March.  Here  he  was  received  by 
a  salute  of  twenty-one  guns,  and 
was  escorted  into  the  station  by 
the  principal  civil  and  military 
authorities.  Lieutenant- Colonel  C. 


Chamberlain  and  Dr  Bellew  were 
attached  to  his  Highness,  and  ar- 
rangements were  made  for  furnish- 
ing him  and  his  suite  liberally  with 
supplies. 

Travelling  via  Rawul  Pindee, 
the  Amir  reached  Lahore  on  the 
14th  March.  Here  he  was  enter- 
tained and  received  in  public  dur- 
bar by  the  Lieutenant -Governor. 
Advantage  was  also  taken  of  the 
opportunity  to  show  him  the  troops, 
the  guns,  the  railway,  and  the  tele- 
graphs ;  whilst  he  literally  tired 
out  many  of  those  who  were  pre- 
sented to  him  by  the  pertinent 
questions  he  put  to  them  regarding 
the  civil  administration.  He  left 
Lahore  on  the  20th,  and  travelled 
via  Jullender  and  Loodhiaria — the 
greater  part  of  the  way  by  rail — 
to  Umballa,  where  he  arrived  on 
the  evening  of  the  24th. 

The  meeting  at  Umballa  between 
the  Viceroy  and  the  Amir  was  char- 
acterised by  two  phases,  the  cere- 
monial and  the  political.  Utterly 
distinct  as  these  were  in  themselves, 
there  existed,  nevertheless,  a  link 
between  them.  In  all  Asiatic  pro- 
ceedings "  the  sauce  to  meat  is 
ceremony."  Upon  conformity  to 
the  strict  etiquette  of  a  ceremonial 
depends  often  the  success  or  failure 
of  a  negotiation.  The  value  of  the 
presents,  the  number  of  paces  the 
host  may  advance  to  receive  his 
guest,  the  language  of  the  first 
formal  conversation,  affect,  to  a  far 
greater  extent  than  is  the  case  in 
Europe,  the  success  of  the  political 
discussions.  Hence  it  is  that  cere- 
monial occupies  so  large  a  space  in 
the  interviews  between  great  per- 
sonages in  India ;  hence,  too,  the 
necessity  which  devolves  upon  us 
of  giving  a  detailed  though  brief 
account  of  the  main  incidents  of 
the  outer  phase  of  the  negotiations 
between  Lord  Mayo  and  the  Amir 
of  Caubul. 

It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  affirm 
that  as  a  mere  spectacle,  as  a  cere- 
monious display,  the  Durbar  held 
at  Umballa  was  inferior  to  none  of 
its  predecessors.  It  is  difficult  for 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


67 


an  English  reader  to  realise  the 
picturesque  effect  produced  by  the 
multitude  of  tents  pitched  in  regu- 
lar order  on  that  unbroken  plain, 
the  blue  ranges  of  the  Himalayas 
rising  to  a  visible  height  of  some 
seven  thousand  feet  in  the  back- 
ground. In  addition  to  the  large 
reception-tents,  those  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of 
Mayo  and  their  suite,  for  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Viceroy's  Council,  for 
the  Lieutenant-Governors  of  the 
Punjaub  and  the  North-west  Pro- 
vinces, for  the  Commander  -  in  - 
Chief,  for  distinguished  visitors, 
and  for  other  high  functionaries, 
there  were  the  regimental  camps 
for  nearly  six  thousand  men,  of 
whom  three-fifths  were  Europeans. 
The  plain  itself,  unbroken  and 
of  vast  extent,  is  perhaps  better 
adapted  for  the  accommodation  of 
a  multitude  than  any  other  in  the 
North-west  Provinces.  Even  after 
all  the  tents  have  been  pitched, 
there  is  space  for  the  manoeuvring 
of  troops  practically  illimitable  ; 
whilst,  by  reason  of  the  flatness  of 
the  surface,  the  ground  is  admir- 
ably adapted  for  those  movements 
of  cavalry  and  artillery  which  add 
so  much  to  the  successful  display 
of  a  field-day.  We  have  alluded  to 
the  effect  produced  by  the  Hima- 
layan scenery  in  the  background. 
This  would  strike  the  most  casual 
observer.  But  to  appreciate  it  to 
its  fullest  extent,  the  spectator 
mast  have  been  accustomed  to  the 
long  succession  of  level  land  char- 
acterising the  plains  of  Hindostan, 
unbroken  save  here  and  there  by 
mad-built  villages,  belts  of  trees, 
arid  patches  of  uncultivated  jungle. 
From  those  glorious  heights  seemed 
to  blow  the  revivifying  breezes 
waich  made  the  temperature,  albeit 
at  the  end  of  March,  refreshing  and 
peasant.  The  sight  of  them  sug- 
gested likewise  other  thoughts.  It 
was  not  unknown  to  the  Amir  that 
those  lofty  ranges  sheltered  large 
b(  dies  of  our  European  soldiers 
during  the  months  when  the  intense 
heat  of  the  plains  was  more  or  less 


fatal  to  the  constitutions  of  the 
northern  race  ;  nor  that  from  those 
very  heights  our  troops  had  sallied 
forth  on  three  memorable  occasions 
to  encounter  and  to  vanquish  the 
enemies  of  British  supremacy  in 
India — in  1845,  to  beat  back  the 
invasion  of  the  Sikhs— in  1848.  to 
complete  the  subjugation  of  that 
nation — and  in  1857,  to  suppress 
the  rebellion  of  the  native  soldiery 
we  had  pampered.  He  could  not 
be  unaware  that  thence,  on  provo- 
cation by  whomsoever  given,  they 
would  be  ever  ready  to  march 
again. 

At  five  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
the  24th  March  the  train  convey- 
ing the  Amir  reached  Umballa. 
The  photographic  likenesses  taken 
of  Shir  Ali  have  not  probably  been 
so  extensively  circulated  in  England 
as  to  render  a  description  of  his 
appearance  unnecessary.  He  is  a 
man  of  about  five  feet  eight  inches 
in  height,  broad  shouldered,  wide 
chested,  and  strong  limbed  to  an 
extraordinary  degree.  His  face  has 
the  Jewish  expression  common  to 
the  Afghan  race,  though  by  no 
means  to  such  an  extent  as  to  pre- 
vent him  being  considered  decid- 
edly handsome.  His  eyes  are  dark, 
piercing,  and  cruel.  The  expres- 
sion betokens  great  composure,  a 
consciousness  of  strengh,  and  a 
most  determined  resolution.  He 
gives  the  spectator  the  idea  of  a 
man  who  would  rather  die  than 
surrender  his  rights,  who  would 
stop  short  at  nothing  to  assert 
them.  And  this  undoubtedly  is 
the  case.  Yet,  strange  contradic- 
tion !  this  is  the  man  whom  the 
death  of  his  eldest  son  threw  into 
a  despair  bordering  upon  madness 
— a  despair  such  as  rendered  him 
even  indifferent  to  the  assertion  of 
his  right  of  sovereignty  !  He  wore 
a  Persian  sheepskin  hat,  a  brown 
over-all  coat,  and  a  pair  of  gold- 
striped  trousers  of  English  pat- 
tern. His  manners  were  easy  and 
collected.  He  was  accompanied 
by  his  youngest  son,  Abdoolla 
Khan,  a  bright-looking  boy  of  eight 


68 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


years,  and  by  several  of  his  most 
devoted  councillors,  members  of 
his  own  personal  party.  From  all 
these  the  Amir  was  easily  distin- 
guishable by  his  regal  bearing. 

The  Amir  was  received  at  the 
station  by  the  Commander- in- Chief 
of  the  army  in  India,  and  was  con- 
ducted by  that  high  functionary  to 
a  house  which  had  been  selected 
as  his  residence  whilst  at  Umballa. 
On  the  following  morning  a  grand 
parade  was  held  in  his  honour. 
The  Amir  drove  to  the  parade- 
ground  in  a  carriage-and-four,  ac- 
companied by  Colonel  Chamberlain 
and  the  Commissioner  of  Pesha- 
wur,  and  took  up  his  post  at  the 
saluting  -  flag  by  the  side  of  the 
Commander-in-Chief.  Thence  he 
watched  the  troops  as  they  passed 
round  in  review.  He  was  greatly 
struck  by  their  appearance,  espe- 
cially by  the  horse-artillery,  the 
composition  of  which  appeared  to 
him  perfect.  One  troop,  especially, 
horsed  entirely  by  chestnuts,  called 
forth  his  commendation.  He  eyed 
them  with  the  keen  glance  of  a 
tried  soldier,  and  it  was  impossible 
to  doubt  that  the  admiration  he 
freely  expressed  came  really  from 
his  heart.  But  what  perhaps  called 
forth  his  most  genuine  admiration 
was  the  fact  that  all  the  orders, 
issuing  from  one  man,  supreme  on 
the  ground,  were  instantly  obeyed 
by  the  troops ;  that,  in  a  word,  the 
instantaneous  movement  of  all 
arms  gave  a  ready  testimony  to  the 
absolute  will  of  the  commander. 
This  impressed  him  the  more,  be- 
cause in  his  own  country  the  feudal 
system  of  military  service  still  pre- 
vailed. The  Amir  was  there  the 
admitted  chief  of  a  number  of 
khans  or  lords,  each  bound  to  bring 
into  the  field  a  certain  number  of 
followers.  Those  followers,  how- 
ever, were  the  followers  of  the 
khans,  not  of  the  Amir.  They 
would  take  orders  only  from  their 
feudal  chief,  the  head  of  their  clan. 
Hence  the  impossibility  of  rapid 
and  combined  movements  in  an 
Afghan  army.  When,  therefore, 


the  Amir  beheld  the  English  force 
moving  as  though  every  soldier  of 
it  were  animated  by  the  same  idea, 
and  that  one  and  all  combined  to 
carry  out  the  movement  indicated 
by  the  commander  on  the  ground, 
he  could  not  conceal  his  admiration, 
exclaiming,  "  We  have  much  to 
learn  and  to  unlearn  in  Caubul 
before  we  can  accomplish  anything 
like  that."  Judging  from  some  of 
the  earlier  measures  taken  by  him 
after  his  return  to  his  capital,  we 
may  safely  affirm  that  he  at  that 
moment  inwardly  registered  a  vow 
to  reform  his  own  army  on  the 
model  of  that  then  exercising  be- 
fore him. 

Meanwhile  Lord  Mayo  had  left 
Calcutta  by  special  train.  Accom- 
plishing the  journey  of  nearly  twelve 
hundred  miles  in  forty-three  hours, 
he  reached  Umballa,  accompanied 
by  the  Countess  of  Mayo,  and  at- 
tended by  his  staff,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  27th  March.  The 
grandest  preparations  had  been 
made  for  his  reception.  The  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  of  the  Punjaub, 
the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
army,  the  members  of  Council,  and 
other  high  officers  of  State,  attended 
on  the  platform  as  he  alighted  from 
the  railway  carriage.  From  the 
station  to  the  Viceregal  camp  the 
road  was  lined  with  troops,  com- 
posed partly  of  British  regiments, 
partly  of  native  corps,  partly  of  the 
contingents  of  our  native  feuda- 
tories in  their  picturesque  and 
gaudy  costumes.  Mounting  his 
horse,  and  followed  by  a  brilliant 
staff,  the  Viceroy  passed  through  a 
lane  composed  of  the  magnificent 
Highlanders,  the  stalwart  Sikhs, 
the  hardy  Goorkhas  of  our  own 
army,  to  encounter  the  swarthy 
troopers  of  Puttiala  and  Jheend, 
all  intent  on  doing  him  honour. 
The  weather  was  glorious  ;  the  sky 
clear  ;  the  atmosphere,  refreshed  by 
recent  rain,  even  exhilarating.  The 
arrangements  were  perfect.  Not  a 
single  contretemps  occurred  to  mar 
the  dispositions  of  those  to  whom 
they  had  been  intrusted.  Slowly 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


69 


the  procession  wended  its  way,  its 
advance  heralded  by  the  firing  of 
salute^,  until  the  Viceregal  tents 
were  reached.  Lord  Mayo  then 
alighted  to  prepare  for  the  cere- 
monial which  was  to  follow  in  the 
afternoon. 

At  five  o'clock  the  Durbar  was 
held.  The  highest  functionaries 
under  the  Viceroy  were  deputed  to 
meet  the  Amir  as  he  alighted  from 
his  carriage,  and  to  conduct  him, 
under  a  royal  salute,  to  the  door  of 
the  tent.  Shir  Ali  was  accompa- 
nied by  his  little  son,  and  attend- 
ed by  his  principal  chiefs.  As  he 
approached,  Lord  Mayo  advanced 
a  few  steps  from  the  entrance  of 
the  tent,  where  he  had  been  stand- 
ing, shook  him  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  led  him  to  the  dais. 
On  reaching  the  thrones  placed  for 
the  two  great  personages,  Lord 
Mayo  turned  to  Shir  Ali,  bade  him, 
in  the  name  of  the  Queen,  a  hearty 
welcome,  and  expressed  the  grati- 
fication he  felt  at  being  able  to 
receive  him  as  the  guest  of  her 
Majesty.  He  trusted,  he  added, 
that  the  visit  might  be  the  com- 
mencement of  many  years  of  am- 
ity between  her  Majesty  and  his 
Highness,  and  of  mutual  confidence 
and  goodwill  between  the  two  na- 
tions. The  Amir  having  made  a 
suitable  reply,  they  sat  down,  and 
the  offering  of  the  presents  took 
place.  Of  these  there  were  fifty- 
one  trays  for  the  Amir  himself, 
twenty-one  for  his  little  son,  and 
twenty-one  for  each  of  his  three 
principal  councillors.  The  pre- 
sents for  the  Amir  consisted  of 
guns,  rifles,  shields,  clocks,  watches, 
gold  snuff-boxes,  gold  and  silver 
caps,  flagons,  and  salvers.  That 
the  Amir  highly  appreciated  them, 
especially  the  rifles,  was  evident 
from  his  heightened  colour,  and 
the  increased  sparkle  of  his  eye,  as 
he  gazed  at  them.  The  dignified 
and  courteous  manner  of  Lord  Mayo 
had  set  the  Amir  entirely  at  his 
ease  ;  and  as  he  glanced  round  the 
magnificent  tent  at  the  soldiers  and 
statesmen  assembled  to  do  him 


honour,  he  could  not  help  showing 
the  triumph  he  undoubtedly  felt 
at  the  realisation  of  the  great  wish 
of  his  heart,  since  his  accession 
five  years  previously  to  the  throne 
— his  cordial  recognition  by  the 
British. 

Meanwhile,  by  means  of  an  in- 
terpreter, a  conversation  of  a  for- 
mal nature  was  carried  on  between 
the  Viceroy  and  the  Amir.  On  its 
conclusion,  Lord  Mayo  rose,  and 
taking  in  his  hand  a  jewel-hilted 
sword  of  great  value  which  lay 
beside  him,  presented  it  grace- 
fully to  the  Amir,  accompany- 
ing the  present  by  the  expression 
of  a  hope  that  whenever  employed 
against  the  enemies  of  his  coun- 
try, the  sword  might  be  useful 
to  him.  The  immediate  and  im- 
promptu reply  of  Shir  Ali  was  con- 
ceived in  the  same  cordial  spirit, 
and  conveyed  in  terms  not  less 
suited  to  the  occasion.  "  I  hope, 
indeed,"  he  replied,  "  to  wield  this 
sword  with  effect,  not  only  against 
my  own  enemies,  but  against  the 
enemies  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment." With  a  few  more  cere- 
monies, the  business  of  the  Durbar 
came  to  a  conclusion.  The  Amir 
and  his  followers  were  reconducted 
to  their  carriages  with  the  same 
etiquette  which  had  characterised 
their  arrival,  and  the  great  meet- 
ing was  over. 

The  Amir  could  not  conceal  his 
gratification  at  his  reception.  Pleas- 
ed as  he  undoubtedly  was  with  the 
presents,  he  had  been  still  more 
delighted  with  the  manner  of  the 
Viceroy.  It  had  been  so  exactly 
what  it  should  be,  that  this  rude 
chieftain,  whose  life  had  been  spent 
mainly  in  the  stormy  conflict  of  real 
war,  or  in  weaving  plans  of  violence 
and  intrigue,  was  completely  won  by 
it — it  had  penetrated  to  his  very 
heart.  On  his  way  home  he  could 
talk  of  little  else.  Even  after  his 
return  to  his  own  house,  when, 
having  disrobed  himself  of  his 
state  garments,  he  sat  down  to  in- 
dulge in  his  customary  beverage  of 
green  tea,  and  to  discuss,  as  was 


70 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


his  wont  at  such  a  time,  the  affairs 
of  the  day  with  his  officers,  he  could 
not  avoid  reverting  to  this  subject, 
repeating  over  and  over  again  how 
much  he  liked  Lord  Mayo,  and 
adding,  "  He  is  such  a  nice  fellow, 
and  then  he  is  so  big."  Not  less 
significant  was  the  remark  he  made 
about  Lord  Mayo's  little  son,  a  boy 
six  years  old.  "  He  has  eyes,"  he 
said,  "  out  of  which  the  man  shines  ; 
he  comes  of  a  family  of  men." 

On  the  Monday  morning  follow- 
ing, Lord  Mayo  returned  the  visit 
of  the  Amir.  The  Viceroy,  on 
alighting,  was  received  by  the  Amir, 
who  had  advanced  beyond  the  en- 
trance of  his  tent  to  meet  him,  and 
conducted  to  the  dais.  The  con- 
versation commenced  as  soon  as  the 
great  personages  were  seated.  The 
Amir  praised  our  army,  stating 
that  he  could  never  see  enough  of 
our  troops.  The  Viceroy  assured 
his  Highness,  in  reply,  of  the  plea- 
sure it  would  give  her  Majesty  to 
hear  so  favourable  an  opinion  of 
her  soldiers  from  so  tried  and  so 
successful  a  warrior.  The  usual 
wishes  for  perpetual  alliance  be- 
tween the  two  countries  were  like- 
wise freely  expressed.  But  this 
conversation,  like  that  of  the  pre- 
ceding Saturday,  was  purely  formal. 
On  its  conclusion,  the  Amir,  un- 
buckling his  own  sword,  an  heir- 
loom in  his  family  regularly  trans- 
mitted to  the  representative  of  the 
Barukzze  family,  presented  it  with 
a  few  complimentary  words  to  Lord 
Mayo,  and  reconducted  him  to  his 
carriage.  The  formal  part  of  the 
ceremonial  had  thus  on  both  sides 
been  performed. 

We  do  not  propose  to  enter  into 
a  minute  or  detailed  account  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  Amir  occu- 
pied the  lighter  hours  of  his  stay  at 
Umballa.  It  will  suffice  if  we  state 
that  he  attended  races,  where  he 
selected  as  his  favourite  the  horse 
which  actually  proved  the  winner 
of  the  race  of  the  day;  he  came  to 
see  a  steeplechase,  at  which,  con- 
trary to  his  expressed  opinion,  and 
greatly  to  his  surprise,  all  the  horses 


but  one  succeeded  in  taking  all  the 
jumps.  At  an  evening  party — the 
first  he  had  ever  visited,  and  all 
the  details  of  which  were  new  to 
him — he  displayed  the  refined  cour- 
tesy of  an  English  gentleman,  lis- 
tening with  great  good -humour 
and  apparent  interest  to  an  Italian 
air  and  a  Border  lay,  an'd  entering 
into  conversation  with  all  who  were 
presented  to  him.  But  he  was  most 
gratified  with  the  reviews,  which 
came  off  in  regular  succession.  To 
one  of  these,  intended  to  represent 
a  sham  fight,  he  came  mounted  on 
an  elephant.  Wherever  the  thick 
of  the  battle  appeared,  there  was  his 
elephant  to  be  seen.  He  thought 
it  glorious,  magnificent,  second  only 
to  the  real  thing.  On  another  occa- 
sion he  came  to  inspect  the  artillery 
practice,  at  the  result  of  which,  at 
a  distance  of  sixteen  hundred  yards, 
he  could  not  conceal  his  surprise 
and  admiration.  "  Splendid !  splen- 
did! "  was  the  exclamation  that  con- 
stantly issued  from  his  lips.  On 
the  conclusion  of  the  practice  he 
expressed  his  admiration  to  the 
officer  commanding  the  troop.  Ob- 
serving his  arm  in  a  sling,  he  in- 
quired how  the  accident  had  hap- 
pened. When  informed  it  was  from 
a  fall  whilst  hog-hunting,  he  was 
greatly  surprised.  "  How  is  it  pos- 
sible," he  exclaimed,  "  that  such  a 
man  should  take  pleasure  in  slaying 
the  unclean  animal  ]  Surely  he  has 
amusement  enough  in  these  guns  ! " 
He  likewise  inspected,  and  greatly 
admired,  the  mountain  battery  of 
guns  on  the  old  pattern,  which  had 
been  presented  to  him.  On  the  3d 
April  he  departed  on  his  return-trip 
to  Caubul,  immensely  gratified  by 
the  reception  accorded  to  him, 
deeply  impressed  by  much  that  he 
had  witnessed — firmly  resolved,  to 
use  his  own  expression,  to  make  his 
chieftains  unlearn  much  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  practising,  in  order 
that  they  might  learn  instead  the 
lessons  which  his  Umballa  experi- 
ences had  pointed  out  to  him  as  in- 
dispensably necessary  for  the  stabil- 
ity of  his  rule. 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


71 


But  whilst  affairs  on  the  surface 
•were  thus  happily  managed,  ques- 
tions of  great  importance  were  be- 
ing discussed  by  the  two  principals 
in  private.  To  understand,  so  far 
as  their  true  history  has  been  ascer- 
tained, the  nature  of  these  ques- 
tions, we  propose  to  revert  to  the 
moment  when  the  first  opportunity 
was  afforded  to  the  Amir  of  dis- 
closing his  secret  wishes  to  the  re- 
presentatives of  the  British  power. 

We  say,  so  far  as  their  true  his- 
tory has  been  ascertained;  for  up 
to  the  present  moment  neither  Lord 
Mayo  nor  the  Secretary  of  State 
has  thought  proper  to  publish  the 
details  of  the  secret  conferences. 
But  the  want  of  reticence  displayed 
by  the  Amir  himself,  alike  at  Um- 
balla and  on  his  return-journey  to 
Peshawur,  has  k>ng  since  deprived 
those  details  of  the  secret  character 
they  were  supposed  to  bear.  And 
although  their  true  history  has  been 
but  partially  revealed  to  the  Indian 
press,  there  can  be  no  indiscretion 
now  in  withdrawing  the  veil  which 
has  concealed  the  more  important 
of  them  from  the  British  public. 

It  would  appear  that  the  Amir 
left  Caubul  full  of  hope  as  to  the 
aid  he  might  receive  from  the  Brit- 
ish Government.  The  reception 
he  met  with  at  Peshawur  and  La- 
hore, considered  by  him  to  be  in  a 
great  degree  due  to  the  prestige  of 
Ids  victories,  so  worked  upon  his 
naturally  grasping  character,  that, 
before  he  reached  Umballa,  the 
hopes  he  had  entertained  at  Cau- 
liul  had  swollen  to  certainties,  and 
lie  had  prepared  himself  to  prefer 
demands  of  a  most  extraordinary 
nature. 

Such  demands,  there  can  be  no 
manner  of  doubt,  he  did  actually 
]>ut  forward.  But  it  was  evident, 
in  fact  he  scarcely  attempted  to 
conceal  from  those  with  whom  he 
afterwards  conversed,  that  the  pre- 
ferment of  them  was  intermingled 
Avlth  a  suspicion  as  to  our  real  in- 
tentions. Such  a  suspicion  had 
been  infused  into  his  mind  by  the 
refusal  of  the  Anglo-Indian  Gov- 


ernment to  aid  him  even  by  sym- 
pathy during  his  contest  with  his 
brothers  ;  and  it  had  been  more 
recently  pressed  upon  him  by  the 
party  in  Caubul  by  which  his  jour- 
ney to  Umballa  had  been  opposed. 
Nor,  in  spite  of  the  reception  ac- 
corded to  him,  could  he  refrain 
from  giving  utterance  to  the  idea 
which  rankled  in  his  mind,  that  the 
Anglo-Indian  policy  of  recognising 
only  the  de  facto  ruler,  even  of  a 
portion  of  his  country,  during  the 
great  struggle  for  power,  had  been 
deliberately  framed  for  the  purpose 
of  weakening  Afghanistan,  by  en- 
couraging the  claims  of  rival  pre- 
tenders, and  thereby  prolonging 
anarchy  and  civil  war.  It  was  with 
him  evidently  a  firm  conviction, 
that  if  the  British  Government  had 
given  him  their  strong  moral  sup- 
port, had  presented  him  with  the 
few  muskets  he  asked  for,  when, 
after  his  father's  death,  he  ascended 
the  throne ;  if,  subsequently,  that 
same  Government  had  abstained 
from  recognising  the  right  of  his 
brothers  to  make  war  upon  him ;  if 
it  had  extended  to  him  then  the 
support  it  offered  him  at  the  close 
of  1868,  then  never  would  there 
have  been  civil  war  in  his  country, 
never  would  the  opportunity  have 
been  afforded  to  our  Government  of 
recognising  his  rivals  as  rulers.  He 
repeatedly  expressed  his  conviction 
that  it  was  the  hasty  and  inoppor- 
tune recognition  of  those  rivals, 
the  announcement  to  Afghanistan 
and  the  world  that  the  British 
Government  would  recognise  only 
the  de  facto  ruler,  whoever  he 
might  be,  which  had  kept  the 
country  in  civil  war,  and  raised  the 
hopes  of  every  disaffected  chieftain 
throughout  the  land. 

These  thoughts  Shir  Ali  could 
not  conceal.  They  constituted  in 
his  mind  a  festering  grievance, 
which,  even  in  the  midst  of  all  his 
honours,  would  sometimes  instil 
doubts  as  to  our  sincerity.  It  is 
important  to  remember  this.  Whe- 
ther his  opinions  were  well  founded 
or  baseless,  true  or  false,  is  scarcely 


72 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


[Jan. 


the  question.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  they  represented  the  impres- 
sions which  the  past  policy  of  the 
Anglo-Indian  Government  had  pro- 
duced on  the  most  liberal  minds 
among  the  Afghan  people.  Viewed 
in  this  aspect,  they  were  naturally 
calculated  to  produce  a  deep  im- 
pression on  all  who  listened  to 
them.  Shir  Ali  made  no  secret  of 
his  dissatisfaction  with  our  past 
policy ;  and  it  was  probably  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  dissatisfied 
which  gave  a  colour  to  the  exag- 
gerated reports,  prevalent  at  the 
time,  as  to  the  concessions  and 
subsidies  which  had  been  assigned 
to  him. 

Under  the  difficult  circumstances 
thus  presented  for  its  considera- 
tion, the  conduct  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  Lord  Mayo  was  distin- 
guished by.  great  tact.  Unswerv- 
ingly loyal  to  the  policy  of  his 
predecessor,  jealous  to  refrain  from 
binding  his  Government  to  any 
engagement  for  the  future,  Lord 
Mayo  yet  succeeded  in  dissipat- 
ing all  the  suspicions  of  the 
Amir,  in  satisfying  him  alike  as 
to  our  disinterestedness  and  as  to 
our  latent  power.  In  such  a  work 
Lord  Mayo's  best  ally  was  himself. 
Against  his  friendly  manifestations 
the  dark  spirit  which  had  accom- 
panied the  Amir  to  Umballa  strug- 
gled in  vain.  t  He  became,  after  a 
few  interviews*,  perfectly  satisfied 
as  to  the  loyal  intentions  of  our 
Government.  That  satisfaction 
once  established,  the  overgrown 
superstructure  of  exaggerated  de- 
mands fell  at  once  to  the  ground. 
He  was  glad  then  to  take  what 
Sir  John  Lawrence  would  have 
given  in  1868,  what  Lord  Mayo 
was  ready  to  give  in  1869.  He 
left  Umballa,  then,  perfectly  easy 
in  his  own  mind ;  he  left  it, 
what  perhaps  even  his  father  had 
never  been,  a  trusting  ally  of  the 
British.  And  it  is  certain  that 
Lord  Mayo  effected  this  desirable 
object  without  for  one  moment  re- 
laxing his  determination  to  yield 
no  demands  which  might  compro- 


mise the  policy  upon  which  he  and 
his  Council  had  resolved. 

The  Amir  had  never  concealed 
his  desire  to  obtain  from  Lord 
Mayo  such  concessions  as  an 
offensive  and  defensive  treaty,  an 
annual  subsidy,  a  promise  of  active 
interference  on  our  part  against 
his  enemies.  But  the  utmost  he 
did  obtain  from  Lord  Mayo  was  a 
full  assurance  of  cordial  recognition 
on  the  part  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, and  of  its  support  in  his  en- 
deavour to  establish  a  strong,  just, 
and  merciful  government  in  Af- 
ghanistan, as  well  as  of  a  complete 
discountenancing  of  any  efforts  on 
the  part  of  his  rivals  to  plunge  the 
country  again  into  civil  war.  Yet 
so  great  had  been  the  personal  in- 
fluence upon  his  mind  of  Lord 
Mayo,  so  vivid  the  impressions  pro- 
duced by  all  he  had  seen  of  British 
India,  that  the  Amir  gratefully  ac- 
cepted the  alternative  offered  by 
the  British  Government  in  lieu  of 
his  own  impossible  demands. 

The  policy,  then,  adopted  by  the 
British  Government  at  the  confer- 
ences, and  which,  as  distinguished 
from  that  which  preceded  it,  may 
properly  be  termed  the  Umballa 
policy,  was  still,  like  that  other,  a 
policy  of  non-intervention.  There 
was,  nevertheless,  between  the  two, 
a  striking  and  material  difference. 
The  ante-Umballa  policy,  being  a 
policy  of  absolute  abstention,  of 
recognising  the  ruler  of  the  hour, 
tended  to  prolong  civil  war  in 
Afghanistan,  and  therefore  to  the 
weakness  and  political  nullity  of 
that  country ;  it  rendered  real 
friendship  between  British  India 
and  Afghanistan  impossible.  The 
Umballa  policy,  on  the  other  hand, 
equally  an  abstention  policy,  yet 
held  out  the  right  hand  of  friend- 
ship to  the  lawful  ruler  of  Af- 
ghanistan, gained  his  confidence, 
satisfied  him  of  our  power,  of 
our  disinterestedness,  of  our  wish 
for  the  formation  under  his  aus- 
pices of  a  powerful  kingdom  on 
our  frontier.  Nay,  more  ;  it  gave 
him  the  opportunity,  by  which  he 


1870.] 


Lord  Mayo  and  the  Umballa  Durbar. 


73 


has  since  endeavoured  to  profit,  of 
acquiring  practical  experience  as  to 
the  means  by  which  his  kingdom 
might  be  purged  from  some  of  the 
worst  vices  of  feudalism,  heretofore 
its  bane,  and  the  foundations  of  a 
uniform  system  be  established  in 
all  its  provinces. 

Though  but  few  months  have 
elapsed  since  the  promulgation  of 
the  Umballa  policy,  it  has  yet  been 
rich  in  results.  In  Afghanistan 
itself,  the  disturbances  which  had 
continued  with  scarcely  any  inter- 
mission for  five  years  have  ceased 
as  if  by  magic.  During  those  five 
years,  the  weakness  of  Afghanistan, 
caused  by  her  internal  feuds,  had 
tended  to  encourage  the  advance  of 
Russia  on  the  north,  the  aggres- 
sions of  Persia  on  the  west.  Since 
the  proclamation  of  the  Umballa 
policy,  the  increased  strength  of 
Al'ghanistan  as  an  independent 
power  may  be  inferred  alike  by 
the  angry  articles  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  Russian  journals, 
and  by  the  preparations  made 
by  Persia  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Seistan.  Prior  to  its  enunciation, 
British  India  had  a  weak  and  sus- 
picious power  on  her  frontier,  ready 
at  any  moment  to  become  an  enemy. 
By  its  enunciation  that  weak  and 
suspicious  power  has  been  changed 
into  a  friend,  bound  to  her  by  the 
most  powerful  of  all  ties,  the  tie  of 
self-interest. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Um- 
balla policy  may,  in  the  interests  of 
British  India,  be  maintained  and 
extended.  There  can  be  no  greater 
guarantee  of  peace  in  India  than 
the  cultivation  with  our  neighbours 
of  friendly  and  even  cordial  rela- 
tions, the  fostering  of  the  endeavour 
to  promote  among  them  the  bless- 
ings of  good  government,  that  by 
degrees  they  may  come  to  regard 
the  arts  of  peace  and  the  specula- 
tions of  commerce  as  more  than 
compensating  for  the  gain  of  bat- 
tles however  glorious,  and  for  terri- 
torial acquisitions  however  proudly 
gained.  The  time  may  be  long  be- 
fore such  a  feeling  may  be  firmly 


rooted  in  the  hearts  of  a  people 
like  the  Afghans ;  but  it  may  be 
safely  asserted  that  the  Umballa 
policy  of  Lord  Mayo  has  at  least 
sown  the  seed. 

Even  at  the  time  we  write,  a 
silent  revolution  is  progressing  in 
Afghanistan.  The  feudal  system 
of  service  has  been  abolished,  and 
a  system  of  regular  payment  to  the 
troops  substituted  for  it.  A  regu- 
lar revenue  administration  has  been 
organised.  The  servants  of  the  Go- 
vernment have  been  made  salaried 
officers  of  State,  instead  of  being, 
as  they  were  before,  quasi-inde- 
pendent officials.  The  power  of  the 
great  nobles  has  been  curbed,  and 
the  independence  of  provincial  gov- 
ernors restricted.  It  has  been  the 
great  aim  of  the  Amir  to  consoli- 
date his  kingdom.  Prior  to  1869 
it  was  composed  of  five  provinces, 
virtually  independent,  owing  him 
an  allegiance  which  often  had  to  be 
enforced  by  arms.  Inspired  by  the 
example  of  British  rule,  as  seen  by 
him  in  the  northern  provinces  of 
our  empire,  the  Amir  has  endeav- 
oured to  change  all  this.  Instead 
of  ruling  over  Candaharees,  Hera- 
tees,  Caubulees,  and  others,  he 
wishes  to  govern  one  race  of 
Afghans.  One  government,  one 
army,  one  treasury,  one  nation — 
these  are  his  watchwords.  It  is 
not  to  be  imagined  that,  proceeding 
as  he  has  in  his  reforms  with  all 
the  fervour  and  energy  of  a  man 
thoroughly  in  earnest,  he  has  en- 
countered no  opposition.  That 
was  hardly  to  be  expected.  Yet 
whatever  opposition  has  hitherto 
manifested  itself  he  has  success- 
fully beaten  down.  We  are  aware 
that  -when,  at  Umballa,  he  disclosed 
his  intentions  in  the  way  of  reform 
on  his  return  to  Caubul,  he  was  ad- 
vised not  to  be  in  too  great  a  hurry, 
to  proceed  warily  and  cautiously. 
His  reply  indicated  enormous  self- 
confidence.  "  If  I  cannot  lead 
them,"  he  said,  "  I  will  drive  them." 
And  he  has  literally  carried  out 
this  boast.  Partly  leading  and 
partly  driving,  he  has  hitherto  met 


74 


Lord  Lyttorfs  Comedy. 


[Jan. 


with  extraordinary  success  in  car- 
rying through  all  his  measures  for 
the  consolidation  of  Afghanistan 
as  a  united  kingdom  under  his  sole 
rule.  Of  all  the  spectacles  present- 
ing themselves  to  the  study  of  the 
philosopher  and  the  politician,  this 
is  perhaps  the  most  curious  and 
the  most  interesting.  To  see  a 
rude  Asiatic  warrior  engaged  in 
fashioning  his  Government  ac- 
cording to  the  model  of  that 
of  his  European  neighbours,  is  a 


problem  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
all.  He  may  succeed,  or  he  may 
fail ;  but  the  fact  of  his  making  the 
attempt  is  in  itself  remarkable. 
It  is  at  all  events  no  weak  testi- 
mony to  the  value  attached  to  the 
principles  of  British  administration 
in  India  by  a  prince  aspiring  to  gov- 
ern ;  and  if  it  succeed,  as  succeed  it 
may,  it  will  deserve  to  be  quoted  as 
one  of  the  most  striking  results  ever 
obtained  from  the  peaceful  contact 
of  civilisation  and  barbarism. 


LORD  LYTTON'S  COMEDY. 


NOT  one  of  those  fairies  who  can 
make  or  mar  a  mortal's  career  was 
forgotten  in  sending  out  the  invi- 
tations to  Lord  Lytton's  christen- 
ing. There  was  no  powerful  mal- 
ignant hag  who  stayed  aloof  from 
the  festival,  nursing  her  injury, 
and  withholding  her  gift,  the  ab- 
sence of  which  would  be  as  fatal  to 
prosperity  as  the  loss  of  a  linchpin 
to  the  progress  of  a  triumphal  car ; 
or  who,  coming  uninvited,  neutral- 
ised the  beneficence  of  her  sister 
fairies  with  a  baleful  offering.  All 
those  potent  and  capricious  shap- 
ers  of  destiny  whom  it  is  so  easy 
to  estrange,  so  hard  to  propitiate, 
thronged  to  the  ceremony,  lavish 
of  their  smiles  and  prodigal  of  their 
benefits.  On  their  protege  they 
showered  invention  and  wit  and 
wisdom,  knowledge  of  man,  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  and  capacity  for 
the  world's  affairs  ;  and  to  these  was 
added  that  versatility,  rare  in  any 
case — most  rare  in  combination 
with  solid  excellences — which  has 
found  such  multitudinous  issue  in 
novels,  poetry,  essays,  oratory,  and 
the  drama.  All  was  completed 
by  the  bestowal  of  the  untiring  in- 
dustry which  keeps  these  powers 
in  brilliant  action,  and  which, 
(dropped  commonly  enough  in  the 
cradles  of  those  to  whom  other 
favours  are  denied,  and  often,  un- 


happily, lending  to  dulness  such 
a  tremendous  power  of  afflicting 
mankind)  is  so  seldom  associated 
with  high  and  various  capacity. 
No  patient  conscientious  founder 
of  a  name  out  of  nothing  has  ever 
shown  a  more  constant  energy,  a 
more  cheerful  welcoming  of  toil, 
than  the  author  who  started  in  life 
already  endowed  with  so  large  a 
share  of  what  generally  forms  the 
allurement  and  reward  of  exertion. 
Throughout  his  career  he  has  seem- 
ed to  seek  repose  only  in  variety  of 
labour  :  the  recreation  of  the  states- 
man has  been  the  writing  of  novels ; 
the  novelist  has  sought  relaxation 
in  the  Parliamentary  arena  and  the 
Cabinet ;  and  the  odds  and  ends  of 
leisure,  which  most  busy  men  are 
content  to  devote  to  such  pleasant 
distractions  as  lotos-eating,  have 
been  given  to  the  production  of 
essays,  translations,  or  original 
dramas, — his  success  in  any  one 
of  which  minor  paths  would  have 
sufficed  for  a  respectable  literary 
reputation.  Some  of  his  plays, 
"Money,"  "Richelieu,"  and  "The 
Lady  of  Lyons,"  were  not  merely 
successful  for  a  time,  but  have  kept 
the  stage  for  more  than  a  genera- 
tion ;  and  the  last  named  has  been 
acted  at  two  London  theatres  with- 
in this  month  past.  And  with  all 
this  quantity  of  production,  the 


'  Walpole  ;  or,  Every  Man  has  his  Price.    A  Comedy  in  Rhyme.     In  Three  Acts. ' 
By  Lord  Lytton.    William  Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh  and  London.    1869. 


1870.] 


Lord  Lyttoris  Comedy. 


75 


quality  is  always  excellent.  Un- 
like many  famous  and  voluminous 
authors,  he  (to  use  a  phrase  that 
trades -unions  will  render  famil- 
iar to  us)  never  "  scamps "  his 
work ;  thought  and  conscientious 
art  are  everywhere  visible  between 
the  lines.  Goethe  himself  has 
never  more  profoundly  sought  the 
conditions  of  literary  excellence 
than  Lord  Lytton,  who,  it  may  be 
safely  said,  has  never  planned  a 
work,  devised  an  incident,  nor 
developed  a  character — nay,  even 
written  a  paragraph — without  due 
regard  to  the  exigencies  of  art. 
The  prefaces  to  later  editions  of 
his  novels  contain  expositions  of 
principles  which,  if  studied  by  some 
of  our  novelists,  might  be  of  infinite 
service,  by  enabling  them,  if  not  to 
attain  greater  excellence,  yet  at  least 
to  commit  less  palpable  blunders. 
There  have,  of  late,  appeared  some 
indications  that,  after  so  long  and 
laborious  a  career,  he  was  about  to 
give  himself  a  longer  interval  of  re- 
pose. He  has  exchanged  the  busy 
region  of  the  Commons  for  the 
serener  atmosphere  of  the  Peers  : 
it  is  some  years  since  he  charmed 
the  world  with  a  novel ;  and  the 
well -pondered,  carefully  -  wrought 
translation  of  Horace,  with  its  de- 
lightful essay  on  the  characteristics 
of  the  poet,  republished  this  year 
from  our  pages,  though  really  in- 
volving a  great  amount  of  labour, 
might  seem  to  many  rather  the 
fruit  of  scholarly  leisure  than  of 
fresh  intellectual  activity.  But  it 
is  just  at  this  time  of  seeming  repose 
that  he  flashes  out  upon  us  with 
an  original  work,  cast  in  the  most 
condensed  and  exacting  of  all  forms, 
the  dramatic,  and  even  in  that  form 
a  novelty,  for  it  is  a  rhymed  comedy. 
This  is  manifestly  an  experiment ; 
for  though  rhyme  has  heretofore 
been  applied  to  burlesques,  to 
prologues  and  epilogues,  to  the 
chorus,  to  the  ending  of  scenes  and 
plays,  and  even  in  a  few  cases  to 
tragedies,  we  do  not  know  of  any  pre- 
vious case  of  a  pure  English  comedy 
in  rhyme.  Not  only  is  the  verse 
rhymed,  but,  as  will  be  seen  in  the 


specimens  we  shall  offer,  it  is  of  a 
measure  not  hitherto  employed  on 
the  stage  —  that  of  Goldsmith's 
"Retaliation"  and  "Epistle  to  Lord 
Clare" — selected,  perhaps,  as  ad- 
mitting the  variety  of  the  double 
rhyme.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
an  epigram  gains  in  neatness,  an 
antithesis  in  force,  and  a  sarcasm  in 
point,  by  being  expressed  in  rhyme, 
and  that  ordinary  thoughts  receive 
a  new  value  by  being  tersely  and 
melodiously  embodied.  Therefore, 
in  the  case  of  a  comedy  intended 
only  to  be  read,  it  may  well  happen 
that  the  merits  will  be  greatly  en- 
hanced by  the  adoption  of  this  new 
vehicle  :  of  the  advantage  in  the 
case  of  an  acted  play  we  are  less 
positive.  Whether  any  inevitable 
associations  with  burlesques  and 
extravaganzas  will  be  allowed  to 
influence  the  critical  spirit  of  the 
audience  it  is  difficult  to  foresee ; 
at  any  rate  such  an  objection  ought 
not,  as  being  accidental  in  its  na- 
ture, to  prejudice  that  part  of  an 
audience  whose  judgment  is  worth 
most.  But  we  think  that  in  strik- 
ing the  balance  of  gain  and  loss  in 
this  experiment,  the  possible  di- 
minution of  stage  illusion  by  the 
increase  in  the  artificial  quality  of 
the  medium  will  not  be  without 
weight.  To  our  minds  it  will 
be  to  diminished  purpose  that 
Sir  Robert .  Walpole  is  dressed 
exactly  after  the  fashion  of  his 
time,  and  that  his  sentiments  are 
strictly  in  accordance  with  his  cha- 
racter, if  he  delivers  his  opinions  on 
statecraft  in  rhymed  verse.  The 
Minister  of  the  Georges  may  in  such 
a  case  vanish,  and  the  whole  scene 
will  perhaps  be  removed  to  the  re- 
gion of  vague  epochs  and  unreal 
characters.  The  case  of  blank  verse 
is  different ;  it  is,  to  the  ear,  only 
refined  and  melodious  prose  lend- 
ing solemnity  to  grave  thoughts, 
and  grace  to  lighter  sentiment. 
But  that  Shakespeare  judged  even 
blank  verse  an  inappropriate  vehicle 
for  comedy  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  his  comic  business  is  almost 
invariably  transacted  in  prose,  that 
most  of  his  comic  characters  never 


76 


Lord  Lytton's  Comedy. 


[Jan. 


speak  verse  at  all,  and  that  others 
who  do  speak  it  descend  to  prose 
in  comic  scenes.  Thus  Prince  Hal, 
who  uses  blank  verse  when  defying 
Hotspur,  and  trying  on  his  father's 
crown,  conforms  to  the  language  of 
Falstaff,  Bardolph,  and  Quickly,  in 
his  colloquies  with  them;  andCassio, 
who  reciprocates  verse  with  Desde- 
mona,  uses  a  more  ordinary  dialect 
when,  being  in  liquor,  he  discourses 
fustian  with  his  own  shadow.  How- 
ever, we  do  not  wish  to  dogmatise 
on  this  novel  question,  and  fully 
believe  that  the  play  contains  in 
its  present  form  all  the  elements  of 
success. 

The  plot  of  this  comedy  is  ex- 
cellent. It  is  of  smoothness  and 
neatness  all  compact,  and  is  woven 
with  love,  of  course,  for  one  of  its 
main  threads,  and  with  politics  for 
the  other.  The  central  figure  is 
the  jovial  one  of  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
polp,  the  famous  Minister  who  was 
the  main  prop  of  the  Hanoverian 
dynasty  and  the  Protestant  succes- 
sion. Everybody  who  knows  any- 
thing about  him  knows  that  his 
name  has  become  a  byword  as  the 
audacious  and  unscrupulous  advo- 
cate of  a  policy  of  corruption.  Yet 
the  stigma  that  attaches  to  him  on 
this  score  is  not  deep ;  he  is  one 
of  those  genial  personages  who, 
popular  in  their  own  age,  mollify 
the  censors  of  an  after-time  with 
their  pleasant  qualities,  and  are 
the  spoiled  children  of  history.  In 
his  fondness  for  power,  his  deter- 
mination to  "  bear,  like  the  Turk, 
no  brother  near  the  throne,"  his 
sturdy  good  sense,  jovial  manners, 
and  good-humour,  and  his  power 
of  managing  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, Lord  Palrnerston  resembles 
him  more  than  any  other  of  our 
Prime  Ministers,  and  the  parallel 
might  probably  be  carried  still 
farther.  As  to  the  corruption  im- 
puted to  him,  whatever  the  degree 
of  it  (and  no  doubt  it  has  been 
greatly  exaggerated),  there  is  much 
extenuation  in  the  facts  that  he 
never  turned  any  of  the  stream 
of  public  money  with  which  he 


so  freely  irrigated  the  field  of 
party,  into  his  private  reservoirs  ; 
and  that  he  resorted  to  bribes  as 
the  only  effectual  means  of  retain- 
ing the  power  which,  as  he  honest- 
ly believed,  and  as  was  certainly 
true,  it  was  indispensable  for  the 
peace  of  the  country  that  he,  and 
he  alone,  should  possess.  And  even 
if  he  had  been  guilty  of  corruption 
to  the  full  extent  with  which  he 
has  been  charged,  his  system  of 
maintaining  political  influence  was 
pure  and  virtuous  compared  with 
that  which  in  our  time  we  see 
practised  as  a  matter  of  course  in 
that  country  of  whose  institutions 
many  of  our  patriots  are  such  ar- 
dent admirers,  where  each  newly- 
elected  Executive  rewards  its  sup- 
porters with  the  spoils  of  party 
down  to  the  very  lowest  official 
post,  and  where  politics  have  thus 
become  not  a  vocation,  nor  a  profes- 
sion, but  a  trade.  The  fat  knight  of 
Eastcheap,  when  charged  with  one 
of  his  delinquencies,  says,  "  Thou 
knowest  that  in  the  state  of 
innocency  Adam  fell,  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in 
the  days  of  villany  ? "  In  like 
manner  Sir  Robert,  if  put  on  his 
defence  now,  might  well  plead, 
that  if  such  things  are  done  in 
these  days  of  political  enlighten- 
ment and  matured  public  virtue,  it 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  poor 
Bob  Walpole  fell  in  times  when 
a  vote  was  generally  regarded  as 
convertible  property ;  when  many  a 
patriot  stood  ready  to  be  knocked 
down  to  the  highest  bidder,  Hano- 
verian or  Jacobite  ;  and  when  in  a 
neighbouring  State  the  people  were 
taxed  to  exhaustion,  and  the  ex- 
chequer rendered  bankrupt,  in  order 
that  the  king's  illegitimate  children, 
his  mistresses  with  all  their  friends 
and  relations,  and  a  butterfly  aris- 
tocracy, might  be  enriched  by  the 
public  revenues. 

While,  then,  there  is  nothing  in 
Walpole's  public  character  so  inex- 
cusable as  to  deprive  him  of  sym- 
pathy as  a  dramatic  personage, 
there  is  much  in  the  man  to  engage 


1870.] 


Lord  Lytton's  Comedy. 


77 


our  regard  and  approval.  He  was 
as  remarkable  for  lenity  to  his 
political  foes  as  for  prodigality  to 
his  political  friends.  He  was  not 
merely  a  vigorous  and  acute  de- 
bater, but  the  very  father  of  Par- 
liamentary debate.  In  private  life 
he  was,  in  a  jovial  age,  one  of  the 
most  jovial  of  men,  drank  hard, 
and  feasted,  when  not  to  drink 
hard  and  feast  was  to  fail  in  the 
most  important  of  social  duties; 
and  yet  his  brain  was  never  the 
less  clear  for  his  potations.  Joy- 
ous of  temper,  easy  of  wit,  plump 
and  rosy  of  aspect,  his  person,  as 
well  as  his  habits,  was  that  of  the 
country  gentleman  of  the  time ;  and 
even  "  ce  vilain  venire  "  which  pro- 
voked the  sarcasm  of  Queen  Caro- 
line, harmonised  with  the  general 
appearance  and  character  of  the 
good-natured  bon  vivant.  The  epoch 
of  the  comedy  is  the  year  follow- 
ing the  Rebellion  of  1715,  when 
two  of  the  Jacobite  lords  had  ex- 
piated, with  their  heads,  their  ad- 
hesion to  the  losing  cause,  and 
others  awaited  execution  in  the 
Tower.  Walpole  was  not  then,  nor 
ever  had  been,  the  actual  chief  of 
the  Cabinet ;  but  his  power  of  de- 
bate, influence  in  the  country,  and 


ascendancy  over  Lord  Townshend 
the  Prime  Minister,  really  rendered 
his  influence  paramount.  He  comes 
on  the  stage,  therefore,  clothed  with 
the  highest  authority  of  the  State  ; 
and  as  his  relations  with  the 
rest  of  the  dramatis  personce  ren- 
der his  social  influence  as  un- 
questioned as  his  political  as- 
cendancy, he  dominates  the  situ- 
ation at  every  stage,  and  finally 
appears  as  the  destiny  or  providence 
of  the  play.  Round  this  robust 
central  figure  are  grouped  some 
politicians  who,  having  no  histori- 
cal existence,  yet  serve  admirably 
to  bring  out  the  characteristics  of 
Walpole  :  John  Veasey,  a  confidant 
to  whom  he  imparts  his  thoughts 
in  a  way  very  superior  to  soliloquy : 
and  two  leaders  of  sections  of  parties, 
Blount  and  Bellair,  who,  because 
they  are  not  only  politicians,  but 
lovers  of  the  same  woman — blend 
the  two  main  threads  of  interest. 
Blount  is  what  was  in  those  days 
known  as  a  patriot,  and  patriots 
were  then,  as  they  have  continued 
to  be,  of  somewhat  uproarious  and 
aggressive  public  virtue ;  whom 
Veasey  characterises  to  Walpole 
as — 


"  Your  sternest  opponent,  half  Cato,  half  Brutus." 


Politics,  however,  and  general 
inaptitude  for  the  softer  graces, 
have  not  prevented  Mr  Blount 
from  entertaining  in  very  mature 
age  (about  sixty,  apparently)  a  pas- 
sion for  the  heroine.  Sir  Sidney 
Bidlair  is  a  young  member  who,  if 
not  a  Jacobite,  is  at  least  a  warm 
defender  of  the  condemned  peers, 
and  a  vigorous  assailant  of  Wal- 
pole ;  and  he  possesses  that  par- 
ti* --ular  union  of  social  and  intel- 
lectual claims  which  has  always 


had  such  attraction  for  Lord  Lyt- 
ton,  since  to  eloquence  he  adds 
the  qualities  that  have  made  him 
"  chief  of  the  beaux  ; "  clever,  bril- 
liant, gay,  he  is  the  Pelham  of  the 
stage.  Walpole  is  earnestly  bent 
on  finding  the  market-price  of  these 
two  men,  for  on  their  help  he  relies 
to  carry  the  bill  for  changing  tri- 
ennial to  septennial  parliaments,  a 
measure  then  and  since  thought 
essential  to  the  peace  of  the  realm 
at  that  particular  epoch. 


WALPOLE. 

I  could  make — see  this  list — our  majority  sure, 
If  by  buying  two  men  I  could  sixty  secure  ; 
For  as  each  of  these  two  is  the  chief  of  a  section, 
That  will  vote  black  or  white  at  its  leader's  direction, 
Let  the  pipe  of  the  shepherd  but  lure  the  bell-wether, 
And  he  folds  the  whole  flock,  wool  and  cry,  altogether. 


78  Lord  Lytton's  Comedy.  [Jan. 

In   the  first  act   all  the   main-     measure  in  a  conversation  between 
springs  of  the  piece  are  indicated     Walpole  and  his  confidant : — 
(as  they  should  be),  and  in  great 

WALPOLE. 

Yes,  the  change  from  Queen  Anne  to  King  George,  we  must  own, 
Kenders  me  and  the  Whigs  the  sole  props  of  the  throne. 
For  the  Tories  their  Jacobite  leanings  disgrace, 
And  a  Whig  is  the  only  safe  man  for  a  place. 

VEASEY. 

And  the  Walpoles  of  Houghton,  in  all  their  relations, 
Have  been  Whigs  to  the  backbone  for  three  generations. 

WALPOLE. 

Ay,  my  father  and  mother  contrived  to  produce 
Their  eighteen  sucking  Whigs  for  the  family  use, 
Of  which  number  one  only,  without  due  reflection, 
Braved  the  wrath  of  her  house  by  a  Tory  connection. 
But,  by  Jove,  if  her  Jacobite  husband  be  living, 
I  will  make  him  a  Whig. 

VEASEY. 
How? 

WALPOLE. 

By  something  worth  giving  : 

For  I  loved  her  in  boyhood,  that  pale  pretty  sister; 
And  in  counting  the  Walpoles  still  left,  I  have  mist  her. 

(Pauses  in  emotion,  but  quickly  recovers  himself.) 
What  was  it  I  said  1 — Oh, — the  State  and  the  Guelph, 
For  their  safety,  must  henceforth  depend  on  myself. 
The  revolt,  scarcely  quenched,  has  live  sparks  in  its  ashes ; 
Nay,  fresh  seeds  for  combustion  were  sown  by  its  flashes. 
Each  example  we  make  dangerous  pity  bequeaths  ; 
For  no  Briton  likes  blood  in  the  air  that  he  breathes. 

VEASEY. 

Yes  ;  at  least  there's  one  rebel  whose  doom  to  the  block 
Tho'  deserved,  gives  this  soft-hearted  people  a  shock. 

WALPOLE. 

Lord  Nithsdale,  you  mean  ;  handsome,  young,  and  just  wedded  j 
A  poor  head,  that  would  do  us  much  harm  if  beheaded. 

VEASEY. 

Yet  they  say  you  rejected  all  prayers  for  his  life. 
WALPOLE. 

It  is  true  ;  but  in  private  I've  talked  to  his  wife  : 
She  had  orders  to  see  him  last  night  in  the  Tower. 
And 

VEASEY. 

Well? 

WALPOLE  (looking  at  his  watch). 
Wait  for  the  news — 'tis  not  yet  quite  the  hour." 


1870.] 


Lord  Lyttons  Comedy. 


79 


These  two  hints  of  a  promising 
stray  sister  somewhere,  and  of  an 
interview  between  a  Jacobite  lord 
in  the  Tower  and  his  wife,  not 
without  the  connivance  of  Walpole, 
are  left  to  fructify  in  the  mind  of 
the  observant  reader.  Sir  Robert 
then  proceeds  to  discuss  the  ques- 
tion of  bribing  Blount  and  Bel- 
lair;  and  his  friend  Veasey,  satu- 
rated apparently  with  Walpolean 
principles,  undertakes  to  fish  for 
both  with  the  baits  that  the  astute 
Miiiister  thinks  most  likely  to  lure 


them.  Bellair  is  the  first  to  appear, 
and  Veasey,  after  some  adroit  flat- 
tery, knowing  that  neither  money 
nor  place  will  tempt  the  wealthy 
well-born  beau,  tries  inducements 
better  suited  to  his  age  and  condi- 
tion. A  duke's  daughter  and  a 
peerage  will,  he  hints,  reward  the 
pliant  politician.  But  he  has  mis- 
taken his  man,  who,  resenting  the 
attempt  at  first,  presently  remem- 
bers that  it  does  not  pertain  to 
beaux  to  be  angry. 


VEASEY, 

No  offence. 


Why  that  frown  ? 


BELLAIR  (relapsing  into  his  habitual  ease}. 

Nay,  forgive  me.     Tho'  man,  I'm  a  man  about  town ; 

And  so  graceful  a  compliment  could  not  offend 

Any  man  about  town,  from  a  Minister's  friend. 

Still,  if  not  from  the  frailty  of  mortals  exempt, 

Can  a  mortal  be  tempted  where  sins  do  not  tempt  1 

Of  my  rank  and  my  fortume  I  am  so  conceited, 

That  I  don't,  with  a  wife,  want  those  blessings  repeated. 

And  tho'  flattered  to  learn  I  should  strengthen  the  Peers — 

Give  me  still  our  rough  House  with  its  laughter  and  cheers. 

Let  the  Lords  have  their  chamber — I  grudge  not  its  powers ; 

But  for  badgering  a  Minister  nothing  like  ours  ! 

Whisper  that  to  the  Minister ; — sir,  your  obedient.  (Turns  away.} 

VEASEY  (aside}. 

Humph  !  I  see  we  must  hazard  the  ruder  expedient. 
If  some  Jacobite  pit  for  his  feet  we  can  dig, 
He  shall  hang  as  a  Tory,  or  vote  as  a  Whig. 


Unsuccessful  with  Bellair,  he  sets 
about  the  temptation  of  Blount, 
by  hinting  that  Sir  Robert  wishes 
to  confer  with  him  on  a  question  of 
coal-dues,  about  which  both  are  of 
one  mind.  Blount  promises  to 
wait  on  the  Minister — and  this,  the 
political  element  of  the  play,  being 
thus  in  motion,  the  other,  the 
amatory  ingredient,  is  introduced. 
Blount,  after  complimenting  his 
young  friend  Bellair  on  his  late 
speech,  proposes  that  they  should 
join  forces  to  oust  Walpole.  Bel- 
lair, in  reply,  hints  playfully 
that  the  other's  chance  of  buying 
him  is  better  than  Walpole's,  for 
that  he  has  watched  the  patriot 


lately,  when,  half  disguised,  he  had 
made  his  way  to  the  house  of  a  cer- 
tain Widow  Vizard,  this  house  being 
also  the  home  of  a  young  lady,  Lucy 
Wilrnot,  with  whom  the  beau  had 
fallen  desperately  in  love  after  res- 
cuing her  one  night  from  the 
clutches  of  those  roystering  blades 
the  Mohawks — a  savage  metropoli- 
tan tribe,  much  given  to  outrage  the 
weak  of  both  sexes,  which,  though 
declined  greatly  in  the  social  scale, 
still  flourishes  under  the  patronage 
of  the  police  and  the  respectful  for- 
bearance of  the  public.  Being  de- 
nied admittance  by  Dame  Vizard, 
Sir  Sidney  has  held  surreptitious 
interviews  with  Lucy  at  her  win- 


80 


Lord  Lyttoris  Comedy. 


[Jan. 


dow,  in  which,  however,  their  eyes 
were  the  chief  means  of  communi- 
cation, and  he  now  appeals  to  his 
friend  as  I' ami  de  la  maison  to  further 
his  suit.  Blount,  thus  adjured,  tells 
him  that  Lucy  is  a  poor  girl  of  mean 
family,  who,  at  her  mother's  death, 
had  been  placed  with  Mrs  Vizard 
by  a  charitable  stranger,  in  order  to 
qualify  herself  as  a  teacher  of  music. 
But  Blount  omits  to  mention  the 
reason  of  his  own  agitation  through- 
out this  colloquy — which  is,  that  he 
is  the  charitable  stranger,  and  that 
he  has  himself  fallen  in  love  with 
the  object  of  his  bounty  with  the 
frank  infatuation  which  swains  so 
mature  not  unfrequently  display. 
Their  interview  is  interrupted,  and 
the  first  act  ended,  by  the  entrance 
of  the  newsman  with  the  papers 
containing  the  account  of  Lord 
Nithsdale's  escape  in  his  wife's 
clothes  from  the  Tower. 

Here,  then,  we  have  all  the  links 
indicated  whose  harmonious  twist- 


ings  and  untwistings  form  the  action 
of  the  play.  Sir  Robert,  for  a  pur- 
pose higher  than  personal  ambition, 
is  bent  on  gaining  the  two  poli- 
ticians ;  he  remembers  tenderly  a 
long-lost  Jacobite  sister — a  young 
lady  with  a  mysterious  Jacobite 
mother  is  loved  by  both  the  young 
and  the  old  politician — and  Lord 
Nithsdale  has  escaped  from  the 
Tower.  The  connection  of  this 
last  incident  with  the  plot  is  pre- 
sently seen.  For  Nithsdale  is 
brought  for  refuge  by  the  Jacobites 
who  aided  his  escape  to  the  house 
of  Mrs  Vizard,  well  known  as  a 
partisan  of  the  Stuarts,  and  she 
conceals  him,  disguised  in  his  wife's 
dress,  in  a  bedroom.  Meanwhile 
Blount  has  had  his  interview  with 
Walpole,  who,  holding  out  his 
bribe  nakedly  and  confidently,again 
proves  to  have  mistaken  his  man, 
for  he  meets  with  a  prompt  refusal. 
The  scene  continues  thus : — 


WALPOLE. 

You  are  not  to  be  bought,  sir — astonishing  man  ! 

Let  us  argue  that  point.     If  creation  you  scan, 

You  will  find  that  the  children  of  Adam  prevail 

O'er  the  beasts  of  the  field  but  by  barter  and  sale. 

Talk  of  coals — if  it  were  not  for  buying  and  selling, 

Could  you  coax  from  Newcastle  a  coal  to  your  dwelling  ? 

You  would  be  to  your  own  fellow-men  good  for  nought, 

Were  it  true,  as  you  say,  that  you're  not  to  be  bought, 

If  you  find  men  worth  nothing — say,  don't  you  despise  them  1 

And  what  proves  them  worth  nothing  1 — why,  nobody  buys  them. 

But  a -man  of  such  worth  as  yourself  !  nonsense — come, 

Sir,  to  business ;  I  want  you — I  buy  you ;  the  sum  ] 

ELOUNT. 
Is  corruption  so  brazen  ?  are  manners  so  base  1 

WALPOLE  (aside). 

That  means  he  don't  much  like  the  Paymaster's  place. 

(With  earnestness  and  dignity.) 

Pardon,  Blount,  I  spoke  lightly";  but  do  not  mistake, — • 
On  mine  honour,  the  peace  of  the  land  is  at  stake. 
Yes,  the  peace  and  the  freedom  !     Were  Hampden  himself 
Living  still,  would  he  side  with  the  Stuart  or  Guelph  ? 
When  the  Csesars  the  freedom  of  Rome  overthrew, 
All  its  forms  they  maintained — 'twas  its  spirit  they  slew  ! 
Shall  the  freedom  of  England  go  down  to  the  grave  ? 
No  !  the  forms  let  us  scorn,  so  the  spirit  we  save. 


1870.]  Lord  Lyttoris  Comedy.  81 

BLOUNT. 
England's  peace  and  her  freedom  depend  on  your  bill  1 

WALPOLE  (seriously). 
Thou  know'st  it — and  therefore 

BLOUNT. 

My  aid  you  ask  still  ? 

WALPOLE. 

Nay,  no  longer  /  ask,  'tis  thy  country  petitions. 

BLOUNT. 
But  you  talked  about  terms. 

WALPOLE  (pushing  pen  and  paper  to  him). 

There,  then,  write  your  conditions. 

(BLOUNT  writes,  folds  the  paper,  gives  it  to  WALPOLE,  bows,  and  exit.) 
WALPOLE  (reading). 

"  'Mongst  the  men  who  are  bought  to  save  England  inscribe  me, 

And  my  bribe  is  the  head  of  the  man  who  would  bribe  me." 

Eh  !  my  head  !     That  ambition  is  much  too  high-reaching ; 

I  suspect  that  the  crocodile  hints  at  impeaching. 

And  he  calls  himself  honest !     What  highwayman's  worse  1 

Thus  to  threaten  my  life  when  I  offer  my  purse. 

Hem !  he  can't  be  in  debt,  as  the  common  talk  runs, 

For  the  man  who  scorns  money  has  never  known  duns. 

And  yet  have  him  I  must !     Shall  I  force  or  entice  1 

Let  me  think — let  me  think  ;  every  man  has  his  price. 

(Exit  WALPOLE.) 

Mrs  Vizard  has  scarcely  concealed  off  to  betray  him  to  Wai  pole,  first 
Mthsdale  when  Blount  appears,  locking  up  the  house  with  her  two 
and  taking  her  to  task  for  permit-  charges  in  it.  Here  ensues  the  busy 
ting  her  charge  to  make  Bellair's  portion  of  the  play ;  for  Nithsdale 
acquaintance,  bids  her  send  Lucy  to  and  Lucy  being  each  in  a  room  that 
him,  into  whose  reluctant  ear  he  opens  on  the  stage,  and  each 
proceeds  to  pour  the  impassioned  anxious  to  escape  from  the  house, 
tile  of  his  elderly  affection.  Tak-  — he,  because  he  has  overheard  Mrs 
iig  her  agitated  silence  for  consent,  Vizard's  intended  treachery — she 
1  e  announces  to  Mrs  Vizard  that  he  to  avoid  Blount, — that  kind  of  com- 
v/ill  privately  marry  her  ward  next  plication  and  interest  ensues  with 
cay,  and  in  the  mean  time,  as  he  which  we  are  familiar  in  the  corn- 
er uits  the  house,  he  recommends  edies  of  all  ages.  The  two  meet, 
that  she  shall  be  securely  guarded.  Lucy,  predisposed  to  aid  the  Jacob- 
At  that  moment  the  newsman  is  ites,  lends  a  sympathetic  ear  to  the 
heard  underneath  the  window  pro-  tale  of  the  supposed  Jacobite  lady, 
claiming  the  escape  of  Nithsdale,  allows  Nithsdale  to  exchange  the 
with  a  description  of  the  dress  he  now  perilous  disguise  of  his  wife's 
wore,  and  the  offer  of  a  thousand  dress  for  a  gown  and  mantle  of  her 
guineas  for  his  recapture.  Mrs  own,  and  helps  him  to  escape  by 
Vizard  recognises  her  captive  in  the  window.  Bellair,  coming  under 
the  description  ;  the  reward  is  too  the  balcony  in  hopes  of  an  inter- 
much  for  her  fidelity,  and  she  goes  view  with  Lucy,  sees  her,  as  he 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLI.  F 


82 


Lord  Lytton's  Comedy. 


[Jan. 


fancies,  to  his  great  surprise,  in  the 
act  of  descending,  accosts  her,  and 
endeavouring  to  lift  her  hood,  finds 
a  strange  face  beneath  it.  But  as 
Nithsdale  recognises  in  Bellair  the 
member  who  pleaded  so  well  the 
cause  of  the  Jacobites  in  Parlia- 
ment, he  at  once  confides  in  him. 
Sir  Sidney,  of  course,  is  prompt  to 
aid  him,  and  the  fugitive  goes  off  in 
the  Beau's  carriage,  that  is  waiting 
near,  to  Blackwall  for  embarkation. 
Returning  to  the  balcony,  Bellair 


sees  there  this  time  the  real  Lucy, 
to  whose  Juliet  he  plays  Romeo  so 
effectively  that  they  part  with  the 
understanding  that  he  is  to  return 
the  same  night  at  ten  with  a  ladder 
to  carry  her  off  to  his  house,  where 
a  priest  and  friends  will  be  ready 
to  celebrate  the  bridal ;  and  so  ends 
act  second. 

In  the  third  act,  Blount,  in  St 
James's  Park,  thus  characteristi- 
cally soliloquises  : — 


BLOUNT. 

So  the  parson  is  found  and  the  cottage  is  hired — 
Every  fear  was  dispelled  when  my  rival  retired. 
Ev*n  my  stern  mother  country  must  spare  from  my  life 
A  brief  moon  of  that  honey  one  tastes  with  a  wife  ! 
And  then  strong  as  a  giant,  recruited  by  sleep, 
On  corruption  and  Walpole  my  fury  shall  sweep. 
'Mid  the  cheers  of  the  House  I  will  state  in  my  place 
How  the  bribes  that  he  proffered  were  flung  in  Ms  face. 
Men  shall  class  me  amid  those  examples  of  worth 
Which,  alas  !  become  daily  more  rare  on  this  earth; 
And  Posterity,  setting  its  brand  on  the  front 
Of  a  Walpole,  select  for  its  homage  a  Blount/' 


To  him  enter  Bellair,  who  hastens 
to  impart  to  him,  as  a  particularly 
eligible  confidant,  that  Lucy,  as  he 
finds,  detests  her  ancient  swain 
(known  to  her  only  as  Mr  Jones), 
and  has  agreed  to  become  Lady 
Bellair  that  very  night,  concluding 
by  begging  Blount  to  act  as  her 
father  and  give  her  away.  The 
patriot,  naturally  exasperated  at 
this  pleasing  intelligence,  is  ready 
for  any  step,  however  iniquitous, 
that  will  foil  his  rival  j  and  the 
father  of  evil,  having  thus  prepared 
the  soil  for  a  crop  of  villany,  pre- 
sently sows  it  with  seed.  For 
some  Jacobites,  friends  of  Niths- 
dale, enter,  bringing  a  note  from 
him  to  Bellair,  full  of  gratitude,  and 
promises  of  great  honours  and  re- 
wards if  the  Stuarts  should  ever 
recover  the  throne,  and  also  warn- 
ing him  against  Mrs  Vizard  ;  and 
Bellair,  acknowledging  his  share  in 
Nithsdale's  escape,  discusses  this 
note  with  Blount,  who,  perceiving 
what  foul  advantage  it  will  give 


him,  secures  it,  shows  it  presently 
to  Veasey,  and  recommends  him, 
nothing  loath  to  adopt  the  sugges- 
tion, to  make  Bellair  a  prisoner, 
stipulating,  however,  for  the  secu- 
rity of  his  life  and  fortune.  His 
rival  thus  out  of  the  way,  he  re- 
solves to  dispense  with  the  doubt- 
ful assistance  of  Mrs  Vizard,  and 
standing  beneath  Lucy's  window 
in  Bellair's  place,  to  take  full  ad- 
vantage of  the  mistake  that  will 
place  her  in  his  power. 

Veasey  coming  to  Walpole  with 
the  news  of  Bellair's  complicity  in 
Nithsdale's  escape,  procures  a  war- 
rant for  his  confinement,  and  with 
it  the  information  that  Mrs  Vizard 
is  in  waiting  outside,  purposely  de- 
tained by  Sir  Robert  till  he  had 
warned  her  intended  victim  to 
escape,  and  that  the  agent  whom 
he  despatched  for  the  purpose  had 
found,  instead  of  him,  another  poor 
little  weeping  captive.  Mrs  Viz- 
ard, admitted  to  an  interview,  is 
questioned  about  her  fair  prisoner, 


1370.] 


Lord  LytiorCs  Comedy. 


83 


and  reveals  that  her  name  is  Wil- 
mot,  and  her  father  a  Jacobite,  and 
assures  Walpole  that  the  girl  is  no 

other  than what  the  acute 

reader,  mindful  of  the  hint  given 
him  in  the  first  scene,  may  possibly 
guess  her  to  be. 

Walpole  now  holds  all  the  threads 
in  his  own  hands,  and  all  the  se- 
crets—  Blount's  betrayal  of  his 
friend,  Bellair's  complicity  in  the 
escape  of  a  State  prisoner,  and 
Lucy's  parentage.  How  he  avails 
himself  of  this  knowledge  to  dis- 
cover further  the  rivalry  in  love  of 
the  two  politicians,  and  the  state  of 
Lucy's  affections,  and  to  deal  out 
satisfactory  and  good-natured  jus- 
tice to  all,  it  would  be  wronging 
the  author  and  the  reader  to  dis- 
close. Suffice  it  to  say  that  Wal- 
pole is  justified  in  thinking  that 
every  man  has  his  price,  though 
not  always  in  the  mercenary  sense 
to  which  he  had  narrowed  the 
axiom,  and  that  the  politicians  make 
no  final  difficulty  about  confirming 
Walpole  in  power  by  voting  for  the 
act  that  has  given  the.  British  na- 
tion septennial  parliaments.  The 
old  statesman  in  his  interview  with 
Lucy  discovers  a  pretty  vein  of 
sentiment,  which,  though  perhaps 
cot  strictly  in  accordance  with  his 
traditional  demeanour  to  the  fair 
sex,  is  undoubtedly  better  suited 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  modern 
stage. 

Deficient  as  such  a  sketch  of  the 
plot  must  be  in  those  niceties  of 
detail  and  various  felicities  which 
so  gracefully  mark  the  develop- 


ment of  the  play,  the  reader  who 
has  followed  it  will  not  fail  to 
perceive  that  the  structure  of  the 
piece  is  singularly  clear  and  ingeni- 
ous. There  are  no  odds  and  ends 
fluttering  loose,  no  irritating  pas- 
sages leading  to  nothing,  no  run- 
away knocks  at  the  reader's  atten- 
tion— all  is  smooth,  compact,  and, 
what  is  still  better,  natural  and 
probable.  The  characters  are  well 
selected  both  for  harmony  and 
contrast — they  suit  the  plot  and 
the  plot  suits  them — and  both  plot 
and  characters  grow  with  perfect 
propriety  out  of  the  epoch  in  which 
the  scenes  are  laid.  The  difficulty 
of  achieving  this  combined  result 
will  be  conceded  when  it  is  con- 
sidered how  rare  is  success  in 
this  particular  in  the  most  popular 
comedies  of  the  time,  how  much 
there  is  in  their  movement  for  the 
audience  to  excuse,  and  how  equally 
foreign  to  nature  and  to  art  are 
many  of  the  incidents  and  person- 
ages that  most  obtrusively  demand 
the  applause  of  the  indulgent  and 
the  ignorant.  These  are  not  days 
when  the  vocation  of  the  dramatic 
author  or  of  the  actor  stands  high ; 
for  though  the  encouragement  given 
to  modern  dramas  is  lavish,  it  is 
lamentably  indiscriminate ;  and  the 
very  tradition  of  such  careful  work 
as  Lord  Lytton's  is  almost  lost  to 
the  stage. 

The  finish  bestowed  on  the  verse 
is  commensurate  for  the  most  part 
with  the  elaborate*  completeness  of 
the  story,  and  if  there  are  a  few 
unmetrical  lines  such  as — 


or. 


"  Wrong  a  widow  ! — there's  oil  to  put  in  her  cruse  ;" 


"  Sure  you  cannot  mean  Blount,  virtuous  Selden  Blount  ? 


Yes ;" 


and  one  or  two  slips  of  the  pen,  as — 

"  He  found  one  poor  captive  imprisoned  and  weeping," 

such  specks  will  be  easily  removed,  the  quotations  we  have  made  fur- 

and  are  scarce  worth  mention  in  nish  fair  examples.      The  last  line 

the  throng  of  excellences  that  crowd  of  the  play, — 
the  work,  of  the  execution  of  which 


84  Lord  Lytton's  Comedy. 

"Now  I'm  safe  in  my  office,  I'd  leave  well  alone," 


[Jan. 


is  with  singular  propriety  put  in 
the  mouth  of  a  great  Whig ;  for  his 
successors  have  always,  when  safe 
in  office,  been  careful  to  act  on  it, 
and  commit  themselves  to  import- 
ant changes  only  when  impelled  by 
their  hopes  or  their  fears.  We  will 
only  add,  of  this  little  volume,  that 
its  outside,  pretty  enough  for  the 
most  fastidious  boudoir, .  yet  of  ex- 
cellent simplicity  of  taste,  har- 
monises admirably  with  the  grace- 
ful and  thoughtful  contents,  and 
may  well  compete  with  the  more 
pretentious  progeny  of  Christmas. 

Whether  this  play  will  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  experiment  of  repre- 
sentation we  know  not ;  but  we 
should  very  much  like  to  be  present 
at  its  performance  by  a  competent 
company,  and  should  be  quite  con- 
tent to  see  it  judged  on  its  merits, 
apart  from  the  lustre  of  its  author- 
ship. In  all  the  diversity  of  Lord 
Lytton's  labours,  there  is  one  chap- 


ter in  literature  to  which  he  has 
never  contributed, — that  in  which 
so  many  eminent  writers  have 
been  so  unlucky  as  to  bear  a 
part,  and  which  is  headed  the 
Jealousies  of  Authors  ;  for,  however 
he  may  have  unconsciously  excited 
some  of  that  envy  which  is  almost 
inevitably  felt  by  less  successful  as- 
pirants for  prosperous  genius,  he  ac- 
cords always  to  his  brethren  of  the 
craft  the  most  generous  apprecia- 
tion. If  the  audience  of  'Walpole  ' 
were  composed  of  those  only  who 
are  his  debtors  for  kind  acts,  kind 
words,  and  hearty  judicious  en- 
couragement, the  house  would  be 
filled  to  overflowing ;  and  if  the 
play  were  witnessed  by  all  who 
have  been  delighted,  times  without 
number,  by  his  feats  in  letters,  it 
would  have  a  run  far  beyond  the 
most  fortunate  manager's  experi- 
ence. 


1870.] 


T/ie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


85 


THE   OPENING   OF  THE   SUEZ   CANAL  : 


AS   COMMUNICATED   TO   BULLION  BALES,   ESQ.    OF  MANCHESTER, 
BY   HIS  FRIEND  MR  SCAMPER. 


MY  DEAR  BALES,  —  I  take  for 
certain  that  you  are  well  informed 
of  my  doings  up  to  the  last  embar- 
kation; and  concerning  the  voyage 
•which  succeeded  that  event,  I  have 
only  to  say  that  it  was  of  the  rough- 
and-tumble  species,  the  very  worst 
passage  of  this  my  grand  tour.  Its 
disagreeables — and  it  was  exceed- 
ingly disagreeable  —  never  for  an 
instant  occupied  my  mind,  from 
the  hour  of  its  conclusion  to  this 
present  writing;  and  I  think,  my 
friend,  that  when  I  relate  the  events 
which  succeeded  it,  you  too  will 
lose  all  wish  to  hear  about  my  suf- 
ferings, even  though  some  of  your 
awful  predictions  were  verified 
thereby.  It  was  on  the  morning 
of  the  15th  of  November  that  our 
cruise  ended.  Soon  after  the  dawn 
of  that  day  I  awoke  from  a  troubled 
slumber ;  and  after  being  violently 
jerked  through  the  arc  of  a  semi- 
circle, to  and  fro,  for  some  five 
minutes — she  rolled  grievously,  she 
didn't  pitch — I  chose,  as  the  less  of 
two  evils,  to  stagger  out  of  my  berth, 
and  to  tumble  (literally)  into  a  salt- 
water bath,  deriving  much  comfort 
therefrom.  Then  I  went  through 
my  toilette  in  the  fashion  which 
you  have  heard  me  graphically  de- 
scribe when  I  have  related  my 
astonishing  adventures  in  Manches- 
ter over  a  sea -coal  fire  for  the 
amusement  and  edification  of — 
shall  I  say  it,  Bales  1 — the  unenter- 
prising !  Pass  that  expression,  and 
learn  that,  when  I  reached  the  deck, 
it  was  positively  affirmed  that, 
although  the  land  was  too  low  to 
Vie  yet  visible,  I  might  see,  if  I 
chose  to  look,  the  masts  of  ships  in 
the  harbour  of  Port  Said.  I  did 
look,  and  saw  the  masts  of  some 
seven  ships,  and  the  funnels  of 
some  of  them.  But  one  funnel 


CAIRO,  25tk  November  1869. 

smokes,  how  then  can  the  vessels 
be  lying  at  anchor  1  "  Oh  yes, 
they  are  at  anchor — the  smoke  is 
nothing."  But  I  see  three  of 
them  smoking  now  ;  the  ships  are 
steaming  along;  and  now,  look  to 
the  right,  there  are  three  more; 
now  to  the  left,  there  is  another, 
and,  farther  off,  a  pair.  Every 
minute  reveals  a  new  ship.  They 
are  going  the  same  way  as  our- 
selves. We  are  converging  on  a 
common  point,  and  that  point  is 
Port  Sa'id,  invisible  as  yet.  Break- 
fast-time came,  but  all  refused  to 
descend,  looking  pertinaciously  for 
some  material  guarantee  of  the 
land's  proximity.  "There  is  a 
mast,"  sung  out  somebody,  "  which 
does  not  taper,  and  has  neither  flag 
nor  rope."  "  Much  you  know  about 
masts,"  to  him  answered  another 
salt  of  some  ten  days'  experience. 
"  You  have  probably  got  hold  of  a 
tall  funnel  through  a  foul  glass;  let 
me  look."  "  You  be  hanged ! "  re- 
plies the  first  jolly  tar,  wounded  to 
his  nautical  centre.  "  Bet  you  three 
to  one  it  isn't  a  funnel  or  a  common 
mast."  "  Done !  the  skipper  shall 
settle  it."  The  skipper  has  had 
his  glass  on  the  object  for  a  couple 
of  minutes.  He  has  no  doubt:  it 
is  the  lighthouse.  "  Of  course, 
of  course — of  course  it's  the  light- 
house," we  all  say.  How  singular 
that  such  seasoned  tars  should 
have  failed  to  recognise  it!  And, 
do  you  know,  it  really  was  the  light- 
house, and  we  were  told  that  we 
should  be  in  harbour  in  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour;  and  we  went  to 
breakfast,  the  roll  (of  the  ship,  not 
of  breakfast)  being  now  reduced  to 
an  arc  of  some  eighty-five  degrees. 
So,  the  meal  being  more  comfort- 
able than  any  for  the  last  two  days, 
a  disposition  is  manifested  to  sit 


86 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


and  talk  and  speculate.  This,  how- 
ever, is  soon  dissipated  by  the 
-sounds  of  artillery,  and  up  we  go 
with  one  consent.  We  were  too  far 
off  as  yet  to  discover  the  cause  of 
the  firing,  or  to  distinguish  in  front 
anything  but  a  sea  of  masts,  and 
flags,  and  floating  smoke.  To  the 
right  we  discern  the  long  mole, 
which  is  the  western  boundary  of 
the  harbour,  like  some  huge  cyclo- 
pean  structure,  extending  a  little 
behind  us  to  the  Mediterranean, 
and  to  the  front,  farther  than  the 
eye  can  follow  it.  On  the  other 
side,  and  not  far  before  us,  is  the 
extremity  of  the  eastern  arm.  Five 
minutes  more  and  we  are  fairly  in 
the  artificial  basin,  almost  stun- 
ned by  the  continued  cannonade. 
"  What  can  it  be  about  1 "  "  Oh  ! 
a  salute  to  some  great  one,  of 
course."  "  Tremendous  noise !  what 
will  be  the  size  of  the  guns  ? " 
"  Nine-pounders,  I  should  think  j 
or,  I  don't  know,  they  may  be 
twenty  -  fours/'  says  one  who 
ought  to  have  known  better.  They 
werehundred-and-twenty-pounders, 
at  the  least,  crashing  away,  regard- 
less of  everything  save  the  effort  to 
make  a  noise.  We  could  see  now 
what  is  making  the  guns  roar  so,  if 
there  were  but  wind  to  blow  away 
the  smoke.  Despite  the  smoke,  we 
soon  get  an  idea  of  the  cause.  The 
furious  ship  is  flying  the  Austrian 
eagle  at  the  main  ;  at  the  fore  and 
the  peak  is  the  crescent.  The  Turk- 
ish flag-ship  is  saluting  the  Emperor 
of  Austria,  who  arrived  an  hour  be- 
fore us.*  Her  yards  are  manned, 
and,  as  we  get  a  little  clearer  view, 
we  see  that  the  yards  of  fifty  ships 
are  similarly  occupied  —  rows  of 
sailors  at  different  heights  in  the 
air.  And  now  it  is  not  one  ship  of 
war,  but  several  at  a  time,  that 
essay  to  imitate  Jove's  thunder, 
and  an  awful  din  they  create.  The 
clatter  comes  from  all  sides,  and,  as 
it  seems  to  us,  most  wildly  and 
irregularly.  You  no  sooner  change 
position  to  get  a  very  little  out  of 


the  way  of  the  last  tormentor,  when 
— bang ! — under  your  nose  almost, 
runs  out  a  treacherous  piece,  and 
sends  a  rocket  through  your  brain, 
making  you  almost  leap  from  the 
deck.  Men,  as  they  were  inter- 
rupted in  their  speech  or  stunned 
by  a  discharge,  deprecated  the  shots 
in  a  forcible  manly  manner ;  and 
some  fair  ones  on  board  of  us  un- 
consciously moralised,  like  Hot- 
spur's friend,  concerning  the  dig- 
ging of  villanous  saltpetre.  In 
truth,  there  was  a  vast  expenditure 
of  cartridges. 

We  began  to  swing  in  order  to 
take  up  our  berth,  and  in  so  doing 
opened  the  broadside  of  the  Em- 
peror's yacht,  alongside  of  which 
two  of  the  Khedive's  barges  were 
waiting.  Presently  a  crowd  of 
plumes  gathered  on  deck,  and  we 
saw  the  Viceroy  descend  the  side 
and  pull  away,  cheered  by  all  the 
men  on  all  the  yards.  Later  on 
the  Emperor  boarded  the  Khedive, 
and  the  scene  was  repeated. 

As  we  came  up  the  harbour  and 
remarked  the  sailors  of  different 
nations  in  succession  spread  out 
upon  the  yards,  we  had  our  jokes 
at  the  fellows'  style,  and  anticipat- 
ed the  satisfaction  with  which  we 
should  soon  behold  something  of  a 
first-rate  character ;  but  another 
and  another  was  passed — Russian, 
Swede,  Dane,  Belgian,  Prussian, 
and  what  not — and  still  no  appear- 
ance of  the  genuine  article.  The 
British  fleet  was  outside,  and  two 
of  the  ships,  they  told  us,  the  Royal 
Oak  and  Prince  Consort,  were  a- 
ground.  Not  pleasant  this.  Our 
statesmen  have,  no  doubt,  excellent 
reasons  for  the  attitude  Great  Brit- 
ain has  assumed  in  regard  to  the 
Canal;  nevertheless  I  say  it  would 
have  gladdened  mine  eyes  to  come 
upon  the  mariners  of  England  in 
this  great  gathering.  In  the  after- 
noon I  saw  a  union-jack  at  the 
masthead  of  a  tiny  steamer,  over- 
shadowed by  tall  masts  and  oceans 
of  bunting.  This  obscure  manifes- 


The  Crown-Prince  of  Prussia  had  arrived  before  the  Emperor. 


1370.] 


Tfie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


87 


t.-ition  denoted  the  presence  of  the 
British  Admiral  in  his  tender. 

You  are  to  bear  in  mind,  as  you 
road,  that  the  firing  never  stops.  It 
is  sometimes  continued  by  only  one 
or  two  ships  at  a  time,  but  it  is 
t:ie  running  accompaniment  to  the 
events  of  all  this  day.  A  Dane, 
q  aite  close  to  us,  and  heavily  armed, 
took  especial  pleasure  in  hearing 
himself  talk,  to  our  no  small  annoy- 
ance, for  he  lifted  our  steamer  al- 
most out  of  the  water  at  every  dis- 
charge. Noise  and  confusion  are 
certainly  a  source  of  the  sublime, 
though  I  do  not  remember  that 
Burke  has  said  so.  If  ears  were 
confounded  by  the  uproar,  so  were 
eyes  by  the  infinite  display  of  ban- 
r  ers  on  ships  and  on  shore.  All 
along  the  moles  that  enclose  the 
L  arbour,  all  along  the  shore,  from  the 
tops  of  all  high  buildings,  from  the 
laasts  and  rigging  of  the  ships, 
streams  bunting,  stamped  with  all 
colours  and  devices,  and  waved 
about  by  the  softest  of  airs.  The  sea 
and  sky  are  blue,  the  sun  is  bright, 
nature  is  aiding  the  endeavour  of 
man  to  make  this  a  holiday. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  compre- 
hend the  scene  on  the  water,  which 
was  in  itself  a  complete  pageant ; 
but,  having  satisfied  myself  there- 
with, I  landed  with  a  party  and 
began  to  explore  the  town,  where 
everything  was  as  lively  and  as  bril- 
liant  as  on  the  water.  A  large 
company  was  promenading  the 
streets  and  wharves,  but  no  special 
ceremony  was  enacted  this  day. 
Beat,  sand,  thirst — everybody  in 
.summer  attire,  umbrellas  plentiful, 
men  with  puggarees  and  veils.  We 
proceeded  along  the  strand,  facing 
which  are  buildings,  most  of  them 
temporary,  decked  with  flags  and 
prepared  for  illumination.  On 
the  other  side  is  a  row  of  ban- 
ners hooked  on  to  upright  poles, 
and  flying  from  little  staves  at 
right  angles  to  the  uprights.  These 
latter  are  surmounted  by  gilded 
crescents,  and  would  be  more  im- 
posing if  they  looked  less  like 
stable-forks;  but  the  profusion  of 


gauzy  banners  streaming  in  the 
clear  air  has  a  fairy-like  beauty. 
Seaward  of  the  line  of  stable-forks 
are  three  gorgeous  pavilions — the 
largest  in  the  centre  is  rich  with 
crimson  and  gold,  and  overshadow- 
ed by  the  flags  and  arms  of  all 
nations,  grouped  in  divers  colours, 
and  seeming  to  denote  universal 
brotherhood.  Twice  over  I  saw 
our  striped  acquaintance  of  the 
battle  and  the  breeze  mingling  its 
folds  affectionately  with  the  flags 
of  demonstrative  foreigners,  as  if 
it  were  natural  for  a  St  George's 
and  St  Andrew's  cross  to  hug  and 
kiss  in  that  outlandish  fashion ! 
Right  and  left  of  the  centre  were 
smaller  pavilions — one  crowned  by 
a  cross,  the  other  by  a  crescent — 
both  beautifully  draped  and  orna- 
mented :  the  object  for  which  they 
were  erected  was  explained  later. 
We  passed  into  the  town,  which, 
being  irregular,  and  built  without 
any  architectural  pretension,  needs 
but  slight  description.  Its  rapid, 
almost  magic  growth,  is  its  notable 
record. 

To  a  person  possessed  with  the 
supreme  importance  of  the  Canal, 
the  most  interesting  sight  in  Port 
Sa'id  is  the  fountain  of  fresh  water 
which  fills  a  large  circular  basin  in 
the  Place  de  Lesseps,  the  great 
square.  An  Englishman  must 
muse  a  little  before  he  can  under- 
stand the  blessing  that  this  pre- 
cious circumference  is  to  the  inhab- 
itants. Even  in  the  drought  of 
1868,  great  Manchester  endured 
little  more  than  the  apprehension 
of  being  restricted  in  the  use  of 
fresh  water.  The  supply  may  have 
been  shut  off  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  twenty-four,  and  possibly  the 
dust  of  the  city  was  not  laid  with 
the  same  lavish  flow  as  at  other 
times  ;  but  we  never  felt  what  it  is 
to  be  straitened.  But  what  must 
have  been  the  condition  of  the 
living  things  in  Port  Sai'd  when 
their  supply  had  to  be  conveyed  to 
them  by  boat  or  camel  from  streams 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  distant  ? 
Think  of  their  feelings  when  they 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


saw  spring  up  through  the  parched 
soil  a  bubbling  jet  from  the  Nile's 
flood,  forced  from  Ismai'lia  to  them 
through  tubes  by  the  power  of 
steam,  and  brought  to  Ismailia  by 
the  fresh-water  canal !  The  power 
of  man's  mind,  penetrating  and 
compelling  the  powers  of  nature, 
achieved  this.  Can  it  escape  the 
mind  of  the  European  who  beholds 
the  work  that  he  is  standing  but  a 
short  distance,  comparatively,  from 
the  spot  where  a  man's  arm,  ani- 
mated by  the  power  of  God,  smote 
the  hard  rock,  and  the  waters 
flowed  out  ?  Surely  science,  heap- 
ing precept  on  precept,  and  line 
upon  line,  picking  here  a  little  and 
there  a  little,  but  surely  if  slowly 
advancing  to  grand  results,  is  of 
kin  to  inspiration,  whatever  antag- 
onism frail  minds  may  imagine 
between  them.  It  will  be  a  great 
improvement  when  the  population 
come  to  understand,  not  only  the 
blessing  of  sufficient  water,  but 
how  pure  water  ought  to  be  treated. 
We  shall  not  then  see  filthy  Arabs 
who  come  to  draw  and  to  fill  their 
skins,  plunging  their  feet  into  the 
basin,  and  standing  and  walking 
therein.  If  the  practice  be  thought 
to  improve  the  water  for  domestic 
uses,  the  sooner  that  superstition 
follows  the  many  which  are  being 
day  by  day  surrendered  by  the 
Arabs,  the  better. 

There  being  a  regiment  encamped 
outside  the  town,  I  went  to  look  at 
the  camp.  They  were  in  bell-tents 
pitched  on  the  sands,  and  rather 
closely,  without  any  apparent  order. 
In  rear  were  a  few  dozen  horses 
picketed,  some  wearing  artillery 
harness  of  villanously  dirty  and 
dilapidated  appearance,  and  some 
without  saddle  or  cloth,  exhibiting 
their  lean  carcasses  and  ungroomed 
coats.  While  I  looked,  an  officer 
of  rank,  probably  the  colonel  of  the 
regiment,  with  sleeves  covered  with 
lace,  appeared,  and  had  his  horse 
brought  up,  grandly  caparisoned. 
He  left  the  camp  in  great  state. 
The  soldiers,  I  observed,  carried 
their  packs  much  as  ours  do.  The 


uniforms  are  gay,  and  generally 
blue. 

Beyond  the  encampment,  again, 
was  an  Arab  village,  where  there 
was  little  to  attract,  but  much 
squalor,  and  where  the  smells  and 
sights  were  very  disgusting.  Re- 
turning, I  looked  into  a  mean  build- 
ing which  served  as  a  mosque.  A 
few  of  the  faithful,  sprinkled  over 
its  area,  were  worshipping  with 
their  faces  toward  Mecca.  The 
worship  appeared  to  consist  of 
prayer  or  praise  with  the  arms 
extended,  and  prostrations  with 
the  forehead  to  the  ground,  alter- 
nately. 

All  the  native  women  were 
veiled  ;  but,  as  far  as  I  saw  at  Port 
Sai'd,  the  veils,  which  were  black, 
covered  only  the  lower  part  of  the 
countenance  below  the  eyes,  being 
suspended  from  the  head  by  a 
black  band. 

Finding  not  much  more  to  see 
just  now  in  the  town,  I  turned  back 
toward  the  landing-place,  passing 
through  the  same  motley  crowd 
that  I  had  before  traversed.  But 
an  arrangement  which  certainly 
had  been  spoken  of  before,  but  in 
which  no  one  seemed  to  believe,  re- 
ceived just  at  this  time  a  corrobora- 
tion  that  was  beyond  all  contradic- 
tion ;  for,  looking  through  the  open 
window  of  what  appeared  to  be  a 
restaurant,  I  perceived  some  of  my 
fellow-voyagers  refreshing  and  en- 
joying themselves  with  that  air  of 
ease  and  abandon  which  is  so  offen- 
sive to  others  who  are  hot  and 
dusty  and  weary,  and  who  never- 
theless have  come  to  no  definite 
determination  as  to  how  they  too 
will  refresh  and  enjoy  themselves. 
A  friend,  with  a  beaming  counte- 
nance, and  with  pressing  hospital- 
ity, held  up  a  champagne-bottle  to 
allure  me  to  enter.  He  made  me 
think  of  the  modern  Greek  at 
Haidee's  feast,  who  will  occupy 
himself  with  no  business,  subscribe 
to  no  doctrine  except  that  the 
capon  on  which  he  is  engaged  is 
fat,  and  that  good  wine  ne'er 
washed  down  better  fare.  Jolly 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


89 


dog!  thought  I.  Kind,  liberal,  open- 
hearted  fellow !  The  jollity  and  hos- 
pitality, however,  turned  out  to  be 
of  a  character  which  makes  them  easy 
of  demonstration.  The  whole  enter- 
tainment was  at  the  Viceroy's  ex- 
pense. The  guests  were  all  the 
strangers  who  had  come  to  witness 
the  inauguration  of  the  fetes.  Here 
let  me  add  that  at  Ismailia  as  well 
as  at  Port  Said  public  tables  were 
provided  for  all  visitors,  and  meals 
and  wines  supplied  free  of  cost. 
Temporary  buildings  containing 
comfortable,  though  not  very  pri- 
vate, sleeping  accommodation,  had 
also  been  provided;  and,  among  the 
vast  crowd  that  assembled  there, 
there  must  have  been  many  right 
glad  to  use  the  kindly  shelter. 

An  hour  or  two  of  daylight  still 
remained,  and  presented  an  oppor- 
tunity for  looking  round  the  new 
harbour.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
how  loosely  the  blocks  which  com- 
pose the  moles  had  been  put  to- 
gether. They  have  been  thrown  in 
in  most  admirable  disorder,  abutting 
as  they  may;  and  as  they  are  all 
regular  six-sided  figures,  this  mode 
of  huddling  them  together  leads  to 
a  very  loose  and  honeycombed  wall. 
]  had  heard  before  I  left  home  that 
the  masonry  was  without  cement, 
but  I  had  imagined  that  the  blocks 
were  laid  accurately  with  their  beds 
horizontal  and  sides  and  ends  ver- 
tical, so  as  to  form  an  even  struc- 
ture. And  why  they  were  not 
FO  built  I  do  not  now  understand. 
The  form  of  the  blocks  would  in- 
dicate that  there  had  been  an  in- 
tention of  laying  them  regularly. 
No  doubt  there  is  a  reason,  and  a 
f'trong  one  too,  to  account  for  a 
mode  of  construction  which  entails 
many  manifest  disadvantages  :  as, 
for  instance,  that  the  many  inter- 
stices allow  of  the  passage  of  much 
fine  mud  into  the  harbour ;  that  the 
wall  is  not  only  weaker  as  a  whole, 
but  that  many  of  the  blocks  have 
been  broken  through  the  irregular 
bearings  and  their  efforts  to  find 
adequate  support ;  and  that  the  ap- 
pearance of  this,  a  new  work,  is 


that  of  a  ruin.  The  blocks  are 
huge  masses  of  concrete,  weighing 
upwards  of  twenty  tons  each,  and 
all  compounded  at  Port  Sai'd.  A 
short  view  of  the  moles  convinces 
one  of  the  justice  of  Mr  Hawk- 
shaw's  prediction,  that  these  walls 
will  have  to  be  built  over  again 
before  the  Canal  attains  a  great  age. 
The  section  gives  80  feet  as  the 
width  at  base,  20  feet  as  the  width 
at  top,  and  the  average  height  35 
to  40  feet.  The  western  mole  is 
nearly  3000  yards  long,  the  eastern 
about  2000. 

The  appearance  of  the  strand  on 
which  the  eastern  mole  abuts  fur- 
nished testimony  to  the  amount  of 
force  which  has  been  expended. 
It  was  literally  covered  with  boil- 
ers, capstans,  crabs,  cranes,  shackles, 
bolts,  trucks,  and  engineers'  appar- 
atus— such  a  display  as  I  never 
before  saw.  Two  obelisks  of  wood 
at  present  mark  the  entrance  to 
the  Canal.  They  are  of  consider- 
able height,  and  when  decked  for  a 
festival,  as  I  saw  them,  looked  im- 
posing. Their  slight  structure, 
however,  would  imply  that  they 
are  not  intended  to  remain.  I 
pulled  a  little  way  into  the  passage 
and  landed  on  the  banks  to  look  at 
Lake  Menzaleh.  The  descriptions 
which  I  had  read  had  given  me,  I 
found,  a  just  idea  of  the  scene. 
The  banks  which  have  been  thrown 
up  separate  the  Canal  from  a  sandy 
wash  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
from  sheets  of  deep  water  or  water 
that  looks  deep.  Landward,  that 
is  southward,  no  firm  land  was  to 
be  seen.  Only  at  Port  Sai'd  and  in 
its  immediate  neighbourhood,  and 
along  the  banks  of  the  Canal,  did 
the  dry  land  appear. 

B,eturning  now  to  my  ship,  I 
heard  with  gratification  our  Na- 
tional Anthem  played  on  board  the 
Viceroy's  yacht.  It  was  explained 
afterwards  that  this  was  done  in 
compliment  to  some  of  our  party 
who  had  been  visiting  there.  With- 
out at  the  time  knowing  or  much 
caring  for  the  cause,  I  was  gratified 
to  hear  any  recognition  of  England ; 


90 


The  Opening  oftJie  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


it  was  galling  to  see  her  of  such 
small  account.  At  night  there  was 
a  most  comprehensive  reception  on 
board  the  Khedive's  yacht.  I  did 
not  attend  it,  because  I  did  not 
feel  attuned  for  gaiety  ;  but  I  af- 
terwards heard  it  described  as  very 
crowded  and  very  sumptuous,  the 
refreshments  including  smoking. 
There  was  no  restriction  as  to  dress. 
The  fitting  and  furnishing  of  the 
yacht  are  magnificent.  While  I 
peacefully  reposed  on  the  deck  in 
the  light  of  the  full  moon  and  the 
warmth  of  the  Egyptian  climate, 
witnessing  a  sort  of  rehearsal  of  the 
grand  illumination  intended  for  to- 
morrow, I  was  better  pleased  to  hear 
our  neighbours  on  board  the  Danish 
man-of-war  troll  forth  in  strong 
concert  a  series  of  national  airs, 
than  I  could  then  have  been  by 
any  festive  entertainment.  All  the 
day  long  had  been  working  within 
me  the  consciousness  that  this  was 
very  Egypt,  the  realm  of  mystery 
and  awe.  By  hearing  sounds  and 
seeing  sights,  and  by  constant  mo- 
tion, I  had  kept  the  sentiment  down 
till  dusk  ;  but  now,  when  the  night 
fell,  came  a  crowd  of  thoughts  and 
recollections  demanding  entertain- 
ment. To  lie  down  was  not  to 
sleep,  though  perchance  to  dream 
— to  dream  awake.  With  desire 
had  I  desired  to  behold  this  world- 
renowned  region,  possessing  su- 
preme claims  on  the  mind,  mingling 
with  the  first  tiny  shreds  of  know- 
ledge, and  related  to  all  the  know- 
ledge that  the  mind  can  receive. 
What  visions  had  I  seen  of  it  in 
infancy !  How  had  I  figured  to 
myself  the  hole  in  the  sand  where 
Moses  hid  the  Egyptian  whom  he 
had  slain  !  How  had  I  conjured  up 
the  scene  when  the  sons  of  Jacob, 
looking  one  upon  another,  confessed 
that  they  were  verily  guilty  con- 
cerning their  brother !  How  had  I 
read  and  wondered  over  Belzoni's 
travels,  and  the  glimpses  there 
given  of  the  grand  antiquities  lock- 
ed up  in  the  sand  and  the  deposit 
of  the  Nile,  and  waiting  for  the 
search  of  the  enterprising  !  And  as 


I  pondered  on  these  things,  there 
came  up  memories  dormant  for 
years  and  years — the  form  and  fur- 
niture of  a  room,  yea,  the  very  pat- 
tern of  a  carpet  showed  themselves, 
and  the  echoes  of  voices  long  ago 
hushed  in  death,  were  heard  once 
more  distilling  gentle  lessons  as 
when  life  was  young,  and  I  knew 
not  how  hard  a  world  I  had  to  face. 
It  is  impossible  but  that  Egypt 
must  command  wider  regards  than 
any  region  on  the  earth.  Countries 
there  are,  it  fcis  true,  from  whence 
have  come  arts,  and  philosophy,  and 
the  records  of  mighty  thoughts  and 
deeds,  but  these  are  objects  of  in- 
terest to  only  the  educated.  Egypt 
possesses  the  same  attractions  for 
the  learned,  and  to  this  is  added 
that  every  child  which  has  been 
ever  so  slightly  instructed  in  the 
lore  of  the  religions  of  the  civilised 
world,  or  which  has  acquired  the 
first  smatterings  of  profane  know- 
ledge, cannot  fail  to  have  a  place 
in  its  mind  for  venerable  Egypt. 
Hers  is  a  soil  to  be  trodden  with 
measured  footstep  and  bated  breath, 
as  by  men  who  walk  over  the  ashes 
of  their  kind.  Much  as  I  yearned 
toward  her,  I  believed  that  I  never 
should  look  on  her.  My  way  of 
life,  though  checkered  enough  by 
accident  and  travel,  has  led  me 
hitherto  to  parts  of  the  earth  where 
my  affections  were  not.  At  last  a 
wish  is  realised  ;  I  note  a  bright 
spot  in  a  wearying  life.  Weird 
country,  House  of  bondage,  Land  of 
Egypt,  I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the 
hearing  of  the  ear,  but  now  mine 
eye  seeth  thee  ! 

To  me,  my  friend,  nothing 
that  man  has  written  seems  so 
fit  to  stir  emotion  as  some  of 
the  Scriptural  stories  connected 
with  this  land  from  which  I  am 
writing.  Often  and  often  have  I 
wept  over  them,  and  now  that  I 
am  seared  and  worn,  they  can  touch 
the  springs  of  feeling  as  no  other 
legends  can.  In  Joseph  making 
himself  known  to  his  brethren  there 
is  a  terrible  delight — a  shaking  of 
the  nerves,  a  hardly  endurable 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


91 


satisfaction,  such  as  no  poetry,  or 
drima,  or  tale  beside  can  arouse. 
And  again,  the  swoon  of  Jacob,  when 
they  said  to  him,  "  Thy  son  Joseph 
is  yet  alive,  and  he  is  governor 
over  all  the  land  of  Egypt/' — what 
a  transporting  picture  do  we  not 
form  from  it !  how  one  revives 
with  him,  and  breathes  again  after 
ths  shock,  and  thinks  it  is  as  much 
ore's  own  utterance  as  the  patri- 
arch's, "I  will  go  down  and  see 
him  before  I  die,"  for  the  speaker 
mast  be  one  with  all  who  read  his 
words  !  And  sweetest,  perhaps,  of 
all  are  the  words  of  aged  Israel, 
spoken  by  him  not  as  a  prince  of 
Ghd,  or  as  a  prophet,  but  in  sim- 
ple thankfulness  and  unmeditated 
speech :  "  I  did  not'think  to  see  thy 
face,  and,  behold,  God  hath  showed 
me  thy  seed;"  epitomising  the  whole 
charmed  story,  calling  up  the  coat 
of  many  colours  soaked  in  blood, 
the  cruel  bereavement,  the  restora- 
tion of  Joseph  from  death,  whence 
his  father  received  him  in  a  figure 
—  Joseph's  splendid  destiny,  and 
the  blessed  reunion.  Well,  it  is 
pjist.  I  do  not  often  indulge  in 
reverie,  Bales,  so  this  lapse  may  be 
forgiven.  The  light  is  breaking 
through  my  cabin-window.  Mur- 
murs arise  which  grow  to  noises, 
and  the  noises  to  a  din.  The  ex- 
cited multitude  is  stirring  again, 
impatient  to  press  on  the  doings 
which  are  to  precede  the  great  trial 
of  the  Canal.  I  rouse  myself,  too. 
I  can  join  as  heartily  as  any  here 
in  the  ceremonies  and  gaieties.  I 
hive  wished  for  the  success  of  M. 
d>3  Lesseps'  work,  and  I  have  never 
doubted  that  he  would  succeed. 
\Ve  shall  see.  The  above  is  written 
as  if  I  had  expected  to  dress  quietly, 
and  then  make  my  little  programme 
for  the  day  leisurely.  I  did  expect 
something  of  the  kind,  but  never 
was  more  deceived.  Before  my 
slippers  were  well  on,  a  rattling,  to 
which  the  rattling  of  yesterday 
soemed  only  mild  and  moderate, 
shook  the  sea  and  sky.  Distant 
ciieers  are  borne  along  on  the  wind. 
I  guess  what  is  the  matter,  wrestle 


myself  into  some  garments  spas- 
modically, seize  my  glass,  and  rush 
on  deck.  All  I  can  see  is,  that 
the  men  are  out  upon  the  yards  as 
they  were  yesterday  ;  all  I  can  hear 
is  the  crashing  discharges  of  all  the 
cannon  in  the  harbour  as  it  seemed 
at  once.  The  ships  are  berthed  so 
close  together,  and  so  miscellane- 
ously, that  the  noise  and  smoke 
must  be  as  great  as  in  a  fleet-ac- 
tion. One  inwardly  prays  that 
they  will  cease,  if  it  be  but  for  a 
moment,  that  one  may  speak  to 
one's  fellow,  and  ask  or  tell  where 
the  point  of  interest  may  be.  There 
is  an  instant's  lull  at  last,  and 
cheers  are  heard,  but  still  distant. 
The  Empress  is  certainly  coming, 
but  where  1  Cheering  again.  Hah  ! 
the  Viceroy  enters  his  galley  and 
puts  off.  Certes  !  he  goes  to 
meet  Eugenie.  More  cheers,  and 
nearer,  yet  where  is  she  ?  What 
are  those  plaguy  ships  about 
changing  their  berths  1  Is  it 
some  late  steamer  dropping  in,  or 
are  they  making  way  for  L'Aigle  ? 
It  is  a  ship  I  see,  for  there  she 
comes,  that  dark  thing  there  with 
bare  masts  and  black  funnel  out 
of  keeping  with  the  pageant.  No  ! 
not  bare  ;  there  is  something  or 
other  flattering  against  the  mast, 
but  it  is  half-way  down.  There  it 
goes  up  again.  Why,  what  does  it 
mean  1  Mean !  why,  it  must  be  the 
dip  of  a  flag  returning  a  salute  ; 
there  is,  then,  some  great  personage 
on  board,  that  is  certain.  Look 
well  at  the  flag  which  is  now  at  the 
masthead  and  flying  out — tricolor — 
bees — the  Imperial  standard — it  is 
L'Aigle  and  no  other.  That's  luck, 
for  her  course  is  right  across  our 
bows.  If  the  Empress  be  on  deck 
we  shall  see  her ;  but  no,  she  is 
not,  for  there  is  a  dense  crowd 
amidships,  and  then  there  is  an 
envious  glass  enclosure  from  which, 
no  doubt,  everything  can  be  seen, 
but  into  which  we  see  only  through 
a  glass  darkly.  Provoking,  when 
the  opportunity  seemed  so  good, 
but  we  shall  have  other  chances. 
Speriamo.  At  any  rate  we  will 


92 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


have  a  look  at  the  outside  passen- 
gers —  the  gay  party  under  the 
canopy  astern  of  the  tantalising 
glass.  There  they  are,  not  more 
than  a  dozen  ;  splendidly  dressed, 
and  keeping  well  apart  to  indulge 
us ;  and  that  last  figure,  it  seems 
as  if  one  had  seen  it  before.  It 
draws  near  like  a  beautiful  statue. 
Why — no — yes — impossible — but 
it  is  though,  and  none  other — the 
Imperial  lady  herself,  majestic, 
beautiful,  face  to  face  with  us  at 
the  distance  of  an  arrow's  flight ! 
That  her  husband  is  not  by  her 
side  is  a  circumstance  that  lends 
interest  to  her  appearance  as  slowly 
and  swanlike  she  floats  by  ;  while 
from  the  decks  and  riggings,  and 
from  the  deepest  hearts  of  men  of 
all  nations,  come  cheers  after  cheers, 
making  the  heavens  ring.  The 
shouts  are  first  raised  for  the  Em- 
press ;  but  all  seem  immediately 
to  forget  that  they  are  hailing 
aught  save  a  being  gifted  with  the 
highest  qualities  of  womanhood — 
gracious,  gentle,  and  fashioned  like 
a  sculptor's  dream.  She  passes  on 
— God  saveher ! — and  L'Aigle  takes 
her  berth  opposite  us,  but  unfor- 
tunately she  does  not  lie  trans- 
versely; and,  as  she  swings  round, 
the  firing  is  hushed  for  a  while, 
and  the  air  is  pierced  through  and 
through  from  all  points  by  the 
notes  of  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie." 
By  the  trident  of  Neptune  it  has 
been  a  glorious  pageant ! — such  a 
one  as  is  seen,  perhaps,  but  once  or 
twice  in  the  life  of  an  ordinary 
mortal,  but  which  men  tax  their 
skill  to  imitate  in  pictures,  and 
theatres,  and  sculptures,  and  to 
paint  in  words  for  the  amusement 
of  their  fellows.  7  have  seen  the 
reality  here,  and  am  transported  by 
my  good  fortune. 

There  occurred  now,  what  from 
the  poverty  of  language  I  must  call 
a  lull,  meaning  by  that  that  there 
was  not  much  passing  that  required 
one  to  be  continually  straining  the 
eye.  Visits  were  going  on  between 
the  great  personages,  and  the  French 
ships  had  now  to  return  all  the 


shots  that  had  been  fired  during 
the  morning.  But  they  were  the 
ships  of  one  nation  only,  and  could 
not  maintain  such  a  crashing  as  the 
ships  of  conspiring  nations.  More- 
over, they  were  not  very  near  us, 
and  so  I  call  it  a  lull ;  and  the  lull 
continued  till  afternoon,  to  the  sat- 
isfaction, I  should  think,  of  every- 
body in  the  harbour. 

Afternoon,  however,  brought  its 
own  fete,  and  there  was  everybody 
pushing  for  a  sight  again,  malgre 
the  rubs,  and  scrambles,  and  con- 
cussions they  had  already  under- 
gone. A  ceremony  was  to  be  enact- 
ed on  the  shore,  probably  unlike 
any  that  has  been  witnessed  on  the 
earth.  There  was  to  be  a  religious 
inauguration  of  the  Suez  Canal,  at 
which  the  crowned  heads  were  all 
to  assist.  The  novelty  does  not  lie 
in  this,  but  in  the  fact  that  of  the 
crowned  heads  present  two  are 
Roman  Catholics,  one  a  Protestant, 
and  the  fourth  a  Mohammedan.  The 
Cross  and  Crescent  are  both  to  over- 
shadow worshippers  who  will  pre- 
fer to  Heaven  a  common  prayer  for 
the  success  of  the  work  which  has 
been  accomplished,  repudiating  self- 
ish policies,  and  pleading  that  their 
aim  is  peace,  goodwill  towards  men. 
The  pavilions  which  I  had  seen  in 
my  walk  of  yesterday  are  to  be  the 
scene  of  the  rite  ;  and  thither  will 
crowd  great  and  small  before  three 
o'clock.  I  landed  in  due  time  in 
company  with  two  friends,  a  gentle- 
man from  the  north  of  England 
and  his  young  fair  daughter.  We 
pass  from  the  landing-place  along 
causeways  and  under  arches,  till  we 
are  on  the  line  of  the  expected  pro- 
cession, which  is  marked  out  by  a 
flooring  of  loose  planks  over  the 
sand.  The  notabilia  of  the  road  as 
distinguished  from  yesterday  are, 
that  the  crowd  is  hurrying  all  one 
way,  and  that  the  sides  of  the  route 
are  flanked  by  troops  in  line.  We 
got  a  position  which  seemed  pro- 
mising, and  took  some  little  pains 
to  establish  ourselves  therein.  This 
we  effected,  and  as  I  found  my 
elbows  were  against  the  sides  of 


1870.1 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


93 


two  English  baronets,  I  imagined 
tbut  we  had  not  chosen  badly. 
There  was  some  little  objection 
on  the  part  of  the  military  to  our 
standing  where  we  did,  but  when 
they  looked  at  the  lady  who  belong- 
ed to  our  party,  the  gallant  Mussul- 
mans withdrew  all  opposition.  There 
were  two  or  three  commands  to  stand 
ba3k,  which  raised  the  hope  that  the 
procession  was  at  hand,  but  these 
ended  in  nothing  except  murmurs. 
At  last,  after  another  command  to 
stand  close,  there  was  manifestly  a 
number  of  persons  coming  soberly 
along  the  boarded  walk,  like  the 
head  of  a  procession,  with  uniforms, 
and  robes,  and  gay  streamers.  It 
was  composed  of  different  officials, 
military  and  civil,  of  many  nations. 
Our  consul-general  and  our  admiral 
were  among  them.  These  passed 
onward  and  took  their  stations  on 
the  central  platform.  I  was  sorry 
to  observe,  just  after  they  passed, 
that  a  naval  officer  (French,  I 
think,)  stumbled  and  fell :  it  was 
net  clear  whether  from  illness  or 
from  catching  his  foot.  There  was 
an  interval,  and  then  another  batch 
of  processionists — notabilities  this 
time,  though;  for  among  them  was 
the  enviable  De  Lesseps  himself, 
leading  his  charming  fiancee.  A 
proud  man  he  must  have  been,  and 
ought  to  have  been,  that  day.  And 
near  him  was  Madame  de  Lesseps, 
hi?  daughter-in-law,  on  the  arm  of 
what  appeared  to  be  a  general  of- 
ficer, but  turned  out  to  be  a  literary 
gentleman  of  reputation,  jammed 
into  a  red  coat  rich  with  decora- 
tions, and  plumed  like  Mars — a 
sublime  sight,  or  within  a  step  of 
it !  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  Mrs 
B.  might  not  object  to  learn  how 
the  lady  who  is  so  soon  to  be  Ma- 
dame de  Lesseps  was  habited  on 
this  great  occasion  ;  and,  according 
to  my  ability,  I  proceed  to  describe 
her  dress.  She  wore  a  short  black 
silk  dress,  and  a  black  hat,  with 
tu-)  veils — the  one  next  her  face  a 
grey  gauze,  outside  that  a  spotted 
black.  The  group  was  tolerably 
large,  but  I  had  not  time  to  observe 


all  its  'members  ;*  and  so  these 
passed  on  to  the  platform.  And 
now  at  last  the  troops  present  arms, 
there  are  tall  banners  waving  in  the 
distance,  and  the  sounds  of  mili- 
tary music  —  the  sceptered  guests 
this  time,  no  doubt.  They  come 
on,  preceded  by  some  of  the  Khe- 
dive's household — a  cluster  of  great 
ones  such  as  may  not  often  be  seen 
together.  The  Empress  of  the 
French,  the  Emperor  of  Austria, 
the  Viceroy  of  Egypt,  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Prussia,  and  the  Viceroy's 
young  son.  They  are  walking  slow- 
ly, on  a  level  with  the  crowd,  and 
within  distinct  view  of  all  beholders. 
The  Empress  leans  on  the  arm  of 
the  Emperor  of  Austria.  The  cheers 
are  hearty  as  they  come  along. 
She  draws  near.  The  Empress, 
the  cynosure,  smiling  as  only  some 
ten  women  in  the  world  can  smile, 
winning  hearts,  applauded,  wor- 
shipped; but  she  passed,  and  it 
was  as  if  the  sun  had  been  eclipsed. 
Aright  worthy  party  they  appeared, 
and  I  believe  the  salutations  which 
met  them  this  day  were  as  genuine 
as  they  were  numerous  and  loud. 
The  suites  of  the  different  princes 
made  up  the  procession,  which  had 
soon  filed  on  to  the  centre  platform. 
During  the  short  interval  before 
the  commencement  of  the  services, 
the  naval  officer  whom  I  had  seen 
fall  was  led  away  between  two  com- 
rades, looking  very  weak  and  wan. 
I  am  afraid  that  he  was  struck  by 
some  disease,  but  I  never  heard 
more  of  him.  A  parenthesis  here 
for  Mrs  B.,  whom  I  had  forgotten 
in  writing  the  above.  The  Empress 
wore  a  short  pale-grey  silk,  with 
deep  white  Brussels  lace  arranged 
en  paniers  and  flounces,  as  my  fair 
companion  explained  to  me.  Her  hat 
and  veil  were  black,  and  there  was  a 
black  velvet  ribbon  round  her  neck. 
The  Mohammedan  pontiff  who 
officiated  on  this  occasion  was  un- 
derstood to  be  a  man  of  surpass- 
ing sanctity,  who  had  come  from  a 
great  distance.  He  was  old,  and 
his  voice  feeble,  so  that  his  utter- 
ances were  not  very  distinctly  heard, 


94 


Tlie  Opening  of  tJie  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


— a  circumstance  which,  to  the  Eu- 
ropean part  of  the  audience,  could 
not  have  been  of  much  importance, 
as  he,  of  course,  spoke  in  Arabic. 
Whether  it  may  have  been  a  prayer 
or  an  exhortation  which  he  gave 
voice  to,  it  was  but  short.  And 
then  followed  prayers  on  the  Ko- 
man  Catholic  side  of  the  platform. 
But  the  event  of  the  meeting  was 
yet  to  come — namely,  an  address  by 
M.  Bauer,  her  Majesty's  confessor, 
commencing,  "  Monseigneur,  Ma- 
dame, Sire," — Monseigneur  indicat- 
ing, as  I  understood,  the  Viceroy. 
It  is  hardly  a  disparagement  to  say 
that  this  oration  contained  no  new 
information  or  idea.  It  was  im- 
possible that  a  subject  which  had 
been  so  long  and  so  generally  dis- 
cussed could  be  put  into  an  entirely 
new  light  for  this  public  day.  But 
it  is,  I  think,  a  fair  objection  to  the 
speech  that,  being  of  necessity  com- 
posed of  somewhat  trite  matter, 
it  was  couched  in  grandiloquent 
phrases.  Familiar  ideas  do  not  ad- 
mit of  being  dressed  in  high-sound- 
ing words.  I  shall  be  curious  to  see 
whether,  when  the  discourse  is  pub- 
lished in  the  papers,  as  it  will  be, 
the  judgment  which  I  have  formed 
of  it  will  be  supported  by  the  critics. 
The  orator  magnified  the  work  now 
achieved  as  one  of  the  grandest 
which  history  can  record,  and  di- 
lated on  the  benefits  derivable 
from  it  both  to  the  present  and  the 
future.  He  thought  that  the  day 
of  creation  and  the  16th  day  of 
November  1869,  would  both  figure 
in  the  chronology  of  the  future  in 
ineffaceable  characters.  Then  he 
proceeded  :  "  II  y  a  deux  mondes 
unis  dans  un  seul.  Le  splendide 
orient  et  1'occident  merveilleux  se 
rapprochent,  se  saluent  :  salut  ! 
splendide  orient  d'ou  nous  viennent 
a  la  fois  la  lumiere  du  soleil  et 
celle  de  1'intelligence.  Et  toi 
aussi  salut !  Occident  -qui  as  re- 
cueilli  cette  lumiere  et  en  as  fait 
le  patrimoine  commun  de  tous. 
C'est  aujourd'bui  la  grande  fete 
de  Fhumanite  tout  entidre  !  "  The 
Canal,  which  seems  only  a  means 


of  increasing  wealth,  is  neverthe- 
less to  be  the  great  river  which  of 
two  worlds  shall  make  a  single 
world,  and  of  all  the  races  of  the 
earth  a  single  humanity.  Manners, 
language,  customs,  are  all  to  be  as- 
similated. "  II  n'y  aura  plus  qu'un 
unique fairceau, I'humanite."  These 
are  very  fine  words,  and  very  grand 
promises,  but  are  they  not  rather 
lavish  ]  Our  friend  over  the  water 
will  not  be  long  before  he  endea- 
vours to  emulate  this  work,  or 
rather  to  overwhelm  and  stamp  it 
out  of  notice,  by  the  splendid  pierc- 
ing of  the  Isthmus  of  Darien.  But 
what  will  be  the  use  of  opening 
the  second  isthmus  if  the  opening 
of  the  first  has  already  fused  the 
nations  into  "  une  seule  humanite"/' 
and  produced  a  millennium  1  For- 
tunately the  gentlemen  who  are  ex- 
pected to  promote  the  junction  of 
the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Oceans  are 
not  of  a  race  likely  to  be  outdone 
in  tall  talk  ;  and  as  they  once  dis- 
covered an  oyster  so  big  that  it  re- 
quired two  men  to  swallow  it  whole, 
so  they  may  represent  Vhumanite 
as  grown  to  such  perfection  that  it 
requires  two  canals  to  maintain  it 
seule. 

M.  Bauer,  with  better  taste  than 
distinguishes  the  greater  part  of  his 
address,  complimented  the  Viceroy 
on  the  success  of  the  undertaking. 
"  Ce  que  vous  avez  sagement  voulu," 
he  said,  "  vous  avez  courageuse- 
ment  accompli.  Jouissez  aujourd'- 
huide  votre  glorieux  succes  !"  but 
he  immediately  after  relapsed  into 
bombast.  I  cannot,  however,  find 
much  fault  with  the  few  words 
which  he  addressed  particularly  to 
the  Empress  Eugenie.  "  Madame, 
et  ce  n'est  pas  en  une  parole  banale, 
1'histoire  dira  tout  ce  que  cette 
ceuvre  merveilleuse  doit  a  vos 
chaudes  sympathies.  Ici  encore, 
votre  cceur  a  battu  a  1'unison  de 
celui  de  la  France  !;>  Neither  do  I 
wish  one  word  omitted  from  the 
apostrophe  which  he  made  to  the 
great  author  of  the  work,  and  I 
joined  heartily  in  the  cheer  which 
attended  the  conclusion  of  it  : 


1670.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


"  Tout  ce  qui  constitue  le  puissant 
initiateur,  en  est  fait  la  plus  grande 
gloire  du  dix-neuvieme  siecle.  Ainsi 
il  est  un  nom  que  nous  pouvons 
sans  desavantage  opposer  a  celui 
de  Christophe  Colombe,  c'est  celui 
de  FERDINAND  DE  LESSEPS." 
(Bravo !  bravo !) 

In  awarding  to  the  Emperor  of 
Austria  his  share  of  the  compli- 
ments, M.  Bauer  said  that  the  Ad- 
riatic Sea  made  now  only  one  river 
with  the  Indian  Ocean.  The  mean- 
ing of  this  flourish  is  not  quite  clear, 
but  the  expression  struck  me  and 
many  of  my  friends  with  whom  I 
have  talked  the  matter  over  as  being 
in  questionable  taste.  An  appeal 
to  Heaven,  quite  worthy  to  be  in- 
scribed with  the  rest  of  the  oration, 
ended  it. 

After  the  ceremony  the  illustri- 
ous actors  in  it  returned  in  the 
same  order  in  which  they  had  come 
to  the  wharf,  and  thence  on  board 
their  respective  ships  under  the  in- 
dispensable salutes  of  cannon.  I 
strolled  about  Port  Said,  looking 
into  some  of  theshops,  which  seemed 
very  fairly  supplied.  There  was  no 
public  entertainment  this  night,  if 
th:it  expression  be  applicable  when 
so  many  thousands  were  being  en- 
tertained at  the  Viceroy's  expense, 
and  when  an  illumination  was  be- 
ing prepared  which  should  delight 
all  eyes  ashore  or  afloat.  I  mean 
thiit  invitations-  for  a  dinner,  ball, 
or  other  party  were  not  issued  by 
the  Viceroy,  and  it  was  understood 
that  sovereigns  and  princes  would 
spend  the  evening  as  each  should 
please,  and  prepare  for  the  passage 
of  the  Canal  to-morrow. 

The  early  part  of  the  evening  was 
pat  sed  on  board  in  discussing  once 
more  the  probabilities  of  the  pas- 
sage to-morrow,  and  the  arrange- 
ments made  in  that  respect.  Sinis- 
ter rumours  were  afloat  concerning 
the  grounding  of  a  Turkish  steamer 
in  the  Canal,  on  which  the  prophets 
of  evil  began  to  croak  hoarsely.  I 
own  that  I  was  surprised  to  find 
how  little  faith  there  was  even  now 
in  uhe  sufficiency  of  the  work.  As 


the  Israelites  imputed  to  Moses  that 
he  had  brought  them  out  of  Egypt 
to  perish  in  the  wilderness,  so  did 
they  of  little  faith  affirm  that  M. 
de  Lesseps  had  decoyed  us  all  from 
our  hearths  and  altars  to  witness  a 
miserable  failure.  We  should  see. 
We  might  go  into  the  Canal,  but 
our  ship  would  have  to  be  dug  out 
of  it,  and  we,  landed  in  the  wilder- 
ness, might  find  our  way  to  the 
coast  as  best  we  could.  The  ladies, 
bless  them !  showed  less  distrust 
than  the  gentlemen,  and  argued 
against  the  probability  of  a  work 
which,  through  so  many  difficulties 
and  dangers,  had  been  brought  tri- 
umphantly to  this  point,  being  al- 
lowed to  come  to  nought  at  this 
supreme  moment.  And  so,  in  cheer- 
ful predictions  and  dining,  we  whiled 
away  the  hours  till  the  illuminations 
should  commence. 

If  M.  de  Lesseps  was  to  lie  open 
to  our  reproach  for  seducing  us  from 
our  homes  to  be  disappointed  in  re- 
spect of  the  Canal,  he  at  any  rate 
deserved  credit  for  bringing  us  to 
a  better  climate  than  our  own.  I 
could  imagine  what  an  English 
evening  would  be  like  on  the  16th 
of  November  —  very  unlike  the 
heavenly  nightfall  in  which  we  took 
to  our  boats  to  behold  the  illumina- 
tions and  fireworks.  The  tempera- 
ture was  simply  delicious;  hardly 
a  ripple  was  on  the  water,  and  the 
moon,  at  the  full,  was  riding  in  the 
heavens.  We  pulled  out  into  the 
small  open  passage  left  after  accom- 
modating so  many  ships,  and  looked 
down  the  rows  of  shipping  to  right 
and  left.  All  were  ablaze  with 
lamps,  some  variegated,  others  of 
uniform  colour.  In  some  of  them 
every  inch  of  the  rigging  was  stud- 
ded with  these  gay  fires,  and  in  all 
there  was  a  profuse  display.  Near 
to  you  the  glare  quite  dazzled,  but 
the  lights  mellowed  with  distance  : 
three  or  four  ships  off  they  were  in 
lines  and  streaks ;  farther  on  they 
exhibited  confused  figures  ;  and  at 
last  they  stretched  away  into  what 
seemed  infinity — an  endless  rosy 
cloud.  One  ship  of  war,  which  had 


96 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


the  appearance  of  lying  across  the 
harbour,  came  out  especially  strong 
in  illumination,  and  the  Viceroy's 
yacht  was  most  tastefully  and  pro- 
fusely lighted,  rigging  and  hull  too. 
To  form  an  idea  of  all  this,  you  must 
consider  the  large  area  over  which 
the  fires  extended.  Look  which  way 
you  might,  your  eye  could  not  find 
a  sombre  spot ;  the  heavens  seemed 
on  fire,  and  the  calm  depths  on 
which  we  floated,  reflecting  all  the 
glories,  multiplied  indefinitely  the 
brilliant  figures.  Before  we  could 
take  in  the  whole  effects,  rockets 
began  to  rise  from  different  quar- 
ters at  once,  and  these  continued 
to  be  discharged  during  the  whole 
evening,  the  stars  of  some  of  them 
being  most  artistically  and  beau- 
tifully contrived.  Besides  these, 
there  were  all  sorts  of  fiery  pro- 
jectiles, which,  little  by  little,  join- 
ed in  the  general  conflagration ;  and 
at  last,  on  the  strand,  were  exhibit- 
ed all  manner  oifeux  a" artifice,  the 
most  elaborate  appearing  near  to 
one  of  the  obelisks  which  I  mention- 
ed as  marking  the  entrance  to  the 
Canal.  Along  this  strand  burned 
coloured  lamps.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
fairy  scene,  and  to  pull  about  the 
harbour  and  enjoy  it  seemed  the 
height  of  pleasure.  Our  wayward 
nature,  however,  will  have  change ; 
and,  leaving  the  delights  on  the 
water,  we  pulled  to  shore  to  see 
how  it  fared  with  the  town.  There, 
too,  all  was  light.  Torches  glared, 
legends  of  light  were  visible,  Chin- 
ese lanterns  gleamed  high  and  low, 
and  of  all  colours.  It  was  like 
taking  a  walk  through  the  zodiac. 
I  never  saw  such  a  glitter  of  artifi- 
cial light  as  on  this  night.  The 
murmuring  of  many  voices,  and  the 
shooting  of  the  projectiles,  were  the 
only  sounds  that  broke  the  still- 
ness— a  delightful  contrast  to  the 
banging  and  rattling  that  had  been 
going  on  all  day.  I  -do  not  know 
what  Port  Sa'id  may  be  in  its  work- 
ing clothes,  but  in  its  holiday  dress 
I  bear  testimony  to  its  being  a  most 
enchanting  place. 
The  arrangements  for  commenc- 


ing the  passage  of  the  Canal  next 
day  were  not  issued  till  late  on  the 
16th,  and  some  inconvenience  en- 
sued. The  order  of  proceeding 
was  not  strictly  observed.  There 
was  intelligence  of  the  ship  that 
had  grounded  in  the  Canal  being  off 
the  bank  ;  but  still  the  doubters 
were  dissatisfied,  arid  went  to  bed 
with  doleful  hearts.  It  was  a  com- 
fort to  learn  this  evening  that  the 
two  English  ships  had  been  got  off 
the  mud  outside. 

The  morning  of  the  17th  began 
with  firing,  like  the  preceding  two 
days.  As  I  knew  what  the  firing 
meant,  I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  be 
startled  out  of  my  cabin,  as  I  had 
done  the  day  before,  but  dressed 
leisurely,  judging  from  the  sounds 
without  what  was  going  on.  The 
ships  of  war  had  been  directed  to 
enter  first,  and  there  were  to  be  in- 
tervals of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  each 
between  every  two  ships.  When, 
therefore,  after  the  first  cannonad- 
ing I  heard  our  Danish  neighbour 
playing  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie,"  I 
knew  that  L'Aigle  was  entering 
the  canal.  More  firing,  and  the 
Hymn  to  the  Emperor,  showed  that 
the  Austrian  imperial  yacht  had 
gone  in,  arid  so  on.  Our  national 
anthem  was  being  played  as  I  came 
out  to  view  the  scene,  and  Sir  A, 
Milne,  in  his  tender,  was  just  pass- 
ing between  the  obelisks.  After 
seeing  the  first  few  begin  the  pas- 
sage, and  watching  their  masts  as 
long  as  we  could  see  them,  we  went 
to  breakfast.  The  news  at  table 
was  that,  by  incredible  exertions 
continued  all  night,  the  obstructing 
ship  had  been  removed,  but  still 
heads  were  shaken  and  predictions 
hazarded  against  a  successful  pas- 
sage. For  my  part,  I  was  not  in 
the  least  surprised  to  hear  that  a 
ship  had  touched  in  the  Canal,  or 
that  they  had  got  her  off.  The 
smallest  error  in  steering  must  put 
a  long  ship  on  the  bank;  but  the 
officers  of  the  Canal  were  no  doubt 
prepared  for  accidents  of  the  kind, 
and  no  doubt  they  took  care  that 
everything  should  be  clear  on  this 


1370.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


97 


eventful  morning.  I  was  so  far 
from  thinking  worse  of  the  Canal 
because  a  ship  had  taken  the  ground 
that  I  rather  rejoiced  in  the  acci- 
dent, as  it  gave  an  opportunity  of 
showing  how  readily  it  could  be 
dealt  with. 

It  was  afternoon  before  we  in  our 
turn  steamed  into  the  jaws  of  the 
Canal.  We  were  about  in  the 
middle  of  the  procession,  so  that  it 
must  have  been  evening  before  the 
last  ship  entered.  The  orders  were 
to  proceed  at  the  rate  of  five  miles 
a  a  hour,  and  to  maintain  the  initial 
distance  between  the  ships.  Of 
course  the  transmission  of  instruc- 
tions from  either  end  of  the  flotilla 
to  the  other  by  signals  was  easy. 
Ifc  was  delightful  to  reflect  that  we 
were  actually  in  the  much-canvassed 
water,  and  then  to  feel  that  our 
ship,  which  did  not  then  draw 
much  over  twelve  feet,  sped  along 
as  easily  as  if  she  had  been  at  sea. 
The  water  about  us  looked  some- 
what disturbed,  as  if  the  preceding 
ships,  either  by  actual  contact  with 
the  ground,  or  by  the  wash  on  the 
sides  of  the  Canal  which  their  pas- 
sage occasioned,  had  troubled  the 
waters ;  but  we  went  along.  When 
we  first  slackened  speed,  in  order 
to  keep  the  required  pace,  the  ship 
which  followed  us  showed  a  dis- 
position to  run  up  and  attempt  to 
pass  —  an  attempt  which  was  of 
course  thwarted.  I  mention  it  to 
show  that  there  were  irregularities 
committed  in  endeavours  to  get 
forward  places,  which  might  have 
led  to  blocks  and  difficulties,  and 
which  were  extremely  inconsiderate 
at  a  time  when  the  object  of  every 
ship  admitted  should  have  been  to 
make  a  fair  trial  of  the  capabilities 
of  the  passage.  WTe  sounded  con- 
tinually. The  lead  was  hove  by 
1  talian,  not  English,  sailors,  but  I 
was  assured  that  they  were  finding 
on  this  first  day  never  less  than  23 
English  feet  of  water,  and  some- 
times as  many  as  30  feet.  I  am 
afraid,  however,  that  we  did  not 
test  the  very  shallowest  parts,  or 
that  there  was  some  mistake  in  the 

VOL.  CVII.— NO.  DCLI. 


reduction  of  the  soundings  to  Eng- 
lish measure.  However,  those  be- 
fore us  were  advancing,  great  and 
small;  the  greatest  draught  being 
18  or  19  feet— that  of  the  Peluse,  a 
French  ship. 

Only  a  dreary  expanse  of  shoal- 
water  and  inundation  is  visible  from 
the  northern  end  of  the  Canal.  Lake 
Menzaleh,  which  in  these  latter 
days  has  been  more  a  swamp  than 
a  lake,  is  extensive  and  unvaried. 
The  Canal  has  been  driven  through 
it  by  dredging,  and  the  Canal's 
banks  are  the  only  pieces  of  contin- 
uous hard  ground  that  traverse  its 
waters.  On  these  are  a  few  huts 
and  stations  for  the  workmen  whom 
we  saw  at  work  on  the  finishing 
processes.  Some  were  driving  piles 
for  warps,  some  completing  the 
banks  and  slopes,  or  excavating 
small  basins  at  the  sides,  and  all 
working  hard  apparently.  Don- 
keys, mules,  and  camels  were  carry- 
ing on  their  backs  the  earth  that 
had  to  be  moved,  and  the  groups 
presented  a  picturesque  scene  to  the 
artist,  if  rather  a  primitive  one  to 
the  engineer.  I  have  in  my  life- 
time done  some  pieces  of  work  by 
negro-labour,  Bales,  and  can  form 
some  idea  of  the  difficulty  of  push- 
ing forward  such  a  labour  as  this 
by  means  of  Egyptians  and  Arabs, 
obstinately  wedded  to  old  thriftless 
ways,  and  persistently  wasting  the 
labour  of  their  hands  by  rejecting 
method  and  order.  The  dredging- 
machinery  and  the  plant  used  in 
making  the  Canal  had  been  got  out 
of  sight  somehow  or  other,  and  I 
was  astonished  that  I  saw  so  few 
evidences  of  work  which,  I  heard, 
was  kept  briskly  going  up  to  the 
15th  or  16th. 

Our  amusement  was  to  watch  the 
small  steamers,  some  of  them  pas- 
sage-boats, and  some  belonging  to 
the  works,  which  frequently  went 
up  and  down,  using  greater  speed 
than  we  could  dare  to  put  on, 
and  to  return  heartily  their  hearty 
salutations.  We  noted,  too,  the 
enormous  flights  of  wild-fowl  on 
the  lake,  and  saw  now  and  then  the 
G 


98 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


ibis  at  home.  It  was  a  relief  to  the 
eye  when,  towards  evening,  some 
high  ground  and  an  extent  of  dry 
land,  the  famed  Wilderness  of  Zin, 
I  suppose,  were  discernible.  The 
hillsides  were  distinctly  stratified, 
and  there  was  just  enough  undula- 
tion in  the  plain  to  assist  the  light 
and  air  in  making  a  glorious  pros- 
pect. The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the 
air,  gently  simmering  through  some 
agency  of  the  climate,  received  the 
rich  purple  light  which  overspreads 
with  its  warmth  all  the  views  that 
I  have  seen  in  the  land  of  Egypt. 
We  knew  that  we  saw  a  desert,  yet 
it  looked  an  Eden ;  the  foregrounds 
lovely  in  rich  light  and  shadow,  and 
the  distances  shewing  a  mirage  of 
rocks  and  mountains  and  cities,  all 
glowing  in  a  soft  and  many-coloured 
light.  But  as  the  sun  approached 
the  horizon  the  purples  dissolved 
into  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow, 
red  and  yellow  ruling  in  the  sky — 
a  prodigality  of  colour,  an  enchant- 
ed scene.  And  gliding  along  on  an 
even  keel,  we  sat  in  silence  in  the 
genial  evening  watching  the  dying 
beauty  of  the  day,  which  did  not 
die,  for  there  was  no  obscurity,  no 
damp  of  night,  no  eclipse  of  beauty. 
Before  the  sun  was  down  the  moon 
was  up,  and  her  silver  stole  timidly 
over  the  lone  region,  as  if  deprecat- 
ing rivalry  with  the  great  light 
which  had  just  sunk  in  surpassing 
glory.  But  she  rose  in  heaven 
with  a  glory  all  her  own,  touch- 
ing the  waters  with  her  sheen, 
and  bathing  the  desert  in  am- 
ber beams.  Long  sharp  shadows 
from  the  rigging  fell  on  the  else- 
where illuminated  deck  ;  the 
Egyptian  night  was  calm  and  with- 
out a  cloud ;  and  I  listened  to  a 
voice,  soft,  gentle,  and  low,  an  ex- 
cellent thing  in  woman,  extolling 
the  tranquil  scene,  and  giving  token 
how  truly  nature's  loveliness  had 
touched  an  ingenuous  soul.  This 
was  enjoyment,  but  it  was  not  des- 
tined to  endure.  There  is  a  hoarse 
screaming  whistle  from  the  steamer 
in  front  of  us  ;  she  stops,  we  stop. 
"What  the  devil  is  the  matter?'/ 


issues  from  some  dozen  throats  at 
once.  Nobody  replies,  for  nobody 
knows.  "  There  it  is  !  I  knew  it !" 
sings  out  every  croaker.  "  It's  all 
up  ;  we  shall  have  to  scramble 
ashore,  and  walk  to  Ismai'lia ;  pleas- 
ant fix  ! "  And  then  followed  a 
rumour  derived  none  could  say 
whence,  which  affirmed  that  the 
ships  in  front  were  all  aground, 
and  our  chance  of  passing  com- 
pletely hopeless.  Some  were  for 
going  at  once  on  shore  and  seek- 
ing camels  to  take  them  and  their 
baggage  on  ;  some,  a  little  more 
rational,  advised  the  postponement 
of  the  step  till  morning;  but  the 
counsel  which,  backed  by  the  ladies 
as  before,  ultimately  prevailed,  was 
to  pull  ahead  in  the  boats  and  en- 
deavour to  ascertain  the  real  state 
of  the  case.  As  I  entertained  ap- 
prehension of  nothing  worse  than 
a  short  delay,  I  did  not  go  in  the 
boats,  but  watched  their  course,  as 
far  as  I  could  see  it,  from  the  fore- 
castle. It  was  not  very  long  before 
they  returned  without  any  certain 
information,  but  with  their  fears 
strengthened,  and  bidding  us  to 
expect  the  worst.  Again  it  was 
proclaimed  a  "  precious  mess/'  and 
again  proposals  were  made  to  go 
on  shore  and  seek  conveyances;  but 
before  the  hubbub  and  fretting  had 
been  succeeded  by  action,  some  im- 
portant intelligence  had  arrived. 
One  of  the  party,  determined  to 
find  out  how  things  were,  had 
landed  from  the  boats,  and  trudged 
along  the  bank  till  he  reached  ships 
far  before  our  own.  He  was  now 
seen  returning  tired  and  slowly 
through  the  heavy  sand.  While  we 
were  lowering  a  boat  to  take  him 
off,  he  informed  us  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  that  there  was  nothing  at  all 
the  matter;  but  that  orders  had 
been  sent  from  Ismai'lia,  where  the 
leading  ships  already  were,  for  no 
more  ships  to  enter  the  harbour 
that  night,  but  to  anchor  in  the 
Canal  till  morning.  Thus  this 
alarm,  too,  ended,  and  we  now 
waited  patiently  for  the  day. 
Early  on  the  18th  we  emerged 


1370.] 


The  Openiiig  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


from  the  Canal  and  entered  the 
•waters  of  Lake  Timseh,  which  may 
now  be  called  the  harbour  of  Is- 
mailia,  and  a  splendid  basin  it  is. 
On  the  north-west  shore  is  the  new 
town,  which  now  was  gleaming 
with  as  many  colours  as  Port  Sai'd 
was  the  day  before.  The  ships  in 
h  irbour,  too,  were  in  holiday  trim. 
We  advanced  and  took  up  our  ap- 
pointed berth,  having  now  pene- 
trated without  accident  some  fifty 
iriles  from  the  Mediterranean  into 
Egypt.  Ismaiilia  viewed  from  the 
w  ater  is  a  pleasant  sight.  The  palace 
b  lilt  for  the  reception  of  the  illus- 
trious guests  of  to-day  is  what  first 
arrests  the  eye.  Large  as  it  is,  you 
are  told  that  it  was  built  in  three 
months,  which  would  be  a  very 
marvellous  circumstance  if  the 
growth  of  the  whole  town  had  not 
been  rapid  in  proportion.  The 
ships  are  not  so  numerous  nor  so 
closely  packed  as  they  were  in 
Port  Sai'd;  and  when  the  men-of- 
war  begin  to  fire,  as  they  soon  do, 
they  are  more  tolerable  than  the 
huge  dark  masses  which  were 
vomiting  their  fire  almost  into 
each  other's  sides  on  the  16th. 
And,  apropos  of  that,  I  observed 
a  curious  performance  connected 
with  the  firing  of  heavy  guns  from 
some  of  the  foreign  ships.  The 
gins  were  never  run  in  to  load, 
but  immediately  after  each  dis- 
charge a  head  was  thrust  through 
the  port-hole,  and  a  sailor,  with  a 
sponge  in  his  hand,  took  his  seat 
a?  tride  on  the  muzzle  of  the  gun. 
From  this  position  he  sponged  and 
rr  named.  I  need  not  add  that,  in 
real  warfare,  a  man  so  exposing 
himself  must  be  slain  by  a  rifle- 
.bullet  immediately. 

It  was  the  landing  of  the  Empress 
of  the  French  which  gave  occasion 
for  the  firing  which  I  have  men- 
tioned ;  and  the  firing  is  followed 
b;r  deafening  shouts  from  the  shore 
as  she  takes  her  way  to  the  palace 
which  has  sprung  up  as  rapidly 
almost  as  did  Aladdin's.  She  is 


to  inspect  the  wonders  of  the  new 
town  and  to  witness  the  horseman- 
ship of  Arab  chiefs  for  a  morning's 
entertainment,  and  at  night  she  is 
to  grace  a  grand  ball  at  the  palace. 
Here  let  me  relate  an  anecdote. 
On  board  the  same  ship  with  my- 
self was  an  Italian  gentleman  of 
middle  age,  clever,  spirited,  quaint, 
reckless,  pleasant.  I  sometimes 
thought  he  was  Italian  by  mistake, 
and  intended  for  an  Irishman,  for 
which  character  he  had  the  further 
qualification  of  being  somewhat  out 
at  elbows.  He  had  been  capitaine, 
exile,  wanderer,  writer ;  had  worked 
his  passage  home  from  Australia  in 
an  English  ship ;  spoke  four  lan- 
guages well,  smoked  twenty  cigars 
a-day ;  had  had  several  duels,  and 
had  like  to  have  slain  one ;  and 
knew  a  short  road  to  a  lady's  heart. 
(I  know  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  that 
would  look  severely  on  this  last 
expression  if  they  could  see  it ; 
but  fiat  justitia,  you  know,  Bales, 
I  must  be  honest.)  He  had  got 
an  invitation  from  the  Viceroy  to 
attend  the  fetes  in  some  capacity 
or  other,  and  he  had  made  himself 
a  favourite  with  all  on  board.  This 
hero  happened  to  be  on  shore  at 
the  moment  when  the  Empress  was 
about  to  mount  a  camel,  probably 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  The 
richly-caparisoned  animal  was  on 
its  knees  and  haunches  to  receive 
its  fair  burden,  and  Eugenie,  sit- 
ting well  forward  of  the  hump,  was 
about  to  order  that  the  animal 
should  rise,  when  the  Italian,  who 
knew  something  about  camels,  as 
he  did  about  most  things,  taking 
his  cigar  from  his  mouth,  called 
out  to  her,  "  Tenez-vous  en  arriere, 
ou  vous  f erez  la  culbute  ! "  *  This 
is  not  the  style  in  which  imperial 
personages  are  generally  addressed, 
but  the  gracious  lady  with  real 
dignity  accepted  the  honest  advice. 
She  bowed  kindly,  saying,  "  Je 
vous  remercie,  monsieur  ;"  and  im- 
mediately altered  her  position. 
The  camel,  in  rising,  lengthens  its 


Hold  yourself  back,  or  you  will  turn  a  somersault. 


100 


The  Opening  of  tJie  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


hind  legs  first.  And  while  I  am 
digressing,  let  me  introduce  a  mes- 
sage for  madame.  The  Empress, 
when  on  the  camel,  wore  a  yellow 
alpaca  dress  and  jacket  of  the  same, 
a  large  Leghorn  hat,  and  a  yellow 
veil. 

I  landed  before  noon  at  one  end 
of  the  town,  and  found  myself  on 
a  strand  of  deep  loose  sand,  crowded 
with  Mussulmans  arid  cattle,  and 
showing  a  few  temporary  houses, 
with  many  sheds  and  tents.  There 
is  now  something  like  a  native 
population  to  be  seen.  At  Port 
Said  there  were  so  many  strangers 
of  all  nations,  that  the  town  seemed 
to  belong  no  more  to  the  Egyptians 
than  it  did  to  the  Germans  or 
the  English.  Now,  however,  the 
predominance  of  the  turban  and 
the  fez  showed  clearly  who  were 
at  home  and  who  were  not.  Be- 
fore I  was  cff  the  beach  I  saw  a 
sight  which  proved  how  different 
from  those  of  Europe  are  the  modes 
that  prevail  here.  One  of  the 
faithful  who  was  moving  some 
wood  incurred  the  wrath  of  his 
employer,  a  fat  Mohammedan,  who 
let  into  him  with  a  pole  a  yard  and 
a  half  long,  and  about  the  thickness 
of  a  man's  arm,  belabouring  him 
unmercifully,  falling  into  the  most 
violent  rage,  and  venting  his  wrath 
in  words  as  well  as  blows.  What 
with  the  dress  and  the  exaggerated 
action,  the  incident  was  so  like 
what  one  sees  in  a  pantomime, 
that  I  could  not  refrain  from  laugh- 
ing, though  it  was  certainly  no  joke 
to  the  poor  fellah. 

A  very  few  steps  in  from  the  sea- 
beach  you  come  upon  the  fresh- 
water canal  which  flows  through 
the  town.  The  part  which  I  saw 
looked  muddy,  and  one  could  guess 
why  ;  for  there  were  savages  stand- 
ing in  it,  and  cattle  brought  to 
drink  were  allowed  to  go  into  it 
too.  Through  nasty  sheds,  very 
nasty  animals,  and  particularly 
nasty  people,  I  had  to  pass  about 
a  hundred  yards  along  the  banks, 
encountering  terrible  odours  before 
I  reached  a  bridge  which  allowed 


me  to  cross  to  the  more  respectable 
part  of  the  town.  Here  was  a  fair 
broad  street,  with  a  hard  road  (the 
other  ways  were  all  loose  sand), 
and  along  this  I  passed,  observing 
the  houses  on  either  side,  some 
of  which  were  very  good.  Most 
of  them  were  detached,  and  stood 
among  trees,  shrubs,  or  flowers,  so 
that  this  town  in  the  desert  has 
rather  a  pleasing  appearance.  Some 
way  on  towards  the  palace  there 
was  a  square,  with  hotels  and  baths 
in  it,  and  on  one  side  thereof  were 
donkeys  for  hire — the  only  public 
conveyance.  It  was  broiling  hot, 
and  I  did  not  fancy  walking  on  the 
sand.  On  the  other  hand,  I  was 
somewhat  squeamish  about  exhibit- 
ing myself  on  the  outside  of  a  don- 
key, and  there  was  a  conflict  of 
emotions.  Exhausted  nature  pre- 
vailed over  pride,  and  I  approached 
a  donkey-proprietor,  making  signs 
that  I  wished  to  know  the  price 
per  hour.  He  understood  me 
perfectly,  and  said,  "  Ten  shilling 
— hour."  I  was  convinced  that 
he  must  use  the  word  shilling 
for  some  other  coin,  and,  having 
compassion  upon  his  ignorance, 
took  some  pains  to  satisfy  him 
of  his  error.  But  he  was  quite  in- 
telligent and  wide  awake.  "  Half- 
suvvern,"  he  said ;  "  muss  pay  ; 
all  donkey  wanted."  He  was  fixed 
as  kismet,  utterly  immovable,  but 
a  rogue  who  had  overshot  his 
mark.  A  reasonable  advance  of 
price  must  have  been,  of  neces- 
sity, submitted  to  on  the  occasion  ; 
but  this  rascaPs  assurance  defeated 
its  object,  and  I  was  glad,  later  in 
the  day,  to  see  his  animals  stand- 
ing apparently  fresh  and  unnoticed. 
I  made  a  push  now  for  the  palace, 
in  viewing  which  I  expected  at 
any  rate  a  solid  footing  instead  of 
the  sand,  and  shelter  from  the  sun  ; 
but  when  I  got  there  I  was  informed 
that  visitors  were  not  admitted,  as 
preparations  for  the  ball  at  night 
were  in  progress.  Foiled  here,  I 
and  some  friends  whom  I  had 
joined,  looked  at  the  outside  of  the 
building,  which  is  plain,  but  lofty 


1370.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


101 


and  extensive.  (The  inside  I  saw 
at;  a  later  hour.)  It  has  a  planta- 
tion of  palm-trees  round  it,  and  is 
separated  by  a  low  wall  from  the 
road.  Afterwards,  attracted  by  a 
green  grove  just  beyond,  we  en- 
tered an  enclosure,  and  were  most 
politely  received  by  M.  Pierre,  the 
manager  of  the  fresh-water  works, 
whose  domain  this  was.  He  was 
good  enough  to  take  us  over  his 
garden,  where,  by  sluices,  jets,  and 
artificial  rain  drawn  from  the  Nile, 
he  has  contrived  to  raise  vegetables 
innumerable,  and  to  surround  his 
house  with  elegant  plants  and 
flowers.  Splendid  creepers,  convol- 
vuluses, the  magnificent  poinsettia, 
oleanders,  and  I  know  not  what 
other  gay  blossoms  mingling  with 
rich  green  leaves,  shaded  walks,  and 
pavilions  overrun  with  climbing 
plants,  and  with  the  moisture  drip- 
ping all  round  them,  hardly  suffered 
the  mind  to  realise  what  this  spot 
was  some  six  years  since — the  very 
heart  of  an  African  wilderness. 
We  were  also  gratified  by  the  sight 
of  a  pond  absolutely  full  of  the 
celebrated  lotus-plant,  whose  large 
loaves  nearly  hid  all  the  water. 
The  fruit,  dark  in  colour,  is 
shaped  like  a  saucer  with  a  cover 
on  it  (I  do  not  know  how  better 
to  describe  it),  and  it  is  pierced 
with  numerous  holes,  or  rather 
tabes,  visible  in  the  upper  surface, 
and  descending  through  the  fruit 
to  the  lower.  The  diameter  is  three 
inches,  or  thereabouts.  In  a  word, 
it  much  resembles  the  rose  of  a 
watering-pot.  Having  shown  us  his 
pretty  fresh  grounds,  and  presented 
us  with  fruit  and  flowers,  M.  Pierre 
added  to  his  favours  by  showing  us 
the  engines  and  wheels  by  which 
the  water  is  sent  over  Ismailia,  and 
to  Port  Said  and  the  stations  on  the 
northern  half  of  the  Canal.  The 
engines  are  of  fifty-horse  power, 
and  they  send  400,000  gallons  per 
diem  to  Port  Sai'd.  The  price  of 
the  water,  both  at  Ismailia  and  Port 
Said,  is  1  franc  for  100  gallons, 
the  cost  of  100  gallons  to  the  com- 
pany being  20  centimes.  The  works 


cost  .£280,000  sterling.  We  had 
now  to  thank  M.  Pierre  for  the 
large  portion  of  his  time  which  on 
this  busy  day  he  had  devoted  to 
our  entertainment,  and  to  take  our 
leave.  Let  me  add,  that  on  every 
occasion  where  I  had  to  apply  to  an 
Egyptian  official  I  found  in  him 
the  utmost  patience  and  politeness, 
and  a  hearty  desire  to  serve.  A 
great  many  of  them  speak  English 
well.  M.  Pierre,  before  parting, 
told  us  that  he  believed  every  one 
of  these  donkey  rascals  was  well 
paid  for  this  occasion  by  the  Vice- 
roy, and  in  strict  justice  could  de- 
mand no  pay  at  all.  He  advised 
that  we  should  take  the  donkeys, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  ride  give 
whatever  hire  we  thought  proper. 

Refreshed  by  our  stay  at  the 
water-works,  we  now  strolled  back 
through  the  main  street,  where  we 
looked  at  the  governor's  house,  and 
saw  M.  de  Lesseps  ride  up  to  and 
enter  it.  We  found  out,  too,  the 
offices  of  the  different  consuls,  and 
those  of  some  of  the  Egyptian 
ministers ;  and,  heat  and  fatigue 
compelling  again,  I  was  fain  to 
get  a  donkey,  and  a  lady  of  the 
party  having  consented  to  ride  a 
donkey  also,  we  continued  our  pro- 
menade. The  railway  station  and 
another  Arab  encampment  were 
visited  in  this  way  and  then  we 
went,  the  whole  party,  to  lunch 
with  the  Viceroy — that  is  to  say, 
we  entered  an  immense  pavilion, 
and  called  for  whatever  refreshment 
we  required,  gratis  !  In  exploring 
further,  my  donkey  came  upon  a 
street  lined  by  soldiers,  and  we 
found  out,  with  some  little  trouble, 
that  the  Empress  was  likely  to  pass 
that  way  on  a  drive  round  the  town. 
Waiting  to  watch  what  would  hap- 
pen, we  were  surprised  to  see  our 
Italian  friend,  and  self-constituted 
posture-master  to  the  Empress,  com- 
ing along  post-haste  in  an  open  car- 
riage. He  charged  without  cere- 
mony through  the  troops,  who 
quickly  made  way  for  him,  and, 
espying  us,  invited  four  to  make 
use  of  the  carriage,  three  inside  and 


102 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


one  on  the  box,  the  carriage  having 
been  furnished,  as  so  many  other 
things  were,  by  the  Viceroy.  Driv- 
ing back  through  the  lines  of 
troops,  we  were  soon  aware  of  some 
carriages  approaching  the  contrary 
way,  and,  drawing  to  one  side,  we 
were  once  more  gratified  by  a  sight 
of  the  crowned  heads  and  princes, 
whom  we  followed,  and,  as  they 
returned,  passed  yet  once  more. 
Just  after  we  saw  them  first  our 
capitanci's  cigar  went  out,  and  he 
reillumined  it  by  the  strangest 
means  I  ever  saw  used  for  such  a 
purpose.  He  bade  a  soldier  on 
duty  in  the  ranks  to  hand  him  the 
weed  of  some  person  in  the  rear ; 
and  this  the  soldier  did  without 
any  remark,  returning  it  again  to 
the  owner  when  the  capitands  was 
alight. 

We  went  to  see  the  Arab  tourna- 
ment, or  whatever  they  may  call  it, 
but  I  cannot  say  that  I  derived 
much  amusement  or  instruction 
therefrom.  The  chiefs  were  all  in- 
dependent, and  had  coine  in  with 
certain  of  their  tribes  to  do  volun- 
tary honour  to  the  Empress  and 
Khedive.  They  were  enveloped  in 
their  long  white  shaggy  mantles  and 
hoods,  and  with  their  gaily-capari- 
soned horses  were,  I  suppose,  much 
to  be  admired.  They  rode  short, 
as  we  know  that  the  Arabs  do,  and 
dashed  their  horses  up  and  down 
the  lists  without  rule  or  reason  that 
I  could  discover,  frequently  firing, 
but  oftener  presenting  without  fir- 
ing, while  their  horses  were  in 
career.  I  was  altogether  disappoint- 
ed in  the  speed  with  which  they 
passed.  Had  they  galloped  like  the 
wind,  as  we  read  of  Arabs  doing, 
the  facility  with  which  they  used 
their  weapons  would  have  demanded 
admiration  ;  but  whether  they  were 
checked  by  the  sand,  or  whether 
their  speed  is  exaggerated,  the  ex- 
ploits did  not  seem  at'all  beyond 
the  achievements  of  an  English  dra- 
goon or  good  rider  to  hounds.  After 
the  rifle  exercise  we  had  some  tilt- 
ing with  lances.  These  weapons, 
which  are  set  on  bamboo  poles,  can  be 


either  thrust  or  hurled  at  an  enemy. 
I  have  in  this  case  also  to  make 
the  observation  that  the  moderate 
pace,  as  compared  with  my  expec- 
tation, at  which  the  feats  were  per- 
formed, made  them  subjects  of 
neither  wonder  nor  interest. 

Tired  and  heated  though  I  was, 
I  in  the  evening  landed  again  to  go 
to  the  Khedive's  ball.  The  streets 
were  illuminated  as  at  Port  Sai'd. 
We  had  some  trouble  in  finding  a 
carriage  (all  the  carriages  were  en- 
gaged by  the  Khedive),  but  we  did 
get  one,  and  drove  through  the 
many  thousand  lights  to  the  palace. 
All  the  palms  surrounding  the 
building  were  thickly  hung  with 
Chinese  lanterns,  creating  a  most 
beautiful  effect.  The  first  step  in- 
to the  building  showed  what  sort 
of  an  attendance  there  was.  The 
very  vestibule  was  crammed.  We 
did,  however,  manage  to  cross  that, 
but  when  we  attempted  to  get 
tickets  for  our  wraps"  the  crush 
was  dreadful.  There  was  no 
thoroughfare  past  the  bureau,  but 
each  person  had  to  advance  through 
a  narrow  gorge  to  the  window  and 
then  to  get  back  again,  the  fight 
between  comers  and  goers  being 
most  vigorous.  About  eight  or  ten 
rooms  were  open,  but  they  were  all 
filled  to  suffocation.  The  ladies 
who  were  lucky  had  seats  all  round 
the  walls,  and  the  remaining  ladies 
with  the  gentlemen  covered  every 
inch  of  the  area  of  each  room. 
The  number  of  the  company  was 
estimated  at  6000,  and  it  was  by 
no  means  select.  Very  odd-look- 
ing Europeans  were  there  in  all 
kinds  of  dresses  (except  working 
dresses,  which  I  did  not  see)  and 
some  with  countenances  of  a  some- 
what villanous  cast.  The  Mos- 
lem attendance  must  have  been 
also  very  mixed ;  for  although  Arab 
gravity  did  not  allow  much  to  be 
divined  from  the  countenance,  the 
dress,  and  the  peculiar  flavour  of 
many  of  the  true  believers  bespoke 
slight  acquaintance  with  the  ways 
or  the  water  of  the  beau  mondc. 
It  was  not  surprising,  therefore,  to 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. 


103 


hoar  next  morning  of  ladies  having 
lost  their  watches  or  ornaments ; 
nor  to  be  told  by  a  gentleman  whom 
I  accompanied,  that  in  one  of  the 
rooms  he  felt  a  hand  carefully  ex- 
amining his  pockets  at  a  time  when 
ho  was  so  crushed  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  turn.  I  was  aware  that 
in  the  situation  which  he  indica- 
ted, a  person  in  eccentric  costume 
and  with  a  face  not  benevolent  had 
persistently  interposed  between  us. 
That  person  was,  however,  in  the 
higher  walk  of  his  profession,  and 
did  not  stoop  to  folly  for  folly's 
sake ;  for,  finding  only  a  spectacle- 
case  in  my  companion's  pocket,  he 
refrained  from  abstracting  that 
useful  article.  And,  after  all,  one 
must  not  complain  very  grievously 
if,  where  hospitality  was  so  extend- 
ed, a  few  social  difficulties  found 
their  way, -but  rather  admire  the 
zeal  and  courage  with  which  they 
pursued  their  calling ;  for  had  any 
of  them  been  complained  of,  they 
had  little  to  hope  for  from  laws 
made  expressly  for  their  protection, 
or  from  the  pig-headedness  of  an 
enlightened  jury,  but  it  is  possible 
that  Ismail  would  have  summarily 
extinguished  ingenuity  and  life  to- 
gether. 

In  one  of  the  largest  rooms  of 
the  suite  were  to  be  seen  M.  de 
Lesseps  and  his  party.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  in  the  highest  spirits, 
and  was  receiving  the  felicitations 
of  Jiis  friends,  as  the  latter  could 
make  their  way  to  him  through 
the  crowd.  Any  one  who  had  the 
patience  and  energy  to  accomplish 
the  middle  passage  through  the 
crowd  could  see  that  night  every 
celebrity  that  was  in  Isma'ilia,  and 
had  a  chance  of  encountering  friends 
of  whose  presence  there  he  had  no 
s  uspicion.  I  saw  two  English  offi- 
cers, colonels  of  the  same  corps, 
gravitate  towards  each  other  from  a 
distance  at  which  only  the  uniform 
could  be  recognised ;  and  when 
they  at  length  met  near  me  I  heard 
the  surprise  expressed  by  each  at 
the  unexpected  meeting.  Minis- 
ters of  State,  military  and  naval 


officers  of  all  grades,  civil  officials 
in  their  decorations,  Jews,  Greeks, 
Turks,  Moors,  Albanians,  Egyp- 
tians, and  one  Hungarian  noble,  in 
their  national  costumes,  mingling 
with  the  crowd  of  black  frocks  and 
swallow-tails,  made  up  a  most  gay 
and  picturesque  multitude,  the 
parts  of  which,  after  at  first  work- 
ing independently,  and  resisting, 
and  withstanding,  and  counteract- 
ing each  other  to  the  utmost,  found 
the  advantage  of  arranging  them- 
selves into  currents,  after  which 
the  eddies  and  narrows  were  the 
only  very  dangerous  places.  Wher- 
ever it  was  possible  to  see  the  car- 
pets, strips  of  ribbon,  lace,  tulle, 
ruchings,  puffs,  streamers  of  tarla- 
tan, flounces,  and  whole  parterres 
of  crushed  flowers,  were  there  in 
ruins ;  and  towards  morning,  when 
the  crowd  thinned,  some  of  the  hap- 
less owners  might  be  seen  flitting  to 
and  fro,  bare  and  dishevelled,  clasp- 
ing the  dear  remains. 

The  furniture  of  the  rooms,  when 
a  piece  could  be  viewed,  was  seen 
to  be  very  splendid,  and  of  the 
newest  fashion ;  but  any  compre- 
hension of  the  general  effect  was 
manifestly  out  of  the  question.  The 
scarlet  liveries  of  the  Khedive's  in- 
numerable domestics,  who  were 
laced  and  powdered  to  the  utmost 
capabilities  of  their  persons,  in- 
creased the  variety  of  colours,  as 
the  persevering  wearers  endeav- 
oured to  make  their  devious  way 
through  the  mass  to  offer  ices  and 
other  refreshments  to  faint  beings 
who,  after  grasping  the  coveted 
glass  or  saucer,  found  they  could 
not  raise  their  hands  to  their 
mouths. 

The  spacious  supper-pavilion  was 
not,  however,  crammed  with  human 
beings  wedged  together  as  were  the 
other  rooms.  It  was  spread  with 
many  long  tables  for  the  supper, 
and  cross- tables  at  one  end  were 
loaded  with  ices,  fruits,  wines, 
orgeat,  sherbets,  cates,  and  every 
delicacy  that  could  be  readily  dis- 
cussed without  much  ceremony. 
The  less  dainty  of  the  guests,  es- 


104 


The  Opening  of  the  /Suez  Canal. 


[Jan. 


pecially  the  Egyptians,  had  a  rapid 
way  of  dealing  with  these  viands, 
and  of  disposing  of  peels,  stones, 
stems,  &c.,  which  were  not  the  only 
offerings  which  they  made  to  the 
floor.  Even  the  true  believers  yield 
to  the  potent  influence  of  the  times. 
Who  does  not  remember  how  secret 
that  old  rascal  Sheik  Ibrahim  had 
to  be  in  indulging  his  fancy  for 
wine  with  Noureddin,  and  how  he 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  the 
Caliph  discovering  his  horrid  in- 
firmity! And  now,  here,  in  the 
palace  of  the  ruler  of  a  Mohammedan 
country,  were  wines  and  strong 
drinks  not  only  permitted,  but 
temptingly  offered  to  the  palates 
of  all  comers  ! 

It  was  near  midnight  when  the 
Khedive"  and  his  greatest  guests 
entered  the  first  of  the  suite  of 
rooms  and  began  to  move  slowly 
round  it.  Their  appearance  only 
caused  the  crowd  to  wedge  them- 
selves more  closely  into  blocks. 
Only  a  very  few  of  the  front  ranks 
were  gratified  by  a  sight  of  them, 
and,  after  a  short  progress  through 
the  company,  the  high  personages 
retired  to  a  reserved  apartment. 
After  this  were  begun  what  were 
called  dances — exercises  by  which 
I  trust  that  the  actors  were  de- 
lighted, though  I  own  to  an  inabil- 
ity to  understand  the  pleasure. 

This  was  the  last  public  appear- 
ance of  the  Empress  Eugenie  dur- 
ing the  fetes.  About  one  in  the 
morning  she  was  conducted  into 
the  same  spacious  pavilion  where 
the  general  company  supped  ;  but 
one  end  of  the  room — i.e.,  the  end 
opposite  to  that  where  I  have  said 
that  the  refreshments  were — had 
been  cunningly  screened  by  a  wall 
of  high  plants,  and  the  most  dis- 
tinguished guests  sat  within  the 


fence.  To  say  that  Eugenie  the 
Empress  was  here  seen  in  a  new 
situation,  is  to  say  that  she  was  re- 
vealing newfascinations — no  longer 
answering  the  greetings  of  a  crowd, 
but  conversing  freely  with  princes, 
animated, "  and  evidently  pleased 
with  the  entertainment.  It  is  im- 
possible to  overrate  the  influence 
of  this  gracious  lady's  presence  on 
the  character  of  the  fetes.  The 
occasion  itself,  great  though  it  was, 
the  Khedive"'s  profusion,  M.  Bauer's 
grandiloquence,  could  never  have 
given  them  their  romance  had  not 
Eugenie  been  there.  She  it  was 
who  raised  the  spirit  of  chivalry  in 
the  gathering,  subdued  the  strifes 
and  emulations  and  intrigues  of 
men,  and  over  commerce,  science, 
avarice,  spread  the  gauzy  hues  of 
poetry. 

We  were  all  satisfied  now,  and 
retreated  to  our  boats  which  waited 
duly  at  the  wharf.  The  deep  calm 
and  stillness  of  the  water  contrasted 
with  the  lights  and  sounds  of  revelry 
on  shore.  As  we  pulled  to  the  ship 
in  the  soft  moonlight,  "  Partant 
pour  la  Syrie "  first,  and  then  the 
Hymn  told  of  the  different  depart- 
ures and  embarkations. 

I  must  pause  now,  Bales,  but  I 
have  more  to  tell.  I  am  fascinated 
by  old  Egypt,  and  long  to  make 
you  share  my  satisfaction.  It  is  an 
enchanted  country,  inexhaustible 
in  its  charms — Copt,  Jew,  and  Arab, 
each  a  study  and  a  mystery,, all 
being  actors  in  its  wondrous  his- 
tory. The  very  light  of  heaven 
falls  on  it  as  on  no  other  land  that 
I  have  seen,  and  makes  life  here  a 
gilded  vision.  My  enjoyment  will 
be  short,  but  so  far  it  is  real  and 
thorough. — Yours,  Bales,  from  the 
Banks  of  the  Nile, 

SCAMPER. 


(To  be  coritinued.) 


1870.] 


Mr  Fronde  and  Queen  Mary. 


105 


MR    FROUDE    AND    QUEEN    MARY. 


IT  is  not  our  intention  at  the 
present  moment  to  enter  upon  any 
discussion  of  the  great  work  which 
Mr  Froude  has  just  completed. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  whether  we 
agree  with  his  conclusions  or  not, 
that  he  has  spared  no  pains  to  give 
the  fullest  picture  possible  of  one 
of  the  most  important  eras  of  mo- 
dern history.  He  haS  thrown  him- 
self into  the  time,  with  all  its  un- 
likeness  to  our  own,  and,  so  far  as 
that  is  possible  to  a  man  trained  in 
the  modern  school  of  thought,  has 
laboured  to  judge  it  by  its  own 
standards,  and  to  set  before  us, 
unbiassed  by  consciousness  of  the 
results,  a  clear  view  of  its  tenden- 
cies, and  the  elements  of  a  new 
national  existence  which  had  there 
their  origin.  It  is  only  in  one  case 
that  he  can  be  accused  of  sacrificing 
anything  to  dramatic  effect,  and 
even  here  his  sin  is  one  which  con- 
cerns not  fact  but  feeling.  The. 
picture  which  Mr  Froude  has  under- 
taken to  paint  is  one  which  is  very 
distinct,  and,  we  might  say,  unique 
in  history.  His  subject  has  all  the 
importance  of  a  grand  national 
crisis,  in  which  the  strongest  influ- 
ences which  affect  humanity  were 
struggling  for  the  mastery.  It  was 
an  age  of  great  men,  of  quickened 
thought,  and  expanded  intelligence. 
The  splendour  and  picturesqueness 
of  the  past  still  remained  as  a  back- 
ground to  all  the  new  impulses  of 
modern  life,  to  the  keen  curiosity 
and  eagerness  of  the  adventurer, 
the  widened  enterprise  of  the  mer- 
chant, and  the  widened  world,  free, 
as  it  had  never  been  before,  to  all 
manner  of  research  and  excursion 
of  the  thinker.  And  in  front  of 
this  great  glowing  gorgeous  can- 
vas, the  whole  foreground  is  taken 
up  with  the  figures  of  two  women 
— representatives,  as  it  were,  of  the 


two  halves  of  the  world,  who  tore 
that  world  asunder  in  their  day, 
and  kept  all  Europe  astir  with  their 
deadly  conflict,  and  who  have 
handed  down  to  us  the  same  un- 
ending struggle,  and  stand  opposed 
at  the  present  moment,  two  haughty 
shades,  with  a  hundred  unsolved 
questions  between  them,  exciting 
men's  passions  and  disturbing 
their  judgment,  though  it  is  nearly 
three  hundred  years  since  one  of 
them  died  proudly  in  the  height 
of  her  life  and  genius,  and  the 
other  in  the  desolation  of  royalty 
and  old  age.  In  presence  of  Eliza- 
beth of  England  and  Mary  of  Scot- 
land it  is  scarcely  possible  for  any 
historian  to  be  impartial.  His 
candour  of  mind  must  be  infinite, 
and  his  power  of  sympathetic  ima- 
gination intense,  could  he  enter 
into  all  the  details  of  their  pro- 
tracted duel  without  placing  him- 
self on  one  side  or  the  other.  And 
we  should  not  have  found  fault 
with  Mr  Froude  if  he  had  yielded  to 
this  all  but  infallible  temptation,  and 
boldly  taken  up  Elizabeth's  stand- 
ard. The  hosts  on  the  other  side 
are  numerous  enough  and  ardent 
enough  to  maintain  their  own 
against  any  new  champion.  Mr 
Froude's  attitude,  however,  is  not 
that  of  a  champion.  He  professes 
an  impartiality  above  all  bias,  and 
he  acknowledges  the  faults  of  his 
favourite  with  what  he  probably 
believes  to  be  the  fullest  candour. 
But  let  any  one  compare  the  narra- 
tive of  Elizabeth's  duplicities,  which 
were  duplicities  carried  on  in  the 
full  security  of  her  throne,  and  in 
possession  of  an  independence  such 
as  few  monarchs  have  ever  realised ; 
and  the  contemptuous  tale  of  Mary's 
trickeries,  of  her  acting  and  his- 
trionic powers  at  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  her  life,  when  human 


'  History  of  England  —  Reign  of  Elizabeth.' 
M.A. 


By  James  Anthony  Froude, 


106 


Mr  Fronde,  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


charity  is  slow  to  doubt  the  truth- 
fulness of  the  coarsest  criminal, — 
and  it  will  be  seen  how  little  con- 
fidence is  to  be  placed  in  the  im- 
partiality of  the  historian.  In 
the  one  case  Mr  Froude  regret- 
fully admits  the  unveracity  of  his 
Queen,  which,  however,  he  is  able 
to  contemplate,  with  a  certain  philo- 
sophical calmness,  rather  as  an  un- 
fortunate feature  in  her  character 
for  which  she  was  scarcely  to  blame, 
than  as  a  fault  for  which  she  was 
responsible ;  while  in  the  other, 
his  insinuated  sneer  intrudes  in- 
to the  very  presence  of  death  it- 
self. He  grins  horribly  a  ghastly 
smile  when  the  axe  falls  upon 
Mary's  neck,  and  feels  himself  still 
at  liberty  to  jeer  when  the  dead 
face  which  had  won  so  many  hearts 
is  held  up,  awful  in  the  first 
distortion  of  slaughter.  Mary  at 
that  moment  had  ceased  to  have 
any  power  to  trouble  Elizabeth  ; 
she  had  passed  away  and  become 
as  Helen,  as  Cleopatra,  as  all  the 
other  fair  women  who  have  dis- 
turbed the  world,  and  yet  been 
wept  by  it  as  its  saints  are  seldom 
wept.  This  is  something  worse  than 
partiality,  almost  worse  than  in- 
justice. It  is  a  sin  not  only  against 
the  conventional  quality  called 
good  taste,  but  against  the  last 
rights  of  humanity.  It  is  a  sen- 


timent which  would  fill  us  with 
horror  and  disgust  were  it  mani- 
fested by  any  penny-a-liner  at  the 
present  day  in  respect  to  the  last 
moments  of  any  ruffian  of  St  Giles's. 
If  one  of  our  graphic  friends  of 
the  '  Daily  Telegraph  '  were  to  com- 
ment upon  the  stagy  exit  of  a 
modern  murderer — on  his  careful 
get-up,  his  sustained  effort  after 
sensation,  the  histrionic  pose  which 
he  preserved  under  the  very  hands 
of  Calcraft — what  would  Mr  Froude 
think  of  the  narrator?  Yet  Mr 
Froude  does  not  hesitate  to  treat 
with  a  contempt  which,  coming 
from  him,  is  not  contemptible,  the 
death  of  one  of  the  greatest  per- 
sonages of  her  time,  a  woman  of 
unquestionable  genius  and  amazing 
force  of  character,  whose  history, 
position,  and  influence  had  as  great 
an  effect  upon  her  age  as  that  of 
any  of  her  most  distinguished  con- 
temporaries, and  whose  memory 
still  retains  the  allegiance  of  an 
almost  unanimous  nation,  and  of 
enthusiastic  partisans  over  all  the 
world.  Surely  there  is  something 
more  than  unseemly,  more  than 
unjust,  in  so  strange  a  treatment 
of  such  a  subject. 

The  present  writer  is  not  one  of 
those  who  believes  in  the  so  called 
innocence  of  Mary  Stuart/""  We  are 
free  to  admit  that  the  general  senti- 


*  [We  think  it  proper  to  state  that  this  very  consideration  decided  us  in  selecting 
a  critic  for  Mr  Froude's  work.  We  felt  that  any  one  at  all  imbued  with  a  parti- 
san's partiality  for  Queen  Mary's  memory  would  find  it  impossible  to  approach 
the  task  in  anything  like  the  temperate  spirit  which  befits  the  critic's  office. 
More  than  this,  we  felt  that  self-command  would  he  called  for  in  whoever  under- 
took the  duty,  whatever  the  predilections  of  the  writer  might  be ;  for  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  there  are  few  living  men  or  women  who  could  read  Mr  Froude's  most 
deplorable  performance  without  emotions  of  indignant  disgust. 

The  war-dance  of  the  savage  over  the  mangled  remains  of  his  enemy  may  be  a 
shocking  and  revolting  sight,  still  it  is  an  ebullition  of  human  nature,  however 
depraved ;  but  for  Mr  Froude's  attitude,  as  he  stands  by  the  scaffold  of  the  ill- 
fated  Queen,  and  points  out,  with  ill  -  suppressed  exultation,  and  with  a  horrible 
minuteness  of  detail,  all  the  ghastly  preliminaries,  the  epithet  "inhuman"  is  far 
too  gentle  and  forbearing. 

He  appears  to  feast  his  jeyes  upon  the  insulted  remains  of  her  who  was  peerless 
among  fair  women.  He  is  able  to  tell  us  that  the  body  was  stripped,  "the  earls 
retaining  their  seats  ;  "  and  when  all  is  over,  and  the  last  brutality  is  perpe- 
trated, he  seems  to  leave  the  hall  with  lingering  grudging  glances,  and  a  sort  of 
ghoulish  regret  that  nothing  worse  is  left  to  chronicle. 

Mr  Froude  sneers  at  the  discomposure  with  which  he  believes  Mary  to  have 
received  the  announcement  of  her  impending  fate  on  the  strength  of  the  French 
reporter's  statement,  that  the  queen  was  "faschee  et  deplaisante  "  when  the 
sudden  intelligence  was  imparted  to  her. 


1870.] 


Mr  Fraud e  and  Queen  Mary. 


107 


merit  in  Scotland  in  respect  to  her, 
is  to  us,  though  a  born  Scot,  an 
astonishing  sentiment.  The  pages 
of  Maga,  loyal  as  she  is  to  this  as 
to  other  national  prepossessions, 
may  not  seem  a  fit  place  to  say  so  ; 
but  we  will  not  weaken  our  criti- 
cism by  pretending  to  share  the 
belief  of  Mary's  partisans.  Inno- 
cence and  Mary  Stuart  seem  to  us 
to  have  little  to  do  with  each  other. 
A  woman  full  of  genius  and  pas- 
sion, with  the  blood  of  the  Stuarts 
and  the  Tudors  mingling  in  her 
ardent  veins,  with  unbounded  sway 
o\  er  the  hearts  of  others,  and  strong 
in  that  peculiar  form  of  self-control 
which  makes  self-indulgence  all  the 
ni^re  intense  because  voluntary,  it 
is,  in  fact,  an  injury  to  Mary  to 
talk  of  her  complete  innocence.  The 
real  force  of  her  character  is  alto- 
gether lost  the  moment  we  attempt 
to  make  out  for  her  that  transparent 
plea.  Was  she  a  fool  to  be  caught 
in  snares  so  visible  that  the  merest 
spark  of  intelligence  would  have 
been  enough  to  preserve  her  from 
them  ?  Was  the  training  of  the 
court  of  France  a  likely  way  of  pre- 
serving such  ingenuous  ignorance  ? 
or  was  the  time  itself  so  delicate  as 
to  keep  the  most  tenderly-nurtured 
maiden  in  such  a  state  of  dove-like 
simplicity  1  That  fine,  subtle,  pene- 
tmting  intellect,  full  of  resource 
and  readiness  and  splendid  courage 
— with  eloquence  to  match  that  of 
any  special  pleader  of  her  time,  and 
dauntless  as  any  hero — are  we  to 
suppose  the  rude  Scotch  nobles  so 
much  more  than  a  match  for  her, 
tint  they  have  left  on  her  name  a 
stigma  which  a  dozen  generations 
of  idolaters  have  not  been  able  to 
wipe  off?  And,  indeed,  the  crime 


itself,  but  for  a  certain  devilish  ap^ 
propriateness  to  the  political  exig- 
encies of  the  moment,  was  not  so 
unprecedented  as  readers  of  a  com- 
paratively innocent  age  are  apt  to 
suppose.  Had  Mary  been  a  man 
like  her  respectable  relative  Henry 
VIII.,  for  whom  Mr  Froude  has 
so  much  sympathy,  Darnley's  death 
would  have  sunk  to  the  rank  of  a 
peccadillo  in  the  records  of  her  his- 
tory ;  and  nobody  would  have  ex- 
pected of  her  that  she  could  live  a 
quiet  religious  life  in  her  Eng- 
lish prison,  meekly  praying  for  her 
enemies,  frowning  upon  all  at- 
tempts on  the  life  of  her  rival,  and 
pensively  indifferent  to  that  bigger 
diadem  of  England,  which  hung 
like  the  sword  of  the  story  over 
her  imprisoned  head  by  a  single 
thread. 

It  is  perhaps  hard  to  enter  into 
the  mental  being  of  those  whose 
struggle  for  personal  right  has  pro- 
duced nothing  but  evil  to  humanity, 
and  to  understand  how  entirely  the 
impulse  which  moved  them  to  the 
making  of  wars  and  destructions 
might  be  a  just  and  natural  impulse. 
The  world,  three  hundred  years  ago, 
refused  to  attempt  such  an  inquiry. 
To  it  a  usurper  was  a  usurper, 
an  impostor  an  impostor,  without 
any  inquiry  into  the  appearance  of 
things  as  presented  to  his  individual 
vision.  Conscious  fraud,  which  is 
the  rarest  thing  in  the  world,  was 
to  the  mind  of  our  fathers  as 
universal  almost  as  the  daylight. 
Their  enemies  opposed  them,  not 
out  of  an  innocent  or  possibly 
laudable  adherence  to  individual 
views  of  their  own,  but  out  of  sheer 
spite  and  malice.  Every  man  who 
defended  himself  for  a  course  of 


He  had  given  her  due  credit  for  fortitude  elsewhere,  but  is  so  steeped  in  venom 
as  to  break  out  in  spite  of  himself  into  this  inconsistency.  To  say  that  she  was 
"  faschee  et  deplaisante  "  at  the  news  that  on  the  morrow  she  was  to  die  a  terri- 
ble death,  appears  to  us  an  almost  grotesquely  inadequate  description  of  the 
em  otions  which  any  human  being  would  experience  on  such  an  occasion. 

We  would  quarrel  with  the  French  narrator  for  the  feebleness  of  his  language 
— Mr  Froude  deduces  from  it  that  Mary's  courage  faltered.  Mr  Froude  has  dealt 
his  own  reputation  a  murderous  blow,  and  he  will  indeed  be  the  most  unde- 
servedly fortunate  of  men,  if  the  public  and  posterity,  in  reading  these  pages  of 
his,  express  themselves  as  nothing  more  than  "  fasche"  et  deplaisante." 

—ED.   B.  M.J 


103 


Mr  Fronde  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


action  which  seemed  to  them  evil, 
was  playing  a  part.  That  he  could 
fail  to  know  that  he  was  wrong  in 
pursuing  his  own  interests  instead 
of  theirs,  was  a  notion  simply  in- 
comprehensible. The  homely  pri- 
mitive wisdom  of  the  race  might 
indeed  assert  that  what  is  one 
man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison ; 
but  neither  in  politics  nor  religion 
could  any  party  understand  its  ap- 
plication. The  idea  that  orthodoxy 
is  my  doxy,  and  heterodoxy  that  of 
all  who  disagree  with  me,  is  the  very 
simplest  form  of  that  principle 
which,  in  its  full  development,  goes 
further,  and  asserts  that  your  doxy 
is  invented  of  malice  prepense  to 
oppose  mine,  and  that  you  are  per- 
fectly aware  all  the  time  that  yours 
is  wrong,  but  hold  by  it  to  disturb 
or  vex  or  embarrass  me.  The  mo- 
dern world  professes  to  have  gone 
quite  beyond  this  canon,  and  to 
acknowledge  that  force  of  indivi- 
dual conviction  which  changes  the 
aspect  of  matters  altogether,  and 
thrusts  absolute  conscious  decep- 
tion into  a  corner,  dethroning  it 
from  its  vulgar  standing  as  one 
of  the  most  important  of  human 
agencies.  By  this  time  the  minds 
which  sway  the  world  have  come 
to  allow  that  people  who  are  op- 
posed to  them  may  at  least  believe 
they  are  in  the  right,  and  that 
every  shield  has  two  sides.  It  is 
strange  that  Mr  Froude,  of  all  men, 
should  be  the  one  to  resort  to  the 
old  theory.  But  human  nature  is 
too  strong  for  theory,  too  strong 
for  philosophy,  and  all  the  studies 
and  all  the  skill  of  the  ablest  of 
modern  historians  have  not  been 
able  to  shelter  him  from  its  tempta- 
tions. 

Mr  Froude  has  evidently  taken 
infinite  pains  with  the  character  of 
Queen  Elizabeth.  He  has  thrown 
himself  into  the  picture,  if  not  with 
all  his  heart,  at  least  with  all  the 
powers  of  his  mind.  There  is  no 
enthusiasm  in  the  portrait,  no 
attempt  to  transfer  to  it  any  ideal 
excellence,  or  to  hold  it  up  as  a 
model  to  be  followed  ;  and  perhaps 
the  traces  of  a  foregone  conclusion 


are  too  perceptible  in  its  lines. 
But  no  doubt  can  be  entertained  of 
the  care  bestowed  upon  it,  and  the 
conscientious  endeavour  made  to 
represent  fully  and  candidly  the 
character  of  this  extraordinary 
woman.  Mr  Froude  indeed  goes 
back  and  back  upon  his  description, 
as  we  sometimes  see  done  in  a 
novel  when  the  writer  is  a  little 
uncertain  of  his  dramatic  powers. 
He  is  afraid  to  trust  his  Elizabeth 
to  demonstrate  herself,  either  be- 
cause of  the  ambiguity  of  her  pro- 
ceedings, or  because  he  fears  she 
will  not  retain  so  exactly  as  might  be 
desired  the  likeness  of  the  image 
he  has  made.  Whenever  he  has  a 
chance  he  lays  down  for  us  over 
again  the  leading  principles  of  her 
mind,  and  with  a  care  and  ingenuity 
which  it  is  impossible  to  overesti- 
mate, keeps  these  principles  before 
himself  and  "proves"  them  as  a 
theologian  proves  a  dogma,  by 
texts,  as  it  were,  from  her  discourses, 
her  letters,  her  private  talk,  and  all 
the  gossip  that  buzzed  about  her. 
Never  was  a  more  elaborate  study. 
He  looks  at  her  all  round  as  if  she 
were  a  curious  scientific  example, 
takes  careful  views  of  her  from  a 
hundred  different  points,  gives  her 
to  us  in  as  many  different  poses  as 
if  she  were  a  figurante.  It  is  evi- 
dently his  intention  that  she  should 
be  the  central  figure  in  his  picture, 
distinctly  discriminated,  from  all 
competitors,  a  figure  thoroughly 
realisable  and  formed  of  flesh  and 
blood.  And  when  we  say  this,  we 
feel,  had  we  nothing  to  add,  that 
we  have  written  Mr  Froude's  justi- 
fication for  the  different  way  in 
which  he  has  treated  Mary.  It  is 
Elizabeth  who  is  his  queen,  it  is 
in  her  that  he  would  fain  concen- 
trate all  the  light  and  interest,  it  is 
she  whom  he  feels  to  be  the  lady 
and  mistress  of  the  age.  His  pre- 
ference may  surprise  us,  but  still  it 
is  perfectly  possible,  and  we  should 
not  have  a  word  to  say.  For  are 
there  not  historians  upon  Mary's 
side  who  concentrate  the  light  upon 
her  head,  and  leave  Elizabeth  in  the 
blackness  of  darkness  1  The  peculi- 


1870.] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


109 


arity  in  Mr  Froude's  case  is  that 
his  Elizabeth,  though  so  elaborately 
drawn,  is  not  in  any  sense  his  ideal. 
He  studies  without  approving  her, 
without  finding  any  intrinsic  value 
in  her.  He  does  not  love  her  nor 
praise  her,  nor  is  he  even  warmed 
into  urgent  sympathy.  He  has  no 
special  new  light  to  throw  upon  her 
character  which  might  endear  her 
to  him,  as  any  bleak  new-found  peak, 
rising  out  of  the  unknown  seas, 
endears  itself  to  the  explorer.  The 
only  novelty  in  his  view  of  her  is 
tlie  philosophical  latitudinarianism 
in  point  of  religion  with  which  he 
credits  her.  He  allows  her  to  be 
mean,  avaricious,  ungrateful,  un- 
faithful, untrue.  He  makes  it 
clear  that  no  dependence  could  be 
placed  in  her  either  by  word  or 
deed.  There  is  not  a  word  of  pane- 
gyric in  the  whole  laboured  full- 
length,  in  which  we  seem  to  see  the 
very  pearls  with  which  her  robe  is 
embroidered,  the  solemn  ruff,  the 
creaking  shoes.  This  absence  of 
ideality  or  partiality  in  the  portrait 
perplexes  us  when  we  turn  to  his 
treatment  of  her  rival.  Why  then, 
if  Elizabeth  is  not  to  be  elevated,  is 
Mary  to  be  degraded  1  Why  so  con- 
temptuous an  indifference  to  the 
motives  of  the  one  and  so  minute  a 
regard  to  those  of  the  other? 
What's  Hecuba  to  him,  we  say 
instinctively,  that  he  should  cast 
dirt  at  another  on  her  account] 
There  is  no  feeling  involved  in  the 
matter,  unless  it  be  the  feeling  of 
tbe  artist,  who,  conscious  of  having 
made  a  very  careful  study,  falls  so 
much  in  love  with  that,  that  he  will 
not  even  do  the  rest  of  his  work  or 
himself  full  justice,  lest  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  whole  should  take  away 
something  from  the  elaborate  work- 
manship of  the  first  completed  part. 
It  is  a  curious  piece  of  solemn  folly, 
and  yet  so  he  has  willed  it.  He  is 
not  enamoured  of  Elizabeth,  but  he 
is  enamoured  of  his  own  pains,  of 
the  trouble  he  has  taken,  and  all 
the  laborious  details  of  his  manu- 
facture. He  uncovers  himself 
with  a  certain  solemnity  in  her  pre- 
sence, as  if  he  said,  "  Though  she 


is  not  much  to  brag  of,  and  I  have 
told  you  so,  still  she  is  Elizabeth, 
and  hats  off  ;  whereas  the  other  is 
but  Mary  her  prisoner,  whom  I  have 
no  time  to  take  so  much  trouble 
about,  in  whose  face  let  us  flourish 
our  caps ;  and  should  we  find  her 
out  in  any  by-play,  laugh  in  our 
sleeves,  or  without  them  if  occasion 
requires.  When  Elizabeth  does  her 
by-play,  we  do  not  laugh,  nor  even 
look  aside,  but  fix  our  eyes  upon  it 
steadily  and  respectfully,  and  swal- 
low what  we  cannot  ignore/'  Such 
is  the  position  Mr  Froude  has  chosen 
to  occupy  in  respect  to  these  two 
queens.  Our  own  impression  is 
that  the  canvas  would  have  been 
richer  and  the  work  more  worthy 
had  he  taken  the  same  trouble  in 
both  cases,  and  we  cannot  even  see 
how  the  unity  of  the  picture  is 
benefited  by  the  elaboration  of  one 
half  and  scamping  of  the  other. 
The  historian,  however,  it  is  plain, 
thinks  otherwise.  He  gives  his 
heroine  the  benefit  of  all  those  new 
lights  of  observation  which  clear  up 
the  darkness  of  human  motives,  and 
show  us,  as  far  as  anything  can,  not 
only  what  things  were  done,  but 
why  things  were  done,  which  on 
the  outside  express  but  feebly  the 
meaning  of  the  doer.  He  takes 
the  pains  to  tell  us  why  Elizabeth 
thought  as  she  did,  by  what  means 
her  susceptibilities  were  blunted 
in  one  direction  and  sharpened  in 
another,  how  circumstances  had 
moulded  her,  how  nature  compel- 
led her  to  many  a  doubtful  action ; 
but  he  takes  Mary  in  the  mass  after 
the  old  fashion,  without  taking  the 
trouble  to  inquire  how  things  look- 
ed to  her  from  within.  She  is  to 
him  a  simple  impostor,  an  actress 
of  accomplished  powers,  a  very  fine 
and  thoroughly  self-conscious  cheat, 
never  forgetting,  never  abandoning, 
the  arts  which  are  dearer  to  her  than 
anything  in  earth  or  heaven.  Mr 
Froude  would  probably  think  it  big- 
otry of  the  blackest  description  and 
folly  scarcely  less  than  ludicrous 
were  we  to  call  Mahomet  an  impos- 
tor, or — very  much  further  down  in 
the  scale — were  we  even  to  impute 


110 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


that  title  without  explanation  or 
mitigation  to  Cagliostro.  But  he 
gives  it  unhesitatingly  to  Mary 
Stuart.  He  follows  her  through 
scenes  which  thrill  the  pulses  of  the 
calmest  reader  with  his  sneer  and 
his  nickname — he  dogs  her  stately 
steps  through  one  crisis  after  an- 
other, in  which  she  stands  on  such 
a  precipice  that,  if  one  of  her  name- 
less women  were  in  question,  he 
would  allow  it  to  be  tragic  and  ter- 
rible— and  points  out  to  us,  with  a 
suppressed  chuckle,  what  position 
her  feet  are  placed  in,  and  how 
careful  she  has  been  about  the  folds 
of  her  gown.  Nay,  he  watches  her 
die,  which  is  the  one  moment  in 
life  which  commands  the  awe  of 
every  spectator,  be  the  dying  crea- 
ture ever  so  mean  or  miserable, 
and  smiles  his  best,  though  it  is 
hard  work,  and  tries  to  tell  us  that 
death  too  is  a  fine  piece  of  acting. 
We  repeat  that,  if  he  did  this  to 
heighten  the  light  around  the  head 
of  an  ideally  noble  Elizabeth,  there 
might  be  some  semblance  of  excuse. 
But  his  Elizabeth  is  only  a  careful 
piece  of  work,  arid  not  an  ideal ; 
and  he  has  sacrificed  the  wonderful 
splendour  of  the  contrast,  and  the 
amazing  problem  of  such  a  mind 
and  life  as  those  of  Mary,  to  a  mere 
superstition  in  favour  of  his  own 
handiwork.  Such  a  mistake  is  its 
own  punishment ;  and  yet  it  is  one 
of  the  strangest  mistakes  into  which 
a  writer  like  Mr  Froude  could  fall. 
The  office  of  the  imagination  as 
an  intellectual  agent  has  been  much 
discussed  and  much  exalted,  but 
what  we  may  call  its  moral  influ- 
ence has  been  but  little  taken  into 
consideration.  Invention  is  but 
one  of  its  gifts,  and,  we  believe,  not 
the  greatest.  Its  highest  mission 
in  this  world  is  that  of  comprehen- 
sion. Half  the  unkindn esses,  half 
the  cruelties  and  harsh  judgments 
of  life,  spring  from  a  deficiency  of 
this  all  -  important  quality.  The 
mind  which  cannot  put  itself  in 
another's  place,  nor  identify  an- 
other's point  of  view,  is,  however 
just  and  scrupulous,  continually  in 
of  making  false  decisions. 


There  is  such  a  thing,  to  be  sure,  as 
a  redundancy  of  imagination  and 
sympathy,  which  goes  far  to  oblite- 
rate the  limits  of  right  and  wrong 
altogether,  and  to  account  for  every 
action,  however  base  ;  but  deficiency 
is  much  more  general  than  redun- 
dancy. Mr  Froude  has  imagination 
enough  for  here  and  there  a  very 
vivid  piece  of  description  ;  and  he 
has,  when  he  chooses  to  exercise  it 
(as  in  the  wonderful  account  of 
Darnley's  death  in  a  previous  vol- 
ume), a  sufficiently  powerful  sym- 
pathetic faculty  to  throw  himself 
into  the  troubled  being  of  another, 
and  interpret  it  with  touching 
and  solemn  truthfulness;  but  he 
has  aversions  which  baffle  and  con- 
fuse the  imagination.  His  mind 
stops  short  at  Mary's  prison  door. 
All  the  strange  conflict  of  thought 
that  must  have  gone  on  there — the 
questions  that  may  have  risen  in 
the  silence — the  recollections  that 
must  have  peopled  the  solitude — 
the  mass  of  passions,  prejudices, 
wrongs,  and  rights — religious  con- 
victions, such  as  experience  shows 
can  dwell  beside  the  memory  of 
great  crimes  without  any  conscious 
hypocrisy, — Mr  Froude  closes  the 
door  upon  them  all  with  a  certain 
contempt.  The  workings  of  Mary's 
mind  are  nothing  to  him ;  the 
amount  of  truth  she  may  have  had 
to  back  her  does  not  interest  him. 
He  does  not  care  what  she  hopes, 
what  she  fears,  or  what  she  be- 
lieves; and  yet  she  must  have 
hoped  much,  feared  much,  and  be- 
lieved something,  or  else  human 
nature  has  strangely  changed.  Of 
all  the  men  and  women  alive  on  the 
earth  we  question  if  there  was  one 
more  profoundly  interesting  than 
she  whom  the  historian  with  airy 
insolence  speaks  of  as  the  Lady  of 
Tutbury.  A  tragic  past,  brimming 
over  with  passion  and  misery — 
a  future  equally  tragic,  though  less 
unhappy — a  present  ever  filled  with 
the  glimmer  of  such  a  possibility 
as  was  enough  to  make  any  ordin- 
ary head  dizzy  and  faint — the  pos- 
sibility of  being  suddenly  converted 
any  moment  from  a  neglected  cap- 


1870.] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mart/. 


ill 


live  to  the  queen  of  a  great  nation, 
are  themselves  enough  to  fill  every 
movement  of  Mary's  with  interest. 
She  had  lived  wildly  and  loved 
fiercely,  and  experienced  every 
kind  of  adventure  and  vicissitude. 
She  had  walked  as  an  enchantress 
among  men,  with  lives  cast  under 
her  feet  like  flowers  ;  and  she  had 
sas  for  years  at  her  embroidery- 
frame  counting  the  weary  days  like 
any  unwilling  nun.  From  one  ex- 
treme to  another  she  had  been 
drifted;  and  had  retained  her  en- 
ergy, her  quick  wit,  and  wonderful 
intelligence  through  all.  If  such  a 
being  as  this  can  be  explained  in 
one  word,  then  has  history  indeed 
grown  easy,  and  it  is  an  unnecessary 
waste  of  labour  to  expend  such  a 
mind  as  that  of  Mr  Froude  upon  the 
simple  and  banal  tale. 

His  explanation  of  Mary  is  as  fol- 
lows :  She  was  an  ambitious,  rest- 
less intrigante — a  scheming  adven- 
turess, conscious  of  crime,  such  as 
excluded  her  from  all  rights  and 
sympathies,  and  aware  that  the  ex- 
istence of  a  Magdalen  out  of  sight 
of  mankind  was  her  fit  lot ;  yet  un- 
grateful to  the  hand  that  fed  and 
sheltered  her — plotting  against  her 
hostess  and  relative — ready  even  to 
go  the  length  of  murder — taking 
advantage  of  certain  prejudices 
about  religion  to  attract  the  dis- 
contented to  her  side,  and  under- 
mine her  kind,  much  -  enduring, 
too  indulgent  cousin.  Of  these 
religious  prejudices,  and  of  an- 
other popular  delusion  in  respect 
to  the  rights  of  princes,  the  woman 
availed  herself,  as  any  modern  act- 
ress might  avail  herself  of  a  British 
public's  sentiments  about  virtue 
and  its  infallible  rewards  —  the 
rights  of  princes  and  the  Catholic 
religion  being  in  reality  no  more 
to  her  than  the  sentiment  of  poetic 
justice  is  to  any  heroine  on  the 
Surrey  boards.  To  fight  by  means 
of  these  weaknesses,  or  any  other 
sho  could  find  out,  for  advantage  to 
herself,  was  her  highest  spring  of 
action,  and  the  gracefulness  of  her 
own  pose  her  most  real  interest. 
When  the  one  could  no  longer  be 


pursued,  then  she  fell  back  on  the 
other ;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  gratification  of  grasping  at  a 
new  crown,  or  the  grand  artistic 
triumph  of  dying  en  martt/re,  with 
every  detail  and  accessory  in  the 
highest  keeping,  was  the  greatest 
to  her  deceitful  soul.  Mr  Froude 
commends  her  courage  much  as  he 
would  that  of  a  dancer  on  the 
tight  -  rope  who  faces  the  perils 
of  her  profession  without  flinching; 
and  gives  us  a  sketch  of  the  fantas- 
tic elaboration  of  the  dress  in  which 
she  went  through  her  last  scene 
with  a  great  deal  less  respectfulness 
than  had  she  been  that  same  tight- 
rope dancer  lying  crushed  in  her 
gauzy  skirts  and  spangles  at  the 
point  where  she  fell.  That  fall 
would  have  made  the  dancer  into  a 
solemn  thing  ;  but  even  the  hall  at 
Fotheringay  does  not  overawe  Mr 
Froude's  scepticism,  or  drive  the 
sneer  from  his  face.  Death  has  no 
solemnity  for  him  when  it  is  Mary 
Stuart  who  is  to  undergo  it.  She 
is  the  same  miserable  charlatan  in 
her  end  as  during  all  her  career. 
All  feigned  and  false  and  artificial 
are  her  dignity,  her  tenderness,  her 
religion,  even  her  face.  She  was 
a  great  actress.  Mrs  Siddons,  per- 
haps, would  scarcely  have  done  it 
so  well, — such  is  the  summary  way 
in  which  the  historian  dismisses 
Mary  of  Scotland  to  her  grave. 

But  yet  there  is  a  very  different 
picture  to  be  made.  Mary  had 
been  for  seventeen  years  a  weary 
captive  in  her  rival's  power ;  and 
long  ere  now  all  sense  of  being 
a  Magdalen  had,  without  doubt, 
faded  from  her  mind.  Darnley 
and  the  Kirk  -  of  -  Field  troubled 
her  no  more  than  Anne  Boleyn 
and  the  block  troubled  her  worthy 
uncle  Henry  in  the  later  part 
of  his  career.  Their  consciences 
were  robust,  and  shadows  did  not 
last.  Everything  connected  with 
that  wild  episode  of  love  and 
murder  had  evidently  disappeared 
from  Mary's  healthful  elastic  soul. 
Bothwell  himself  had  disappeared 
from  her  like  a  cast-off  garment, 
and  there  is  no  evidence  of  either 


112 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


remorse  or  repentance  in  her.  She 
had  thrown  off  the  impression  of 
that  nightmare  as  one  does  on 
awaking,  and  her  splendid  vitality 
had  got  the  better  of  it.  But  there 
were  other  things  which  she  had  no 
temptation  to  forget.  She  was  a 
good  Catholic,  and  without  any 
reference  to  her  own  claims  at  all, 
must  necessarily  have  held  Eliza- 
beth to  be  illegitimate.  She  was 
illegitimate  according  to  all  natural 
and  legal  rules  ;  and  had  she  been 
but  Mistress  Elizabeth,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  profligate  squire,  no  one 
would  have  entertained  any  doubt 
on  the  subject.  Mary  was  woman 
enough,  notwithstanding  her  own 
defects,  to  regard  her  cousin's  birth 
with  a  certain  horror  ;  and  Eliza- 
beth was,  besides,  under  the  ban  of 
the  Church — a  sentence  to  which 
we  have  no  ground  for  supposing 
Mary  to  have  been  indifferent.  If 
she  had  not  been  firmly  convinced 
that  Elizabeth  had  no  right  to  the 
throne,  and  that  she  herself  ought 
to  occupy  it  as  legitimate  next  of 
kin,  she  would  have  been  the  most 
philosophical  woman  of  her  day 
— and  philosophy  was  not  the 
special  characteristic  of  her  genius. 
And  she  had  been  brought  up  in 
the  full  faith  of  absolutism,  with 
such  a  confidence  in  the  sacredness 
of  her  rank  as  it  is  impossible  to 
conceive  any  one  entertaining  now- 
adays. At  that  period  divine  right 
was  no  tradition,  but  a  reality,  and 
it  is  simply  impossible  that  Mary 
could  have  had  any  acquired  dis- 
belief in  it.  It  must  have  been  her 
creed  that  an  anointed  queen  was 
beyond  trial  or  condemnation,  that 
whosoever  laid  hands  upon  her  even 
in  obedience  to  the  law  was  violat- 
ing a  higher  law.  Therefore  her 
position  in  England,  from  her  own 
point  of  view,  must  have  been  one 
of  unmitigated  wrong.  It  was  she 
who  was  the  true,  heir,  yet  she 
was  pining  in  prison  ;  it  was  she 
who  alone  could  bring  back  the 
nation  to  the  true  faith,  yet  the 
very  exercise  of  that  faith  in  a 
manner  becoming  her  rank  was 
forbidden  to  her.  Elizabeth  held 


the  throne  in  defiance  of  law  and 
of  the  Church,  oppressing  the  party 
which  it  was  most  natural  for  Mary 
to  recognise  as  the  people — the  only 
part  of  it  she  had  any  familiar 
acquaintance  with.  These  views 
are  not  our  views,  nor  have  we  any 
sympathy  with  them ;  but  they 
were  hers,  and  she  had,  according 
to  her  own  education  and  princi- 
ples, a  perfect  right  to  believe  that 
the  highest  service  she  could  render 
to  God  and  the  nation  was  to  man- 
age matters  so  as  that  she  should 
reign  in  Elizabeth's  stead.  It  was 
not  only  her  interest,  but  her  duty. 
The  advantage  (she  must  have 
thought)  of  a  people  which  was 
being  trained  to  heresy — the  good 
of  the  Church,  the  interests  of  her 
son  and  of  her  faithful  depend- 
ants, all  demanded  of  her  that 
she  should  vanquish  Elizabeth, 
if  any  exertion  could  do  that. 
And  thus,  if  Mary  had  com- 
ported herself  so  as  to  givie  Mr 
Froude  satisfaction,  she  would, 
to  her  own  consciousness  and  to 
that  of  her  party,  have  been  a 
traitor  and  a  coward.  It  is  in  vain 
to  shirk  this  side  of  the  question. 
Such  must  have  been  her  belief ; 
and  every  day  she  passed  in  prison, 
every  indignity  that  was  done  her, 
must  have  heightened  her  sense  of 
injustice,  and  intensified  her  long- 
ing for  deliverance.  In  such  cir- 
cumstances inaction  only  was  sin- 
ful. Mr  Froude  does  not  appear 
to  see  how  much  those  absolute 
rights  and  wrongs  of  hers  increase 
the  interest  of  the  scene.  Almost 
all  Europe  was  on  her  side ;  and 
probably  a  third  part  at  least  of  the 
English  people,  if  free  to  give  their 
opinion,  would  have  held  her 
cause  a  just  one.  That  which  to 
Mr  Froude  appears  a  hopeless  mass 
of  intrigue,  was  to  her  the  highest 
necessity  of  her  position, :  as  legiti- 
mate heir  to  claim  her  own  rights  ; 
as  her  son's  mother  to  establish  his; 
as  a  true  Catholic  to  secure  the  vic- 
tory of  her  faith  ;  as  a  patriot  even 
— for  this  plea  is  also  admissible  in 
the  circumstances — to  seek  what 
must  have  appeared  to  her  the  true 


1870.] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


113 


advantage  of  the  people.  That  we 
differ  with  her  on  every  point,  or 
that  Mr  Froude  differs  with  her,  has 
actually  nothing  to  do  with  the  sub- 
jeot.  Such — unless  she  were  the 
most  generous,  the  most  unselfish, 
the  most  philosophical  and  enlight- 
ened of  women,  centuries  before  her 
a£;e,  and  superior  to  her  education 
— must  have  been  Mary's  belief. 
She  was  not  grateful  to  the  rival 
who  kept  her  in  tedious  bondage, 
and  declined  to  make  any  response 
to  her  just  claims.  She  was  not 
scrupulous  in  the  means  she  em- 
ployed, nor  considerate  of  Eliza- 
beth's safety,  nor  much  concerned 
for  her  life.  People  in  those  days 
ware  not  delicate  about  the  peace 
of  mind,  or  even  the  lives  of  their 
adversaries  ;  and  we  claim  for 
Mary  no  virtue  superior  to  her  age. 
She  was  daring,  shifty,  unscrupu- 
lous, using  every  weapon  that  came 
to  her  hand,  and  caring  much  less 
for  the  means  -than  for  the  end  ; 
but  that  she  possessed  that  without 
which  it  is  impossible  to  believe 
in  any  long  -  continued  struggle — 
a  sense  of  right  on  her  side — we 
crnnot  for  one  moment  doubt. 
And  this  Mr  Froude  persistently 
ignores. 

Elizabeth  was  not  so  incredulous. 
It  was  the  truth  of  Mary's  claim 
that  made  her  fear.  Had  circum- 
stances made  it  possible  for  them 
to  live  in  outward  semblance  of 
harmony,  the  spirit  of  the  position 
would  have  been  unchanged,  ex- 
copt  in  so  far  that  Elizabeth  must 
hive  been  forced  to  acknowledge 
and  allow  at  least  Mary's  right  of 
inheritance.  But  the  fact  that 
amity  between  them  was  impos- 
sible, and  that  Mary  had  contrived 
to  render  herself  obnoxious  to  her 
own  native  kingdom,  and  a  bug- 
bear to  a  large  portion  of  the  Eng- 
lish people,  does  not  affect  the 
question  of  her  natural  rights,  nor 
of  her  consciousness  of  them,  and 
of  the  duties  involved  in  them. 
Ber  sins,  however  fully  proved,  did 
not  and  could  not,  to  herself  at 
least,  make  any  difference  in  the 

VOL.  CVIT. — NO.  DCLI. 


matter,  unless,  indeed,  to  heighten 
her  eagerness  for  the  recognition  of 
her  claims,  since  jeven  a  momentary 
faltering  would  have  been  a  confes- 
sion of  guilt.  Had  she  retired  from 
the  field  and  given  up  the  conflict, 
it  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  a 
great  convenience  to  England  and 
Elizabeth,  but  it  must  have  been 
an  utter  abandonment  of  the  last 
residue  of  duty  and  use  which  re- 
mained in  Mary's  life. 

This,  however,  is  a  view  which 
Mr  Froude  seems  incapable  of  per- 
ceiving. He  seems  to  expect  that 
the  Queen  of  Scots  ought  to  have 
judged  and  condemned  herself,  and 
remorselessly  carried  out  the  sen- 
tence. That  natural  operation  of 
the  human  mind  which  converts  a 
long  suspension  of  execution  into  a 
positive  right  of  escape  does  not 
seem  to  be  known  to  him.  He 
takes  it  for  granted  that  Mary 
must  have  been  continually  consci- 
ous that  she  had  forfeited  her  life, 
and  all  her  individual  rights,  which 
it  is  very  evident  Mary  never  dreamt 
of  being.  She  stands  to  him  in  the 
position  which  an  excommunicated 
person  would  stand  in  to  a  bigoted 
Catholic.  Men  are  free  to  lie  to  her, 
to  cheat  her,  to  use  the  basest  means 
of  betraying  her  confidence,  without 
any  guilt.  They  are  free  to  insult 
her,  to  forget  every  delicacy  and 
courtesy  becoming  gentlemen.  It 
is  guilt  to  aid  her,  almost  a  sin  to 
say  a  civil  word.  The  very  faith- 
fulness of  her  dependants  he  thinks 
no  credit  to  them.  A  woman  may 
forfeit  her  life,  and  yet  retain  her 
right  to  courtesy  and  pity,  and 
such  solace  as  humanity  can  give. 
She  may  be  wicked,  and  yet  not 
be  worthy  of  treatment  like  a  dog  \ 
but  to  Mary,  in  Mr  Froude's  eyes, 
no  charity,  no  allowance  should  be 
shown.  His  account  of  the  imme- 
diate means  employed  to  determine 
her  death  are  curiously  instructive 
on  this  point,  and  so  is  his  narra- 
tion of  the  execution,  which  we 
quote  below.  The  manner  in 
which  she  was  betrayed  at  last  into 
the  hands  of  Elizabeth  was  one  of 


114 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


the  basest  pieces  of  treachery  ever 
perpetrated.  It  may  be  necessary 
for  statesmen  to  employ  spies,  and 
make  use  of  the  meanest  instru- 
ments to  keep  them  informed  of 
their  enemy's  tactics — and  at  that 
period  any  fine  scruples  as  to  the 
lawfulness  or  honourableness  of 
such  channels  of  knowledge  did  not 
exist ;  but  when  we  consider  that 
this  heartless  plot  is  discussed  and 
described  at  full  length  without  a 
word  of  disapproval  on  the  part  of 
the  historian,  or  anything  to  show 
that  he  thinks  Walsingham's  scheme 
anything  but  justifiable  and  legiti- 
mate, Mr  Froude's  virtuous  in- 
dignation at  Mary's  histrionics  be- 
comes more  and  more  amazing  and 
incredible.  The  Catholics  of  that 
day  held,  it  is  said,  that  no  faith 
need  be  kept  with  heretics,  and 
this  is  evidently  Mr  Froude's 
opinion  with  respect  to  Mary. 
Every  practice  against  her  was  fair 
and  honest.  She  had  to  be  trapped 
like  a  wild  beast,  and  what  did  it 
matter  which  was  the  way  ? 

Mary  was  taking  no  special  part 
in  anything  at  the  time  this  plot 
was  devised — not  from  want  of  will, 
but  from  want  of  opportunity.  She 
had  been  for  some  time  deprived  of 
any  means  of  communicating  with 
her  friends  in  which  she  could  place 
the  slightest  confidence,  and  so  had 
been  out  of  all  the  plots  of  the  mo- 
ment, more  silent  and  inoffensive 
than  usual.  But  Elizabeth  was  in 
great  difficulty  between  her  allies 
in  the  Netherlands  and  Philip  of 
Spain.  She  hated  the  Dutch,  and 
yet  had  been  obliged  to  support 
them ;  and  her  whole  mind  at  the 
moment  was  set  upon  the  negotia- 
tion of  a  private  treaty  with  Philip, 
by  which  she  intended  to  throw 
over  the  Hollanders,  save  herself 
from  the  expense  of  a  costly  war 
on  their  account,  and  the  country 
from  all  fear  of  a  Spanish  invasion 
— an  invasion  which  would  have 
had  for  its  object  the  re-establish- 
ment of  the  Catholic  Church,  and 
installation  either  of  Mary  of  Scot- 
land or  of  Philip  himself  upon  the 
English  throne.  To  do  this  she 


would  have  broken  her  faith  with- 
out compunction  to  the  Dutch,  and 
betrayed  all  her  allies  ;  and  it  was 
only  the  wisdom  of  Elizabeth's 
counsellors,  not  her  own,  which 
perceived  the  real  advantage  she 
had  in  being  at  the  head  of  Pro- 
testantism throughout  the  world. 
To  convince  her  that  it  was  her 
interest  to  play  anybody  false 
rather  than  the  Dutch,  and  to  put 
no  faith  in  Philip,  Walsingham 
turned  his  eyes  upon  Mary  in  her 
prison  as  bird-fanciers  do  upon  a 
captive  bird.  She  should  be  the 
lure.  He  would  lay  bare  all  that 
was  and  might  be  plotting  in  the 
Catholic  world  to  his  mistress 
through  her  means,  and  probably 
catch  Mary  too  in  the  snare,  a 
double  advantage.  It  was  with 
this  cold-blooded  intention  that  he 
concocted  his  plan — a  plan  which, 
for  diabolical  skill  in  invention,  and 
pitiless  steadfastness  in  the  carry- 
ing out,  has  perhaps  never  been 
surpassed.  That  Elizabeth's  Mini- 
sters should  not  have  shrunk  from 
such  means  of  procuring  informa- 
tion is  probably  natural ;  but  how 
Mr  Froude,  who  is  so  hard  upon 
Mary's  deceptions,  should  be  able 
to  put  such  a  plot  on  record  with- 
out one  word  of  reprobation — 
rather,  indeed,  as  if  he  approved 
the  villanous  scheme  and  felt  it 
to  be  wholly  justifiable — is  a  won- 
der greater  than  the  plot  itself,  and 
one  which  we  confess  ourselves 
altogether  unable  to  understand. 

After  giving  an  account  of  Eliza- 
beth's vacillations  and  perplexities, 
and  Walsingham's  anxiety  to  clear 
them  up,  Mr  Froude  proceeds  as 
follows  : — 

"  There  was  one  way,  and  perhaps 
only  one,  by  which  all  these  questions 
could  be  answered.  The  Queen  of  Scots 
must  be  again  enabled  to  open  a  corre- 
spondence which  she  and  her  friends 
could  believe  to  be  perfectly  safe,  and 
her  letters  and  theirs  must  be  passed 
through  the  hands  of  Walsingham. 
Round  her,  so  long  as  she  lived,  con- 
spiracy, whether  European  or  English, 
necessarily  gathered.  Nothing  had  been 
done  in  the  past,  and  nothing  had  been 
projected,  on  which  her  advice  had  not 


1870.] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mart/. 


115 


first  been  asked  and  taken.  She  had 
agents  at  every  Court,  who  took  pains 
that  at  least  to  her  every  fibre  of  the 
truth  should  be  known.  Political  cor- 
respondence throughout  her  residence 
in  England  had  been  the  occupation  of 
her  life.  .  .  .  What  Walsingham 
wanted  was  a  sustained,  varied  corre- 
sp  andence  with  many  persons,  protract- 
ed for  an  indefinite  time — with  the 
Pope,  with  Philip,  with  her  son,  with 
the  Archbishop  of  Glasgow,  with  Guise, 
Mendoza,  and  the  English  refugees.  In 
possession  of  this,  he  could  either  con- 
vince his  mistress  of  her  own  unwisdom, 
or  satisfy  himself  that  she  was  right, 
and  that  the  treaty  might  safely  go 
forward.  But  the  problem  was  an  ex- 
tremely difficult  one.  He  must  find 
some  one  who  could  obtain  the  confi- 
dence of  all  these  persons,  and  induce 
thim  to  trust  him  with  their  letters. 
Ho  must  in  some  way  or  other  enable 
this  person  to  convey  the  letters  to  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  convey  back  her 
answers.  He  dared  not  venture  the 
experiment  without  Elizabeth's  permis- 
sion. She  gave  it,  and  she  kept  the 
secret  to  herself.  It  was  impossible  to 
say  what  strange  revelations  might  be 
before  her.  For  all  she  could  tell,  for 
all  Walsingham  could  tell,  half  her 
Cabinet  might  be  found  privately  in 
the  Queen  of  Scots'  interest.  Mary 
Stuart  was  the  next  immediate  heir  to 
tho  crown.  Elizabeth  had  refused  to 
allow  her  to  be  disinherited ;  and  Eng- 
lish public  men  were  but  mortal,  and 
might  have  thought  it  but  common 
prudence  to  make  their  peace  in  time." 

The  instrument  was  not  long  of 
being  found.  A  certain  Gilbert 
Gifford,  of  a  good  Staffordshire 
family,  whose  father  was  at  the 
moment  imprisoned  in  London  for 
"  continued  recusancy,"  and  one  of 
whose  brothers  was  a  plotting  Je- 
suit wholly  given  up  to  the  cause 
of  the  Church,  "offered  his  services, 
and  the  opportunities  at  his  com- 
mand, to  the  English  Government/' 
These  opportunities  were  immense, 
as  may  be  supposed.  He  was  him- 
self a  Jesuit  in  deacon's  orders, 
brought  up  at  the  seminary  of 
Rlieims,  intimately  acquainted  with, 
and  fully  trusted  by, many  of  Mary's 
frionds.  No  suspicion  could  at- 
tach to  communications  forwarded 
through  his  means.  But  when  this 
grand  preliminary  had  been  accom- 
plished, there  were  still  other  pre- 


parations needful.  Mary  had  to  be 
removed  (as  she  had  long  vainly 
prayed  to  be,  disliking  the  place) 
from  her  well  watched  and  guard- 
ed residence  at  Tutbury  to  an- 
other of  a  humbler  character,  where 
she  might  be  betrayed  with  less 
risk  of  discovery.  She  had  at 
the  same  time  to  be  driven  des- 
perate by  one  or  two  other  amiable 
means  of  exasperation  —  as,  for 
instance,  the  complete  cessation 
of  any  means  of  correspondence 
whatever  except  through  Walsing- 
ham, and  news  of  her  son  such  as 
might  well  have  driven  any  poor 
woman  frantic.  She  was  told  that 
James  had  transferred  to  Elizabeth 
the  title  of  mother,  and  was  grow- 
ing every  day  more  confirmed  in 
his  Protestantism  and  more  op- 
posed to  herself.  She  was  "  mar- 
vellously incensed"  by  this  infor- 
mation, "protesting  that  she  was 
spoiled  of  her  son  by  violence, 
complaining  in  very  sharp  and  bit- 
ter terms,  having  lost  all  patience, 
and  crying  vengeance  against  her 
enemies."  Having  thus  wrought 
the  unhappy  woman  up  into  a  state 
of  frantic  readiness  to  seize  any 
hand  of  help  that  might  be  held 
out  to  her,  "  Elizabeth  made  a 
favour  of  consenting  to  her  change 
of  residence,  and  accompanied  it 
with  a  lecture  on  irritability."  She 
held  open  the  door  of  the  trap  with 
a  scold  and  an  apparent  grudge. 
The  captive  deserved  no  such  favour; 
but  as  she  had  set  her  heart  on  it, 
why,  she  should  have  it.  There 
was  Chartley  Manor  close  by,  which 
Sir  Amyas  Paulet  might  look  at, 
since  Mary  so  desired  it.  And  thus 
the  last  step  was  taken  for  the  per- 
fection of  the  plot. 

"Mary  Stuart  was  delighted  with 
the  change,  and  utterly  unsuspicious. 
Elizabeth's  homily  had  worked  her  into 
a  frenzy,  which  Paulet  had  studiously 
aggravated,  'making  her  disclose  her 
passions  in  writing,  which  were  far 
more  violent  than  in  her  speech.'  He  had 
affected  to  persuade  her  to  remain  at 
Tutbury,  though  Elizabeth  had  con- 
sented to  her  removal.  He  had  made 
her  only,  as  he  probably  intended,  the 
more  eager  to  go.  She  said  if  she  was 


116 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


kept  at  Tutbury  '  she  would  die  in  her 
bad  lodging,  with  other  bitter  words, 
wherein  she  was  no  niggard  when  she 
was  moved  with  passion.'  She  went 
Walsingham's  way,  believing  it  to  be 
her  own ;  and  before  Christmas  she 
was  comfortably  established  in  her 
new  home. 

"  At  once  there  dropped  upon  her,  as 
if  from  an  invisible  hand,  a  ciphered 
letter  from  her  faithful  Morgan.  Pau- 
let had  been  taken  into  confidence  with 
Phillipps,  Walsingham's  secretary,  an 
accomplished  master  of  the  art  of 
cipher,  and  one  other  person  whose 
assistance  Phillipps  had  secured  —  a 
brewer  at  Burton,  who  supplied  Chart- 
ley  with  ale.  A  separate  cask  was  fur- 
nished for  the  Queen  of  Scots'  ladies 
and  secretaries ;  a  hint  was  in  some 
way  conveyed  to  Nau  to  examine  it 
closely ;  and  when  the  ale  was  drawn 
off  there  was  found  at  the  bottom  a 
small  water-tight  box  of  wood,  in  which 
was  Morgan's  packet.  It  contained  an 
introduction  of  Gilbert  Gifford,  as  '  a 
Catholic  gentleman  well  brought  up  in 
learning,'  on  whom  the  Queen  of  Scots 
might  thoroughly  depend,  and  with 
whose  assistance  she  might  correspond 
with  himself  and  with  her  other  friends 
in  England  and  elsewhere.  The  cask 
came  iu  weekly.  The  box,  re-enclosed 
in  the  empty  barrel,  would  carry  out 
her  answers,  and  the  chain  of  communi- 
cation was  at  once  complete. 

"  The  brewer  had  been  purchased  by 
high  and  complicated  bribes.  He  was 
first  paid  by  Walsingham ;  next,  he 
was  assured  of  lavish  rewards  from  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  which,  to  secure  her 
confidence,  it  was  necessary  to  permit 
him  to  receive ;  lastly,  like  a  true  Eng- 
lish scoundrel,  he  used  the  possession 
of  a  State  secret  to  exact  a  higher  price 
for  his  beer.  Phillipps  came  to  reside 
at  Chartley  under  the  pretence  of  as- 
sisting Paulet  in  the  management  of 
his  household.  Every  letter  conveyed 
to  the  Queen  of  Scots,  and  every  letter 
which  she  sent  in  return,  was  examined 
and  copied  by  him  before  it  was  for- 
warded to  its  destination;  and  Mor- 
gan's introduction  of  Gifford,  which  be- 
trayed her  into  Walsingham's  hands, 
was  the  first  on  which  he  had  to  exer- 
cise his  skill. 

"Gifford  himself,  too  young  and 
innocent-looking,  as  he  appeared  to 
Paulet,  for  so  involved  a  transac- 
tion, had  organised  his  own  share  of 
it  with  a  skill  which  Sir  Amyas's  blun- 
ter mind  failed  at  first  to  comprehend. 
Sir  Amyas  thought  that  his  remunera- 
tion from  Walsingham  ought  to  have 


contented  him.  Gifford,  wiser  than  he, 
knew  that  gratuitous  services  were  sus- 
picious. He  wrote  to  the  Queen  of 
Scots  saying  that  he  was  honoured  in 
being  of  use  to  her,  biit  reminding  her 
that  he  was  risking  his  life,  and  capitu- 
lating for  a  pension.  At  points  between 
Burton  and  London  he  had  found  Catho- 
lic gentlemen  with  whose  assistance  the 
packets  were  transmitted.  They  were 
told  no  more  than  that  they  contained 
letters  of  supreme  importance  to  the 
cause.  One  of  them,  who  resided  near- 
est to  Burton,  received  a  bag  weekly 
from  the  brewer,  and  carried  it  on  to 
the  next,  by  whom  it  was  again  for- 
warded, so  it  was  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  to  the  Jesuit  agency  in  London. 
The  treachery  was  at  Chartley  only. 
From  the  time  that  the  letters  left  the 
brewer's  house,  they  were  tampered 
with  no  more.  The  London  Jesuits 
receiving  them  by  their  confidential 
channel,  and  little  dreaming  that  they 
were  transcribed  already,  distributed 
them  to  their  ciphered  addresses,  and 
returned  answer  in  the  same  way,  which 
again,  after  inspection  by  Phillipps, 
were  deposited  in  the  cask.  Gifford 
was  at  first  upon  the  spot  and  active  in 
person,  but  when  the  road  was  once 
established  he  was  needed  no  more. 
He  went  abroad  again  to  see  Morgan> 
and  gather  information  wherever  he 
was  trusted.  In  his  absence  his  cousin 
took  his  place  as  an  unconscious  instru- 
ment of  the  ruin  of  the  lady  whom  he 
worshipped  as  his  queen.  All  parties 
in  the  correspondence  had  special  de- 
signations. In  the  letters  of  Mary 
Stuart,  Gilbert  passed  by  the  name  of 
Pietro;  the  cousin,  of  Emilio.  Between 
Paulet  and  Walsingham  the  brewer  was 
christened,  in  irony,  '  the  honest  man ; ' 
Gilbert  was  Walsingham's  'friend;' 
and  the  cousin,  the  'substitute.' 

"  Six  persons  only  were  in  possession 
of  the  full  secret.  Elizabeth  and  Wal- 
singham, by  whom  the  plot  had  been 
contrived;  Gifford  and  the  brewer, 
who  were  its  instruments  ;  Phillipps,  by 
whom  the  ciphers  were  transcribed  and 
read  ;  and  Paulet,  whom  it  had  been 
found  necessary  to  trust.  All  the  rest 
were  puppets  who  played  their  parts  at 
the  young  Jesuit's  will.  The  ciphers 
threatened  at  first  to  be  a  difficulty. 
Phillipps  was  a  practised  expert,  and 
with  time  could,  perhaps,  have  mastered 
all  of  them ;  but  time  was  an  element 
of  which  there  was  none  to  spare,  where 
a  correspondence  was  to  be  watched  but 
not  detained,  and  where  a  delay  in  the 
transmission  might  lead  to  discovery. 
The  over-confidence  of  Morgan,  how* 


1870,] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


117 


ever,  in  Giffbrd's  probity  deprived  the 
unlucky  Mary  of  this  last  protection. 
Foaring;  that  his  old  ciphers  might  have 
been  discovered,  he  drew  fresh  tables, 
not  for  his  own  use  only,  but  forthe  whole 
party  of  the  Paris  conspirators  —  for 
Guise,  for  Mendoza,  for  the  Archbishop 
of  Glasgow,  for  Paget,  and  for  Arundel ; 
and.  he  forwarded  duplicates  to  the 
Q  leen  of  Scots.  The  key  of  his  own, 
which  unlocked  the  rest,  he  gave  to 
Gifford  to  carry  to  her,  and  the  very 
first  letter  which  she  availed  herself  of 
h(  r  recovered  opportunity  to  write,  was 
in  this  identical  cipher.  It  was  to 
'  Pietro's  father,'  old  Gifford,  who  was 
in  the  Tower,  full  of  tender  consolation, 
and  of  promises  that  if  ever  she  became 
his  sovereign,  his  own  and  his  son's 
services  should  not  be  forgotten. 

"The  very  inmost  secrets  of  the 
Catholic  confederacy  were  now  opened 
to  Walsingham's  inspection.  The  pa- 
pers which  he  was  about  to  see  were 
from  the  men  at  whose  instigation,  if 
England  was  really  to  be  invaded,  the 
enterprise  would  be  spt  on  foot.  .  .  . 
The  exact  truth  would  be  told  to  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  she  herself  in  time 
would  reveal  her  most  inward  purpose. 
It  would  be  ascertained  now  whether 
he  or  Elizabeth  had  been  right." 

Thus  by  a  plot  as  clever  and  as 
nefarious  as  was  ever  conceived, 
Mary  was  betrayed.  Mr  Froude  is 
willing  to  allow  that  there  must 
have  been  an  "  inherent  scoundrel- 
dom  of  temperament"  in  Gifford, 
the  principal  agent  of  it,  and  in  the 
brewer  its  lowest  instrument;  but  we 
are  left  to  suppose  that  it  was  rather 
virtuous  than  otherwise  in  Eliza- 
beth thus  to  tempt  her  cousin  to 
destruction.  We  do  not  ourselves 
se>3  that  the  actual  forgery  of  the  do- 
cuments with  which  Mary's  partisans 
have  charged  the  English  Govern- 
ment, would  have  been  much  worse ; 
and  it  certainly  would  have  requir- 
ed less  heartless  and  continued 
cr  lelty.  The  information  gained 
by  this  abominable  means  was  not 
immediately  satisfactory.  It  show- 
ed that  the  Catholic  world  was  very 
dubious,  very  much  divided,  very 
uncertain  what  step  to  take  next  ; 
and  no  doubt,  had  Elizabeth  acted 
immediately  by  the  instructions 
thus  given  her,  the  treaty  with 
Philip  might  have  been  perfectly 
feasible.  But  by -and -by  a  new 


and  strange  light  stole  over  the 
darkling  scene,  at  which  the  Queen 
and  her  Ministers  peeped  with  all  the 
excitement  of  clandestine  watchers. 
One  can  imagine  the  half-incredu- 
lous delight  with  which  Walsing- 
ham  must  have  started  at  his  key- 
hole when  he  began  to  perceive 
how,  beyond  all  his  hopes,  the 
maddened,  heart  -  sick,  worn  -  out 
Mary  was  about  to  betray  herself 
into  his  hands.  Mysterious  hints 
of  something  brewing  that  might  de- 
liver her,  made  the  secret  listeners 
prick  up  their  ears.  "  It  must  have 
been  with  profound  curiosity/'  says 
Mr  Froude,  "  that  both  Elizabeth 
and  Walsingham  must  have  watch- 
ed the  effect  upon  the  Queen  of 
Scots/'  His  sympathy  is  with  the 
spies  behind  the  door,  not  with  the 
trapped  creature,  panting  with  hopes 
of  final  deliverance,  and  pitifully 
unconscious  of  the  eyes  that  watch- 
ed her  who  sat  within.  It  was  the 
Babington  conspiracy  against  Eliza- 
beth's life  that  was  brewing,  and 
no  doubt  it  must  have  given  her  a 
certain  thrill  of  excitement  in  pass- 
ing, to  hear  of  "  the  means  in  hand 
to  remove  the  beast  that  troubles 
all  the  world."  Mr  Froude,  how- 
ever, mingles  so  carefully  the  nar- 
rative of  what  was  going  on  outside, 
and  Gifford's  other  treacheries,  with 
the  story  of  Mary's  letters,  that  the 
careless  reader  will  be  apt  to  attri- 
bute all  Elizabeth's  knowledge  of 
this  conspiracy  to  the  Chartley  cor- 
respondence, which  is  very  far  from 
being  the  case.  The  mysterious 
hints  about  the  removal  of  the 
beast  were  accompanied  by  many 
much  more  lengthy  and  important- 
seeming  details  about  an  invasion 
led  by  the  Prince  of  Parma,  and 
about  the  plans  for  her  own  per- 
sonal deliverance  ;  and  the  conspi- 
racy itself  is  only  fully  unveiled  in 
one  letter  from  Babington,  in  which 
it  seems  to  occupy  one  sentence, 
while  the  Prince  of  Parma  and  her 
escape  fill  up  pages.  But  we  do 
not  attempt  to  defend  Mary,  or  to 
suppose  in  her  any  squeamishness 
about  acquiescence  in  such  a  con- 
spiracy. What  was  Elizabeth  doing 


118 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


in  that  dark  closet  watching  every 
secret  movement  of  her  prisoner  ] 
Was  not  she  conspiring  diabolically 
in  cold  blood,  and,  what  was  worse, 
tempting  the  unhappy  one  to  her 
fate  1  It  was  a  duel  a  entrance, 
and  why  should  Mary  hesitate  1 
To  kill  or  to  be  killed  was  the 
inevitable  conclusion,  and  Mary 
Stuart  was  no  meek  sufferer,  for- 
giving her  enemies  and  blessing 
those  who  cursed  her. 

When  the  crisis  for  which  they  had 
been  plotting  had  come,  and  at  last 
Babington's  welcome  letter,  with  de- 
tails which  nobody  could  mistake, 
was  put  into  her  hands,  the  conspira- 
tors on  the  other  side  stood  still 
and  held  their  breath,  with  an  ex- 
citement which  it  is  easy  to  realise. 
Here  was  the  tragic  point  on  which 
life  and  death  depended.  They 
watched  her  as  a  band  of  ruffians 
might  watch  a  blinded  creature  wan- 
dering on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  ; 
or  as  wreckers  watch  the  ship  which 
their  false  lights  have  beguiled  on 
to  a  fatal  shore.  Would  some  an- 
gel interfere  and  save  her  at  the 
last  moment,  or  would  nature,  and 
hope,  and  wrong,  and  vengeance 
have  their  way  1 

"  The  interest  grew  deeper.  Babing- 
ton's letter  was  given  immediately  to 
Gifford ;  it  was  examined  by  Walsing- 
ham  before  it  left  London,  and  was  for- 
warded by  the  usual  road  ;  and  Phil- 
lipps,  who  had  been  in  London,  and 
there  deciphered  it,  returned  to  Paulet 
at  Chartley,  to  watch  its  effects.  Mary 
Stuart  knevvPhillipps  by  sight — a  spare, 
pock-marked,im passive,  red-haired  man, 
something  over  thirty.  She  had  been 
already  struck  by  his  appearance.  Mor- 
gan had  suggested  that  he  might  not  be 
proof  against  a  bribe.  She  had  tried 
him  gently  without  success,  but  she  had 
no  particular  suspicion  of  him.  He  knew 
the  moment  when  the  letter  reached  her. 
He  knew  that  she  had  read  it.  When 
she  drove  out  in  her  carriage  afterwards, 
she  passed  him,  and  he  bowed  respect- 
fully. '  I  had  a  smiling  countenance, ' 
he  said,  'but  I  thought  of  the  verse, 
'  Cum  tibi  dicit  Ave.  Sicut  ab  hoste 
cave. '  Some  remorse  he  could  not  choose 
but  feel.  She  was  in  his  toils,  and  he 
was  too  certain  that  she  would  be  in- 
volved in  them.  Another  letter  from 
her,  and  the  work  would  be  done. 


'  We  attend,'  he  wrote,  '  her  very  heart 
at  the  next.' " 

What  do  our  readers  say  ]  Is  it 
Elizabeth,  Walsingham,  Phillipps, 
and  Gifford,  or  Mary  and  Babing- 
ton,  that  are  most  guilty  of  con- 
spiracy and  murder  1  —  and  how 
much  had  pure  justice  to  do  with 
the  guidance  of  the  world  when 
the  last  died,  and  the  first  went 
free? 

We  have  no  more  doubt,  for  our 
own  part,  that  the  letters  were 
genuine,  and  that  Mary  (thinking 
it  actually  a  matter  of  less  import- 
ance than  how  she  was  to  be  car- 
ried off  from  Chartley,  and  restored 
to  the  grand  air  and  sweets  of  free- 
dom) consented  to  Elizabeth's  as- 
sassination, than  we  have  that 
Babington's  band  could  not  have 
assassinated  a  fly.  A  parcel  of 
vain,  foolish,  riotous  young  brag- 
garts— it  is  impossible  to  believe 
that  Elizabeth,  a  woman  of  unques- 
tionable courage,  ever  had  a  mo- 
ment's real  fear  on  account  of 
their  boyish  conspiracy.  It  might 
have  wounded  her  pride,  for  they 
were  adherents  of  her  court ;  but 
there  is  no  evidence  that  they  had 
any  special  access  to  her,  or  in- 
terested her  in  any  way.  The 
whole  business  came  to  nothing, 
as  it  would  assuredly  have  done  in 
any  case.  The  wretched  creatures 
were  slaughtered  with  every  pos- 
sible atrocity  permitted  by  the  law, 
and  Mary's  doom  was  finally 
sealed.  We  do  not  pity  Babing- 
ton,  and  we  are  not  even  prepared 
to  assert  that  it  was  not  needful 
for  the  public  peace  that  Mary 
should  die.  But  how  any  historian 
of  this  nineteenth  century  can 
justify  the  transaction  described 
above,  is  such  a  puzzle  as  we  do 
not  remember  to  have  encountered 
before.  "  It  was  not  to  entrap  her, 
Elizabeth  could  most  honestly  say," 
Mr  Froude  adds,  with — is  it  a  mo- 
mentary hallucination  ?  —  and  he 
explains  to  us  that,  "  Had  Mary 
been  in  the  mood  in  which  she 
pretended  to  be,  the  *  treachery'  of 
Walsingham  would  have  been  the 
truest  kindness,  for  it  would  have 


1870.] 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


119 


dispelled  effectually  and  for  ever 
the  remains  of  Elizabeth's  mis- 
trust." Can  anybody  explain  this 
extraordinary  sophistry  1  Does 
Mr  Froude  mean  it  1 — or  is  it  a  bit 
of  monomania?  What!  true  kind- 
ness to  spy  into  the  very  heart  of  a 
helpless  prisoner,  to  ply  her  with 
temptations  wellnigh  irresistible — 
to  create  means  of  criminality  for 
her,  and  watch  in  the  dark  how 
she  rises  to  the  horrible  bait  1 
Were  such  a  course  of  procedure 
employed  nowadays — nay,  even  the 
very  shadow  of  it  —  towards  the 
meanest  criminal,  what  would  the 
world,  what  would  Mr  Froude  say  ? 
We  need  not  dwell  upon  the  care- 
ful narrative  of  the  panic  raised  in 
the  country  by  the  discovered  con- 
spiracy, the  terrible  executions,  the 
ghost  of  invasion  ;  nor  upon  the 
trial  at  Fotheringay,  and  Eliza- 
bath's  agitation  and  attempt  to  in- 
duce her  faithful  Sir  Amyas  Paulet 
to  slaughter  his  prisoner  comfort- 
ably out  of  hand,  and  free  her  from 
tlie  responsibility  ;  nor  how  at  last 
she  signed  Mary's  death-warrant, 
"  among  a  number  of  other  papers," 
and  it  was  registered  without  examin- 
ation as  anew  act  referring  tolreland. 
All  the  confused  excitement  of  the 
moment  culminates  in  the  one  scene 
at  Fotheringay,  of  which  so  many 
narratives  have  been  given,  and 
which  Mr  Froude  now  tells  over 
again,  as  it  has,  we  dare  venture  to 
say,  never  yet  been  told.  The  great 
actress  prepares  to  go  out  of 'the 
world  histrionically,  and  with  the 
finest  effect — such  an  accident  as 
death  being  nothing  to  her  but 
another  occasion  of  display.  This 
i*  how  that  wonderful  scene,  so 
familiar  to  us  all,  appears  to  the 
historian,  and  we  may  leave  him, 
\vith  little  comment,  to  tell  a  tale, 
\vhich  perhaps  our  readers  will 
agree  with  us  is  less  to  the  histori- 
an's credit  than  it  is  to  the  queen's. 

"At  eight  in  the  morning  the  pro- 
vost -  marshal  knocked  at  the  outer 
door  which  communicated  with  her 
suite  of  apartments.  It  was  locked 
a  ad  no  one  answered,  and  he  went 
back  in  some  trepidation  lest  the  fears 


might  prove  true  which  had  been  en- 
tertained the  preceding  evening.  On 
his  returning  with  the  sheriff,  however, 
a  few  minutes  later,  the  door  was  open, 
and  they  were  confronted  with  the 
tall  majestic  figure  of  Mary  Stuart 
standing  before  them  in  splendour. 
The  plain  grey  dress  had  been  ex- 
changed for  a  robe  of  black  satin ;  her 
jacket  was  of  black  satin  also,  looped 
and  slashed  and  trimmed  with  velvet. 
Her  false  hair  was  arranged  studiously 
with  a  coif,  and  over  her  head  and 
falling  down  over  her  hack  was  a  white 
veil  of  delicate  lawn.  A  crucifix  of 
gold  hung  from  her  neck.  In  her  hand 
she  held  a  crucifix  of  ivory,  and  a 
number  of  jewelled  paternosters  were 
attached  to  her  girdle.  Led  by  two  of 
Paulet's  gentlemen,  the  sheriff  walking 
before  her,  she  passed  to  the  chamber 
of  presence  in  which  she  had  been 
tried,  where  Shrewsbury,  Kent,  Paulet, 
Drury,  and  others  were  waiting  to  re- 
ceive her.  Andrew  Melville,  Sir  Ko- 
bert's  brother,  who  had  been  Master  of 
her  Household,  was  kneeling  in  tears. 
'  Melville,'  she  said,  '  you  should  rather 
rejoice  than  weep  that  the  end  of  my 
troubles  is  come.  Tell  my  friends  I 
die  a  true  Catholic.  Commend  me  to 
my  son.  Tell  him  I  have  done  nothing 
to  prejudice  his  kingdom  of  Scotland ; 
and  so,  good  Melville,  farewell.1  She 
kissed  him,  and,  turning,  asked  for  her 
chaplain  du  Preau.  He  was  not  pre- 
sent. There  had  been  a  fear  of  some 
religous  melodrame  which  it  was 
thought  well  to  avoid.  Her  ladies, 
who  had  attempted  to  follow  her,  had 
been  kept  back  also.  She  could  not 
afford  to  leave  the  account  of  her  death 
to  be  reported  by  enemies  and  Puritans, 
and  she  required  assistance  jor  the  scene 
which  she  'meditated.  Missing  them, 
she  asked  the  reason  of  their  absence, 
and  said  she  wished  them  to  see  her 
die.  Kent  said  he  feared  they  might 
scream  or  faint,  or  attempt  perhaps 
to  dip  their  handkerchiefs  in  her 
blood.  She  undertook  that  they 
should  be  quiet  and  obedient.  *  The 
Queen,'  she  said,  '  would  never  deny 
her  so  slight  a  request ; '  and  when 
Kent  still  hesitated,  she  added  with 
tears,  '  You  know  I  am  cousin  to  your 
Queen,  of  the  blood  of  Henry  the 
Seventh,  a  married  Queen  of  France, 
and  anointed  Queen  of  Scotland.' 

"It  was  impossible  to  refuse.  She 
was  allowed  to  take  six  of  her  own 
people  with  her,  and  select  them  her- 
self. She  chose  her  physician,  Bur- 
goyne,  Andrew  Melville,  the  apothecary 
G-orion,  and  her  surgeon,  with  two 


120 


Mr  Froude  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


ladies,  Elizabeth  Kennedy  and  Curll's 
young  wife,  Barbara  Mowbray,  whose 
child  she  had  baptised. 

"'Allons  done,'  she  then  said,  'let 
us  go ; '  and  passing  out,  attended  by 
the  earls,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an 
officer  of  the  guard,  she  descended  the 
great  staircase  to  the  hall.  The  news  had 
spread  far  through  the  country.  Thou- 
sands of  people  were  collected  outside 
the  walls.  About  three  hundred  knights 
and  gentlemen  of  the  county  had  been 
admitted  to  witness  the  execution. 
The  tables  and  forms  had  been  removed, 
and  a  great  wood-h're  was  blazing  in 
the  chimney.  At  the  upper  end  of  the 
hall,  above  the  fireplace,  but  near  it, 
stood  the  scaffold,  twelve  feet  square 
and  two  feet  and  a  half  high.  It  was 
covered  with  black  cloth.  A  low  rail 
ran  round  it,  covered  with  black  cloth 
also,  and  the  sheriff's  guard  of  hal- 
bardiers  were  ranged  on  the  floor  below 
on  the  four  sides,  to  keep  off  the  crowd. 
On  the  scaffold  was  the  block,  black 
like  the  rest.  A  square  black  cushion 
was  placed  behind  it,  and  behind  the 
cushion  a  black  chair.  On  the  right 
were  two  other  chairs  for  the  earls. 
The  axe  leant  against  the  rail,  and  two 
masked  figures  stood  as  mutes  on  either 
side  at  the  back.  The  Queen  of  Scots, 
as  she  swept  in,  seemed  as  if  coming  to 
take  a  part  in  some  solemn  pageant. 
Not  a  muscle  of  her  face  could  be  seen 
to  quiver.  She  ascended  the  scaffold 
with  absolute  composure,  looked  round 
her,  smiling,  and  sate  down.  Shrews- 
bury and  Kent  followed,  and  took  their 
places.  The  sheriff  stood  at  her  left 
hand,  and  Beale  then  mounted  a  plat- 
form and  read  the  warrant  aloud. 

"In  all  the  assembly  Mary  Stuart 
appeared  the  person  least  interested  in 
the  words  which  were  consigning  her 
to  death. 

*' '  Madam,'  said  Lord  Shrewsbury  to 
her  when  the  reading  was  ended,  '  you 
hear  what  we  are  commanded  to  do  ? ' 

"'You  will  do  your  duty,'  she  an- 
swered, and  rose  as  if  to  kneel  and  pray. 

"  The  Dean  of  Peterborough,  Dr  Flet- 
cher, approached  the  rail.  'Madam,' 
he  began,  with  a  low  obeisance,  'the 
queen's  most  excellent  majesty,' — '  Ma- 
dam, the  queen's  most  excellent  ma- 
jesty.' Thrice  he  commenced  his  sen- 
tence, wanting  words  to  pursue  it. 
When  he  repeated  the  words  a  fourth 
time  she  cut  him  short. 

'"Mr  Dean,'  she  said,  'I  am  a  Ca- 
tholic, and  must  die  a  Catholic.  It  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  move  me,  and  your 
prayers  will  avail  me  but  little.' 


"  '  Change  your  opinions,  madam,'  he 
cried,  his  tongue  being  loosed  at  last ; 
'  repent  of  your  sins,  settle  your  faith 
in  Christ,  by  Him  to  be  saved. ' 

' ' '  Trouble  not  yourself  further,  Mr 
Dean, '  she  answered  ;  '  I  am  settled  in 
my  own  faith,  for  which  I  mean  to  shed 
my  blood.' 

"  '  I  am  sorry,  madam,'  said  Shrews- 
bury, '  to  see  you  so  addicted  to 
Popery.' 

"'That  image  of  Christ  you  hold 
there,'  said  Kent,  '  will  not  profit  you, 
if  He  be  not  engraved  in  your  heart. ' 

' '  She  did  not  reply,  and,  turning  her 
back  on  Fletcher,  knelt  for  her  own 
devotions. 

' '  He  had  been  evidently  instructed 
to  impair  the  Catholic  complexion  of 
the  scene,  and  the  Queen  of  Scots  was 
determined  that  he  should  not  succeed. 
When  she  knelt  he  commenced  an  ex- 
tempore prayer  in  which  the  assembly 
joined.  As  his  voice  sounded  out  in  the 
hall,  she  raised  her  own,  reciting  with 
powerful  deep-chested  tones  the  Peniten- 
tial Psalms  in  Latin,  introducing  English 
sentences  at  intervals,  that  the  audi- 
ence might  know  what  she  was  saying, 
and  praying  with  especial  distinctness 
for  her  holy  father  the  Pope. 

"  From  time  to  time,  with  conspicxi- 
ous  vehemence,  she  struck  the  crucifix 
against  her  bosom,  and  then,  as  the 
Dean  gave  up  the  struggle,  leaving  her 
Latin,  she  prayed  in  English  wholly, 
still  clear  and  loud.  She  prayed  for  the 
Church  which  she  had  been  ready  to 
betray,  for  her  son  whom  she  had  disin- 
herited, for  the  Queen  whom  she  had  en- 
deavoured to  murder.  She  prayed  God 
to  avert  His  wrath  from  England,  that 
England  which  she  had  sent  a  last  mes- 
sage to  Philip  to  beseech  him  to  invade. 
She  forgave  her  enemies,  whom  she  had 
invited  Philip  not  to  forget ;  and  then, 
praying  to  the  saints  to  intercede  for 
her  with  Christ,  and  kissing  the  cruci- 
fix and  crossing  her  own  breast,  '  Even 
as  thy  arms,  O  Jesus,'  she  cried,  '  were 
spread  upon  the  cross,  so  receive  me 
into  Thy  mercy,  and  forgive  my  sins.' 

"With  these  words  she  rose;  the 
black  mutes  stepped  forward,  and  in 
the  usual  form  begged  her  forgiveness. 

" '  I  forgive  you, '  she  said,  '  for  now 
I  hope  you  shall  end  all  my  troubles.' 
They  offered  their  help  in  arranging 
her  dress.  '  Truly,  my  lords,'  she  said, 
with  a  smile  to  the  earls,  '  I  never  had 
such  grooms  waiting  on  me  before.' 
Her  ladies  were  allowed  to  come  up 
upon  the  scaffold  to  assist  her ;  for  the 
work  to  be  done  was  considerable,  and 


1870.] 


Mr  Fronde  and  Queen  Mary. 


121 


bad  been  prepared  with,  no  common 
thought. 

"  She  laid  her  crucifix  on  her  chair. 
The  chief  executioner  took  it  as  a  per- 
quisite, but  was  ordered  instantly  to 
Ity  it  down.  The  lawn  veil  was  lifted 
carefully  off,  not  to  disturb  the  hair, 
a  ad  was  hung  upon  the  rail.  The  black 
robe  was  next  removed.  Below  it  was  a 
petticoat  of  crimson  velvet.  The  black 
jacket  followed,  and  under  the  jacket 
was  a  body  of  crimson  satin.  One  of 
her  ladies  handed  her  a  pair  of  crimson 
sleeves,  with  which  she  hastily  covered 
her  arms ;  and  thus  she  stood  on  the 
black  scaffold  with  the  black  figures 
all  around  her,  blood- red  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Her  reasons  for  adopting  so  extra- 
ordinary a  costume  must  be  left  to  con- 
jecture. It  is  only  certain  that  it  must 
have  been  carefully  studied,  and  that 
pictorial  effect  must  Iiave  been  ap- 


The  women,  whose  firmness  had 
hitherto  borne  the  trial,  began  now 
to  give  way,  spasmodic  sobs  burst- 
ing from  them  which  they  could 
not  check.  "Ne  criez  vous,"  she  said, 
'•j'ay  promis  pour  vous."  Struggling 
bravely,  they  crossed  their  breasts  again 
a  ad  again,  she  crossing  them  in  turn,  and 
bidding  them  pray  for  her.  Then  she 
knelt  on  the  cushion.  Barbara  Mowbray 
bound  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief. 
'Adieu,'  she  said,  smiling  for  the  last 
time,  and  waving  her  hand  to  them, 
'  Adieu,  au  revoir. '  They  stepped  back 
from  off  the  scaffold,  and  left  her  alone. 
On  her  knees  she  repeated  the  psalm, 
la  te,  Domine,  confido, — 'In  thee,  0 
Lord,  have  I  put  my  trust.'  Her 
shoulders  being  exposed,  two  scars  be- 
came visible,  one  on  either  side ;  and 
the  earls  being  now  a  little  behind  her, 
Kent  pointed  to  them  with  his  white 
wand,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his 
companion.  Shrewsbury  whispered 
that  they  were  the  remains  of  two 
abscesses  from  which  she  had  suffered 
while  living  with  him  at  Sheffield. 

"When  the  psalm  was  finished  she 
felt  for  the  block,  and  laying  down  her 
head,  muttered,  '  In  manus,  Domine, 
taas,  commendo  animam  nieam.'  The 
tard  wood  seemed  to  hurt  her,  for  she 
placed  her  hands  under  her  neck.  The 
executioner  gently  removed  them,  lest 
they  should  deaden  the  blow ;  and 
then  one  of  them  holding  her  slightly, 
the  other  raised  the  axe  and  struck. 
The  scene  had  been  too  trying  even  for 
the  practised  headsman  of  the  Tower. 
I  Lis  arm  wandered.  The  blow  fell  on 


the  knot  of  the  handkerchief,  and 
scarcely  broke  the  skin.  She  neither 
spoke  nor  moved.  He  struck  again, 
this  time  effectively.  The  head  hung 
by  a  shred  of  skin,  which  he  divided 
without  withdrawing  the  axe  ;  and  at 
once  a  metamorphosis  was  witnessed, 
strange  as  was  ever  wrought  by  wand 
of  fabled  enchanter.  The  coif  fell  off. 
and  the  false  plaits.  The  laboured 
illusion  vanished.  The  lady  who  had 
knelt  before  the  block  was  in  the  ma- 
turity of  grace  and  loveliness ;  the 
executioner,  when  he  raised  the  head, 
as  usual,  to  show  it  to  the  crowd, 
exposed  the  withered  features  of.  a 
grizzled,  wrinkled  old  woman. 

"  '  So  perish  all  enemies  of  the 
Queen,'  said  the  Dean  of  Peterborough. 
A  loud  Amen  rose  over  the  hall.  '  Such 
end, '  said  the  Earl  of  Kent,  rising  and 
standing  over  the  body,  '  to  the  Queen's 
and  the  Gospel's  enemies.' 

"  Orders  had  been  given  that  every- 
thing which  she  had  worn  should 
be  immediately  destroyed;  that  no 
relics  should  be  carried  off  to  work 
imaginary  miracles.  Sentinels  stood 
at '  the  doors,  who  allowed  no 
one  to  pass  out  without  permis- 
sion; and  after  the  first  pause,  the 
earls  still  keeping  their  places,  the 
body  was  stripped.  It  then  appeared 
that  a  favourite  lap-dog  had  followed 
its  mistress  unperceived,  and  was  con- 
cealed under  her  clothes;  when  dis- 
covered it  gave  a  short  cry,  and  seated 
itself  between  the  head  and  the  neck, 
from  which  the  blood  was  still  flowing. 
It  was  carried  away  and  carefully 
washed,  and  then  beads,  paternoster, 
handkerchief,  each  particle  of  dress 
which  the  blood  had  touched,  with  the 
cloth  on  the  block  and  on  the  scaffold, 
was  burnt  in  the  hall -fire  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  crowd.  The  scaffold  itself 
was  next  removed  ;  a  brief  account  of 
the  execution  was  drawn  up,  with 
which  Henry  Talbot,  Lord  Shrews- 
bury's son,  was  sent  to  London,  and 
then  every  one  was  dismissed." 

This  narrative  speaks  for  itself, 
and  we  believe  it  is  the  first  time 
that  it  has  been  told  without  some 
passing  thrill  of  humanity.  Mary 
Stuart  was  no  martyr.  Once  more 
we  repeat  that  we  have  no  confi- 
dence whatever  in  the  tale  of  her  in- 
nocence. And  we  suppose  she  had 
technically  forfeited  her  life  by  her 
complicity  with  Babington.  But  the 


122 


Mr  Fronde  and  Queen  Mary. 


[Jan. 


grand  reproach  and  mystery  of 
Mary's  existence  lay  at  the  distance 
of  half  a  lifetime  from  her  punish- 
ment; and  during  that  interval  what 
tortures  had  she  not  suffered  1  A 
woman  of  action,  a  lover  of  plea- 
sure, hot-blooded,  overflowing  with 
energy,  she  had  been  a  captive  for 
seventeen  years ;  proud,  she  had 
been  a  dependant ;  vehement  and 
eloquent,  she  had  been  silenced. 
The  only  legitimate  affection  that 
belonged  to  her  had  been  alienat- 
ed. She  was  impotent,  she  who  felt 
such  powers  within  her,  and  now 
the  toils  had  gathered  round  her 
feet.  She  was  caught  like  a  wild 
beast,  and  treated  like  one,  in  defi- 
ance of  all  the  formal  charities  of 
English  law,  as  well  as  of  human  con- 
sideration. When  she  was  told  all 
suddenly  and  without  warning  that 
she  was  to  die  next  day,  she  was 
''dreadfully  agitated,"  Mr  Froude 
tells  us,  justifying  the  expression 
by  a  French  report  that  "  la  Reyne 
d'Escosse  fut  faschee  et  deplaisante 
de  ces  nouvelles."  Deplaisante  ! 
Did  Kent  and  Shrewsbury,  we 
wonder,  expect  her  to  entertain 
them  with  agreeable  talk  in  return 
for  their  news?  As  she  comes 
forth,  stately  and  calm,  to  the  scaf- 
fold, is  it  possible  that  any  man 
can  look  on  and  jeer  at  her  1  "  O 
the  pity  of  it !  the  pity  of  it !"  cries 
Othello,  not  when  he  thinks  his 
wife  innocent,  but  when  he  believes 
her  guilty.  And  the  knowledge  of 
all  that  woman  has  gone  through — 
of  her  terrible  tragic  passions,  her 
crime,  her  long  torture,  the  awful 
page  of  life  she  is  about  to  close — 
does  it  not  penetrate  with  a  yet 
profounder  throb  the  heart  of  the 
bystander?  But  not  Mr  Froude's 
heart.  No  disgust  seizes  him  when 
the  two  lords,  in  their  brutal  curi- 
osity, silently  consult  each  other 
about  the  scars  on  her  bared  shoul- 
ders. The  voice  of  that  Dean,  whom 
we  would  fain  throttle  in  his  hide- 
ous profane  impertinence,  sounds 
dignified  and  seemly  in  the  his- 
torian's ears,  and  it  is  only  the 


woman  about  to  die  whose  prayers 
are  an  impertinence  to  him.  A 
certain  rage  that  she  should  escape 
him,  and  stand  once  more  supreme 
on  the  edge  of  her  grave,  seems  to 
seize  upo»  him.  No  doubt  he 
would,  in  point  of  fact,  grant  to 
any  ruffian  at  the  gallows-foot  the 
priest  he  chooses  to  aid  him,  so  far 
as  any  priest  can  aid ;  yet  he  can 
actually  find  words  to  tell  us  that 
Mary's  confessor  was  denied  to  her 
"  for  fear  of  some  religious  melo- 
drame."  And  when  the  last  act  is 
over,  and  the  crimson  gown  which 
she  has  put  on  with  pitiful  woman- 
ishness  is  dyed  double  crimson, 
and  the  false  hair  falls  off  the  dead 
head  along  with  its  other  coverings, 
is  it  possible  that  even  then  a 
Christian  gentleman  can  utter  a 
snarl  of  contemptuous  triumph  over 
that  horror  of  blood  and  death? 
It  would  seem  a  positive  pleasure 
to  him  that  now  at  the  last  even 
her  boasted  charms  have  yielded. 
She  knelt  down  at  the  block  "in  the 
maturity  of  grace  and  loveliness ; " 
but  the  head  held  up  before  the 
crowd  "  exposed  the  withered  feat- 
ures of  a  grizzled,  wrinkled  old  wo- 
man." This  ghastly  sneer  haunts 
the  imagination  like  a  blasphemy. 
One  feels  one  must  have  dreamt  it, 
and  that  no  man  could  have  written 
such  words  in  the  calm  of  his  study 
and  in  cold  blood.  The  execu- 
tioner's formula,  "  So  die  all  ene- 
mies of  the  Queen,"  rises  to  the 
height  of  historical  dignity  after 
such  a  comment.  She  was  the 
Queen's  enemy ;  she  was  a  stand- 
ing danger  to  the  public  peace. 
She  was  ( we  believe)  a  woman  who 
had  been  deeply  criminal,  and  was 
not  even  deeply  repentant.  But 
Mary  Stuart  herself,  with  all  her 
sins  on  her  head,  is  more  com- 
prehensible than  is  the  man  who, 
three  hundred  years  after  her 
troublings  have  come  to  an  end, 
is  able  to  insult  her  dying,  and 
throw  an  air  of  farce  over  the  con- 
clusion of  such  a  tragedy  as  has 
seldom  been  witnessed  by  man. 


1870.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


123 


LORD   BYRON   AND   HIS   CALUMNIATORS. 


IN  July  last  we  laid  before  our 
readers  all  that  was  then  publicly 
known  with  regard  to  the  unhappy 
circumstances  which  led  to  the 
separation  of  Lord  and  Lady  Byron, 
and  expressed  a  doubt  whether  the 
cause  of  that  separation  might  not 
remain  for  ever  "  one  of  those 
enigmas  which  perpetually  arouse 
the  curiosity  of  generation  after 
generation,  only  to  disappoint  it;" 
and  we  concluded  our  remarks  with 
the  observation,  "  that  whatever 
real  or  fancied  wrongs  Lady  Byron 
might  have  endured  were  shrouded 
in  an  impenetrable  mist  of  her  own 
creation — a  poisonous  miasma  in 
which  she  had  enveloped  the  char- 
acter of  her  husband — raised  by 
her  breath,  and  which  her  breath 
only  could  have  dispersed."  That 
mist  has  now  been  suddenly  and 
completely  dispelled.  For  three 
months  every  newspaper  has  been 
filled,  and  every  household  in  the 
kingdom  inundated,  with  discus- 
sions on  matters  which  one  por- 
tion, at  any  rate,  of  our  families 
never  heard  or  read  of,  except  when 
they  occurred  in  the  lesson  for  the 
day,  or  were  met  with  in  the  his- 
tory of  Lot  or  of  Amnon. 

Mrs  Beecher  Stowe,  the  well- 
known  American  novelist,  has  told 
-what  she  calls  the  "  True  Story  of 
Lady  Byron's  Life;"  and  we  may  as 
^vell  say,  in  the  outset,  that  we  see 
no  reason  to  doubt  either  that  Mrs 
Stowe  received  this  story  from  the 
lips  of  Lady  Byron,  or  that  she  be- 
lieves it  to  be  true.  Our  reasons 
for  this  will  appear  hereafter ;  and  as 
we  may  have  to  comment  somewhat 
(severely  on  Mrs  Stowe's  conduct  in 
the  matter,  it  is  but  just  that  we 
should  say  at  once  that  we  do  not 
accuse  her  of  the  iniquity  of  fabri- 
cating the  revolting  tale  which  she 
lias  published  to  the  world,  or  of  cir- 
culating it,  knowing  it  to  be  false. 


We  enter  upon  the  subject  with 
reluctance  ;  but  justice  to  the 
memory  of  Lord  Byron,  still  more 
to  that  of  Mrs  Leigh,  and  most  of 
all  to  the  feelings  of  English  so- 
ciety, which  have  been  so  deeply 
outraged,  force  the  unwelcome  task 
upon  us.  We  have  no  more  right  to 
shrink  from  the  investigation  of  Mrs 
Stowe's  disgusting  story  than  a 
surgeon  has  from  the  examination 
of  a  foul  disease. 

Stripped  of  the  flowery  verbiage 
of  the  professional  novelist  (which 
is  peculiarly  out  of  place  in  bring- 
ing a  charge  which,  if  made  at  all, 
ought  to  be  couched  in  the  simplest 
and  plainest  terms),  Mrs  Stowe'a 
"  Story,"  in  its  naked  hideousness, 
is  as  follows  : — 

That  Lord  Byron,  upon  being 
refused  by  Miss  Milbanke,  "fell 
into  the  depths  of  a  secret  adulter- 
ous intrigue  "  ('  Macmillan/  p.  385) 
with  his  sister,  who  was  a  married 
woman  many  years  older  than  him- 
self, with  a  husband  and  several 
children.  That,  "  being  filled  with 
remorse  and  anguish,  and  an  insane 
dread  of  detection"  (p.  385),  he 
renewed  his  proposals  to  Miss  Mil- 
banke, and  married  her  with  the 
expectation  that  she  would  "be 
the  cloak  and  accomplice  of  this 
infamy  "  (p.  387).  That  "  the  mo- 
merit  the  carriage-doors  were  shut 
upon  the  bridegroom  and  bride  " 
(p.  386),  he  told  her  she  had  "  mar- 
ried a  devil  "  (p.  386,  sic).  That, 
"  with  all  the  sophistries  -of  his 
powerful  mind  "  (p.  387),  he  tried 
to  persuade  her  that  there  was  no 
harm  in  incest;  but  that  she,  "  hav- 
ing the  soul  not  only  of  an  angelic 
woman,  but  of  a  strong  reasoning 
man  "  (p.  388),  refused  to  be  con- 
vinced. 

That  from  the  first  hour  of  her 
married  life  until  the  day  they 
parted,*  Lady  Byron  was  "  strug- 


*  Mrs  Stowe  says  "two  years."     As  Lord  and  Lady  Byron  lived  together  only 


124 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


gling  in  a  series  of  passionate  con- 
vulsions to  bring  her  husband  back 
to  his  better  self"  (p.  389).  That 
during  the  whole  of  this  time  Lord 
Byron  was,  with  the  knowledge  of 
his  wife,  who  shared  bed  and  board 
with  him,  carrying  on  an  incestu- 
ous intercourse  with  his  sister,  at 
whose  house  they  visited,  and  who 
was  a  frequent  guest  at  theirs. 
That  two  children  were  born — one 
the  legitimate  offspring  of  the  mar- 
riage, the  other  the  spurious  fruit 
of  the  intrigue— over  both  of  whom 
Lady  Byron  "  watched  with  a  mo- 
ther's tenderness"  (p.  393). 

That  after  '"many  nameless  in- 
juries and  cruelties,  by  which  he 
expressed  his  hatred  of  her"  (p. 
389),  he  determined  to  "  rid  him- 
self of  her  altogether,"  and  "  drove 
her  from  him,  that  he  might  follow 
out  the  guilty  infatuation  that  was 
consuming  him,  without  being  tor- 
tured by  her  imploring  face,  and  by 
the  silent  power  of  her  presence  and 
her  prayers  in  his  house  "  (p.  390). 

That  she  left  him  in  company 
with  the  "  partner  of  his  sins,"  ex- 
pressing a  devout  trust  that  all 
three  would  "  meet  in  heaven  "  (p. 
390),  and  never  saw  him  more. 

Such  is  the  story  told  by  Lady 
Byron  to  Mrs  Stowe  in  the  year 
1856,  at  an  interview  which  "  had 
almost  the  solemnity  of  a  death- 
bed avowal"  (p.  395),  and  when 
her  physicians  "  had  warned  her 
that  she  had  very  little  time  to 
live "  (by  the  way,  she  survived 
the  interview  for  four  years).  Mrs 
Stowe  adds,  that  Lady  Byron,  after 
thus  charging  her  husband  with 
guilt  for  which  no  damnation  could 
be  too  deep,  expressed  the  fullest 
confidence  in  "  his  salvation,"  and 
tells  us  that,  "  while  speaking  on 
the  subject,  the  pale  ethereal  face 
became  luminous  with  a  Jieavenly 
radiance  "  (p.  396). 

Whether  Mrs  Stowe  means  to 
assert  that  Lady  Byron's  communi- 
cation to  her  was  miraculously  at- 


tested by  one  of  the  signs  that  ac- 
companied the  delivery  of  the  Law 
on  Mount  Sinai,  or  whether  this  is 
merely  one  of  those  blasphemous 
familiarities  with  sacred  subjects  in 
which  the  "  unco  gude  and  rigidly 
righteous ;>  are  wont  to  indulge,  to 
the  disgust  of  all  sober-minded 
people,  we  must  leave  the  reader  to 
determine. 

In  the  first  place,  we  would  ask, 
Has  Mrs  Stowe  ever  considered  the 
effect  which  her  story,  if  believed, 
must  have  upon  the  reputation, 
not  only  of  those  whom  she  inten- 
tionally maligns,  but  on  that  of  Lady 
Byron  herself,  whose  champion  she 
professes  to  be  1 

We  do  not  know  how  far  the 
doctrines  with  relation  to  the  sexes, 
which  are  said  to  be  entertained 
by  a  small  knot  of  obscure  elderly 
females  in  this  country,  may  prevail 
in  America  ;  but  we  can  assure  Mrs 
Stowe  that  a  woman  who  lived  for 
two  years  with  a  husband  who  to 
her  knowledge  was  carrying  on  an 
incestuous  intercourse  with  his  sis- 
ter, who  did  not,  on  the  first  intima- 
tion of  such  guilt,  avoid  his  touch 
as  the  foulest  pollution,  who  did 
not  fly  to  those  whom  nature  point- 
ed out  to  her  as  her  protectors,  and 
denounce  the  monster  who  had 
thus  profaned  the  laws  of  God  and 
polluted  the  holiest  of  human  ties, 
would  in  England  be  held  to  be  a 
participant1  in  his  crime,  and  if  she 
sought  protection  from  the  law, 
would  be  told  that  she  had  no  right 
to  seek  redress  for  an  offence  she 
had  condoned  ;  and  if,  in  addition 
to  this,  it  turned  out  that  she  had 
maintained  the  outward  appearance 
of  the  utmost  cordiality  to  the  part- 
ner of  her  husband's  guilt,  that 
she  had  received  her  as  a  guest,  that 
she  had  named  her  child  after  her, 
that  she  had  addressed  letters  to 
her  couched  in  language  of  the 
fondest  affection,  —  we  say  dis- 
tinctly that  a  woman  whose  moral 
sense  was  so  perverted  would  be 


one  year  and  thirteen  days,   the   "  passionate  convulsions  "  must  have  extended 
6'ver  the  whole  period. 


1370.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


125 


held  in  contempt  and  abhorrence 
by  every  one  of  her  own  sex  who 
had  not  sunk  into  a  state  of  de- 
gradation lower  than  that  of  the 
lowest  prostitute  that  ever  haunted 
t'ie  night-houses  of  the  Haymarket. 
The  details  of  our  police-courts 
show  that  there  are  such  house- 
holds as  Mrs  Stowe  would  fain 
persuade  us  Lady  Byron's  was ; 
but  they  show  us,  also,  that  they 
excite  disgust  even  in  the  wretch- 
ed and  vicious  neighbourhoods  in 
vhich  they  exist. 

We  shall  not,  however,  trouble 
ourselves  with  the  question  whether 
Mrs  Stowe  has  been  guilty  of  treach- 
ery towards  Lady  Byron.  We  are 
rot  nice  as  to  the  morals  of  an 
approver,  neither  are  we  casuists. 
Happily  the  broad  lines  of  duty  are 
sufficiently  denned  for  our  guidance 
in  all  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life. 
There  is,  however,  one  case  which 
sometimes  arises  upon  which  men 
of  the  most  honourable  feelings  will 
not  unfrequently  come  to  opposite 
conclusions.  We  mean  the  ques- 
tion how  far  the  obligation  of  se- 
crecy with  regard  to  a  confidential 
communication  is  binding. 

We  presume  that  no  one  will  dis- 
pute that  if  a  native  of  the  sister 
itle,  impatient  of  the  delay  of  the 
promised  Land  Bill,  were,  in  the 
strictest  confidence,  to  impart  to  us 
his  intention,  from  the  most  patri- 
otic motives,  to  accelerate  the  ad- 
justment of  the  question,  and  the 
transfer  of  the  land  of  his  country 
to  the  inhabitants  thereof,  by  shoot- 
ing his  landlord,  it  would  be  our 
duty  not  only  to  warn  the  in- 
tended victim  of  his  danger,  but 
to  give  information  at  the  nearest 
police-station,  and  to  do  all  in 
our  power  to  bring  our  confiding 
friend  to  the  gallows  ;  yet  if  that 
same  man  had  accomplished  his 
purpose,  and,  when  placed  on  his 
trial,  were  to  make  to  his  counsel  a 
full  avowal  of  his  crime,  that  coun- 
sel would  be  guilty  of  the  grossest 
treachery  if  he  betrayed  his  confes- 
sion or  failed  to  strain  every  nerve 
to  obtain  his  acquittal.  Between 


these  plain  extremes  there  are,  how- 
ever, an  infinity  of  cases  which 
melt  into  one  another  like  the 
delicate  and  imperceptible  grada- 
tions of  an  evening  sky,  and  with 
regard  to  which  it  will  be  difficult 
to  find  any  two  persons  who  will 
agree  as  to  the  precise  line  of  duty. 
We  think  that  the  error  of  those — 
and  they  have  not  been  few — to 
whom  Lady  Byron  has  at  various 
times  told  this  revolting  story,  has 
been  in  ever  permitting  themselves 
to  be  the  recipients  of  such  a  con- 
fidence. The  language  they  should 
have  held  to  Lady  Byron  ought  to 
have  been,  "What  ground  have  you 
for  making  this  charge  ]  What  are 
your  proofs  1  Have  you  ever  given 
the  persons  you  accuse  the  op- 
portunity of  answering  1  Do  they 
even  know  that  such  imputations 
have  been  made  against  them  by 
any  one1?  Have  not  you  yourself 
acted  towards  one  or  both  of 
them  in  a  manner  inconsistent 
with  the  truth  of  what  you  now 
say  1 "  If  these  questions  could  not 
be  satisfactorily  answered,  either  the 
confidence  should  have  been  dis- 
tinctly repudiated,  and  the  accused 
parties  warned  of  the  calumnies,  and 
put  on  their  guard  against  the  dan- 
ger to  which  they  were  exposed,  or 
the  statement  should  have  been 
treated  as  the  raving  of  a  lunatic. 

But  whatever  difference  of  opin- 
ion may  exist  as  to  the  question  of 
how  far  Mrs  Stowe  has  been  guilty 
of  a  breach  of  confidence  towards 
Lady  Byron,  we  presume  there  can 
be  none  as  to  the  crime  against 
society  which  she  has  committed  by 
polluting  every  household  in  Eng- 
land and  America  with  the  discus- 
sion of  a  subject  which  ought  never 
to  be  mentioned  without  absolute 
necessity,  or  the  deep  culpability 
of  any  one  who  gives  such  a  story 
to  the  world  without  first  not  only 
being  fully  satisfied  of  its  truth, 
but  being  prepared  with  conclusive 
evidence  to  prove  it.  The  person 
who  repeats  such  a  tale  incurs  a 
responsibility  hardly  second  to  that 
of  the  inventor.  The  vendor  of 


126 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


poison  is  equally  guilty  with  the 
compounder.  Now,  what  precau- 
tion has  Mrs  Stowe  taken  to  ascer- 
tain, before  publishing  it  to  the 
world,  whether  the  horrible  tale  of 
which  she  has  become  the  confidant 
was  a  true  story,  a  malignant  false- 
hood, or  the  phantasm  of  a  diseased 
brain  ?  Simply — none.  It  does 
not  appear  from  her  narrative  that 
she  ever  addressed  a  single  ques- 
tion to  her  informant,  or  made  any 
inquiry  whatever  from  any  person, 
before  she  published  a  story  which 
must,  as  she  well  knew,  inflict  in- 
describable agony  on  the  hearts  of 
the  living,  defile  the  grave  of  the 
dead,  and  pollute  every  household 
in  England  with  its  abominations. 

One  would  have  supposed  that  a 
tale  so  monstrous,  so  improbable,  so 
contradictory  to  all  the  rules  that 
govern  the  actions  of  human  beings, 
unsupported  by  a  single  tittle  of 
evidence,  would  at  once  have  re- 
futed itself,  and  would  not  have 
found  a  single  listener  to  give  it  a 
moment's  credence.  Such,  how- 
ever, strange  to  say,  is  not  the  case. 
Some  persons  have  accepted  the 
story ;  and  a  duty  is  thus  cast  on 
every  man  who  has  a  heart  to  feel 
indignation  at  the  monstrous  wick- 
edness of  the  calumny,  not  only  on 
one  of  England's  greatest  poets, 
but  still  more  on  the  memory  of  a 
woman  who  lived  honoured  and 
beloved,  and  round  whose  grave 
affectionate  memories  have  gather- 
ed for  many  years,  to  come  forward 
and  denounce  the  falsehood  with 
tongue  and  pen. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  we 
should  have  to  remind  our  readers 
of  some  of  the  most  elementary 
principles  that  govern  all  inquiries 
into  the  truth  of  facts,  whether 
such  inquiries  are  judicial,  histori- 
cal, or  philosophical.  Yet  the  pre- 
judices and  passions  which  have  at- 
tended upon  the  subject  now  under 
discussion  render  this  necessary. 

The  first  of  these  principles  is,  that 
it  is  incumbent  on  the  party  assert- 
ing a  fact  to  prove  it,  and  not  on 
the  party  denying  that  fact  to  dis- 


prove it ;  in  other  words,  the  onus 
probandi  lies  on  the  prosecutor. 

Secondly,  In  all  criminal  cases 
the  presumption  is  in  favour  of 
innocence. 

Thirdly,  When  a  witness  gives 
two  accounts  of  the  same  transac- 
tion inconsistent  with  or  contra- 
dictory to  each  other,  his  evidence 
goes  for  nothing ;  for  both  cannot  be 
true,  though  both  may  be  false,  and 
there  is  no  preponderance  of  testi- 
mony in  favour  of  either. 

Fourthly,  If  a  witness  depones 
falsely  as  to  the  main  facts,  his 
evidence  is  unworthy  of  belief  as 
to  the  minor  circumstances  of  the 
case. 

We  shall  have  to  apply  these 
principles  to  the  present  case,  and 
we  beg  the  reader  to  keep  them  in 
mind. 

We  have,  in  the  article  before 
alluded  to,  given  our  reasons  for 
holding  the  character  of  Lord 
Byron  to  be  a  matter  of  public  in- 
terest. We  cannot  agree  with  those 
who  maintain  that  the  poet  may 
be  considered  as  a  separate  entity 
from  the  man.  It  would  be  matter 
for  shame  and  sorrow  were  it  to  be 
proved  that  Milton  was  a  time- 
server,  that  Cowper  was  a  profli- 
gate, that  Burns  was  cold-hearted 
and  ungenerous,  or  that  Scott  was 
not  equally  remarkable  for  the  vir- 
tues of  his  life  as  for  the  brilliancy 
and  extent  of  his  genius.  But  there 
is  a  still  deeper  interest  at  stake  in 
this  inquiry.  The  crime  alleged 
necessarily  involves  the  guilt  of 
two  persons.  It  is  impossible  to 
sever  the  charge.  Convict  By- 
ron, and  you  equally  convict  his 
sister.  Acquit  one,  and  you  acquit 
both.  The  accusation  brought 
against  Mrs  Leigh  concerns  every 
woman  who  would  guard  her  grave 
from  insult  and  her  memory  from 
slander,  when  perhaps  every  tongue 
that  could  vindicate  her  reputation 
may  be  cold  and  silent  as  her  own. 

If  this  kind  of  treason  to  society 
is  tolerated,  there  is  no  knowing 
when  it  will  stop.  An  attempt  was 
once  made  to  soil  the  fair  fame  of 


1870.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


127 


Martha  Blount,  and  the  offender 
was  deservedly  "  made  manure  of 
for  the  top  of  Parnassus  "  by  Byron 
himself.  We  may,  perhaps,  some 
day  be  told  that  Mary  Unwin's  af- 
fection for  Cowper  was  sensual, 
or  that  Charles  Lamb's  life-long 
devotion  to  his  unhappy  sister 
was  criminal,  and  his  heroic  self- 
sacrifice  prompted  by  the  foulest 
motives. 

Before  entering  upon  the  exami- 
nation of  how  far  Mrs  Stowe  may 
have  substantiated  her  charge,  we 
would  remind  the  reader  that  the 
fact  of  this  accusation  being  the 
one  selected  by  Lady  Byron,  conclu- 
sively disposes  of  all  the  nameless 
suspicions,  even  more  revolting, 
which,  from  her  silence,  have  at- 
tached for  more  than  half  a  century 
to  the  name  of  her  husband.  We 
are  no  longer  fighting  shadows, 
which  change  their  form  at  every 
moment,  like  the  malignant  'Efreet 
of  the  '  Arabian  Nights,'  who  was 
now  a  scorpion,  then  an  eagle,  af- 
terwards a  black  cat,  and,  defeated 
in  every  shape,  was  at  last  reduced 
to  a  heap  of  filthy  ashes.  We  have 
emerged  into  daylight,  and  have  a 
specific  charge  to  meet.  That  which 
Lady  Byron  denied  to  the  earnest 
and  repeated  entreaties  of  her  hus- 
band has  been  granted  to  us ;  though 
the  circumstances  which  attended 
and  motives  which  prompted  it, 
preclude  us  from  feeling  any  grati- 
tude for  the  disclosure. 

Some  of  our  readers  may  perhaps 
not  know  accurately  who  Mrs  Leigh 
was.  She  was  the  only  child  of 
Captain  John  Byron  (the  father  of 
Lord  Byron)  by  his  first  wife,  Bar- 
oness Conyers  in  her  own  right. 
After  the  death  of  Lady  Conyers  in 
1784,  Captain  Byron  married  Miss 
Catherine  Gordon,  a  relation  of  the 
Earl  of  Huntly,  the  only  child  of 
this  second  marriage  being  the  cele- 
brated Lord  Byron,  who  was  born 
on  the  22d  January  1788.  As  peer- 
ages are  too  polite  to  record  the 
age  of  ladies,  we  are  unable  to  give 
tho  precise  date  of  Mrs  Leigh's 
birth ;  but  as  her  parents  were  mar- 


ried in  1779,  and  her  mother  died 
in  January  1784,  she  must  have 
been  born  some  time  between  those 
two  dates.  She  could  not  be  less 
than  four,  and  we  believe  was  as 
much  as  eight,  years  older  than  Lord 
Byron.  In  August  1807  the  Hon." 
Miss  Byron  married  Col.  Leigh  of 
the  10th  Hussars.  Seven  children, 
born  at  various  intervals  between 
1808  and  1820,  were  the  fruit  of  this 
marriage.  Col.  Leigh  died  in  May 
1850,  and  Mrs  Leigh  survived  him 
only  a  little  more  than  a  year,  her 
death  taking  place  in  October  1851, 
after  forty-four  years  of  married 
life,  checkered  by  the  sorrows 
which  are  the  lot  of  humanity,  and 
of  which  a  more  than  common 
number  fell  to  her  share.  The  con- 
stant, unvarying,  and  mutual  affec- 
tion which  existed  between  herself 
and  her  husband  was  known  to  all 
her  family  and  friends,  and  is  at- 
tested by  those  who  still  survive, 
and  whose  memory  extends  to  what 
is  now  so  distant  a  period.  She 
numbered  amongst  her  friends  wo- 
men eminent  alike  for  their  virtues 
and  their  rank,  amongst  the  most 
intimate  of  whom  were  the  late 
Countess  of  Chichester,  the  vener- 
able Duchess-Dowager  of  Norfolk, 
and  Lady  Gertrude  Sloane  Stanley. 
She  was  cheered  through  life  by 
the  sympathy  and  affection,  and 
followed  to  the  grave  by  the  re- 
spect, of  all  who  knew  her.  Two  of 
her  own  children  are  still  living. 
She  was  a  second  mother  to  those 
of  a  friend  whose  wife  died  young. 
In  their  minds  all  the  holiest  asso- 
ciations of  childhood  are  blended 
with  her  memory.  The  accents  of 
her  voice  and  the  expression  of  her 
countenance,  as  they  lisped  their 
evening  prayer  at  her  knee,  still 
come  back  to  their  memory  with  a 
pure  and  holy  light  through  the 
mists  and  vicissitudes  of  more  than 
half  a  century.  Is  it  no  crime  to 
have  wrung  these  hearts  by  pro- 
claiming this  loathsome  lie  of  one 
they  loved  so  well  1  Is  Mrs  Stowe 
so  utterly  devoid  of  justice,  truth, 
mercy,  and  charity,  that  she  greedily 


128 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators, 


[Jan. 


swallowed  this  filthy  tale  without 
one  word  of  inquiry  —  without 
doubt  or  hesitation — without  seek- 
ing one  particle  of  evidence  in  its 
support,  and  then  basely  sold  it  for 
"  thirty  pieces  of  silver"  ? 

Mrs  Stowe  might  perhaps  fancy 
that  the  lapse  of  more  than  half  a 
century,  the  death  of  nearly  every 
one  of  those  illustrious  men  whose 
friendship  for  Byron  is  matter  of 
history,  would  secure  her  foul 
calumny  from  challenge.  Hap- 
pily this  is  not  so.  The  age  of 
chivalry  is  not  past.  The  blood 
that  beat  high  on  the  field  of 
Cregy,  and  that  was  freely,  and, 
alas !  fatally,  poured  out  at  the 
Alma,  brooks  no  concealment,  seeks 
no  shield  under  a  nom  de  plume. 
Mr  Delme  Radcliffe,  in  a  letter 
which  he  has  addressed  to  the  edi- 
tor of  the  '  Daily  Telegraph,'  and 
which  does  him  the  highest  honour, 
at  once  denounced  the  "  True  Story" 
as  "  a  lie — an  odious  damned  lie  : 
upon  my  soul,  a  lie  —  a  wicked 
lie."  Such,  he  says,  "  is  the  burst 
of  indignation  with  which  Emilia 
repudiates  the  foul  aspersion  of 
lago  on  the  spotless  fame  of  the 
gentle  Desdemona.  Such  is  the 
reply  to  Mrs  Stowe  on  the  lips  of 
all  to  whom  the  memory  of  Mrs 
Leigh  is  dear;  and  dear  must  it 
be  to  all  who  knew  her  as  I  did.'; 
Nurtured  "  under  her  wing,  and 
having  from  childhood  throughout 
her  lifetime  occupied  a  position 
little  less  than  that  of  a  son  in  her 
family/' 

Mrs  Stowe  has  assumed  the  char- 
acter, and  taken  upon  herself  the 
duties  and  responsibilities,  of  a 
public  prosecutor. 

She  deliberately  arraigns  Lord 
Byron  and  his  sister,  Mrs  Leigh, 
at  the  bar  of  public  opinion,  and 
charges  them  with  the  commission 
of  a  revolting  crime  in  1816. 

How  does  she  prove  her  charge  ? 
In  what  mode  does  she  satisfy  the 
first  requirement  which  casts  the 
onus  probandi  upon  her1? 

She  says  simply  that  Lady  Byron 
told  her  so  in  the  year  1856.  In  the 


whole  of  Mrs  Stowe's  "  True  Story," 
which  extends  over  twenty-nine  oc- 
tavo pages,  there  is  not  to  be  found 
one  single  fact  confirmatory  of  this 
assertion.  That  Mrs  Stowe  is  not 
the  first  person  to  whom  Lady 
Byron  has  made  this  astounding 
statement  we  well  know  ;  that 
she  has  repeated  it  at  various  times 
during  a  period  extending  over 
many  years,  and  to  several  people, 
cannot  be  disputed  :  but  Mrs  Stowe 
is  the  first  person,  as  far  as  we 
know,  that  has  undertaken  the 
responsibility  of  publishing  the 
charge  in  such  a  form  as  that  it 
could  be  met  and  answered,  and 
its  falsehood  demonstrated. 

We  distinctly  challenge  any  one 
of  Lady  Byron's  advocates  to  pro- 
duce the  slightest  particle  of  evi- 
dence in  support  of  her  assertion. 

Lady  Byron,  therefore,  being  the 
sole  witness  (if  witness  she  can  be 
called,  when  her  testimony  consists 
of  nothing  but  accusation),  let  us 
see  how  far  her  conduct  has  been 
consistent  with  her  statement. 

We  must  go  back  to  the  period 
of  Lady  Byron's  marriage  in  Janu- 
ary 1815 — and  we  would  here  refer 
our  readers  to  the  article  which  ap- 
peared in  our  July  number  last 
year  for  the  events  until  the 
month  of  March  following,  when 
Lord  and  Lady  Byron  were  the 
guests  of  Colonel  and  Mrs  Leigh 
in  Cambridgeshire.  Whether  this 
was  the  commencement  of  the 
intimacy  between  Lady  Byron  and 
Mrs  Leigh,  or  whether  their  ac- 
quaintance began  at  an  earlier  pe- 
riod, we  are  unable  to  say  ;  but  in 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year  Lady 
Byron  selected  Mrs  Leigh  as  a  friend 
and  companion,  to  be  with  her  dur- 
ing her  approaching  confinement. 
It  is  impossible  to  suggest  stronger 
evidence  than  is  afforded  by  this 
fact,  that  at  that  time  no  suspicion 
unfavourable  to  Mrs  Leigh  could 
have  crossed  the  mind  of  Lady 
Byron.  Lady  Noel  being  unavoid- 
ably prevented  from  joining  Mrs 
Leigh  in  the  discharge  of  this  duty, 
Mrs  Clerniont  (the  original  of '  The 


1870.]    . 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


129 


Sketch')  was  sent  to  supply  her 
place.  Lady  Byron  was  confined 
on  the  10th  of  December.  The 
child  was  christened  shortly  after- 
wards, Mrs  Leigh  being  her  god- 
mother. 

Whether  Lord  Byron  was  right 
or  not  in  his  suspicions  of  Mrs 
Clermont,  whether  she  availed  her- 
self of  the  opportunity  afforded  by 
Lady  Byron's  confinement 

< '  To  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will," 

it  is  impossible  to  say;  but  that 
something  had  occurred  to  disturb 
Lady  Byron's  peace  of  mind,  and 
that,  whatever  that  something  was, 
it  did  not  affect  her  feelings  or  con- 
duct towards  Mrs  Leigh,  is  conclu- 
sively shown  by  the  following  mys- 
terious letter,  which  was  addressed 
by  Lady  Byron  to  Mrs  Leigh  in  the 
early  part  of  January,  whilst  they 
were  both  in  the  same  house  to- 
gether :  * 

"You  will  think  me  very  foolish; 
but  I  have  tried  two  or  three  times,  and 
cannot  talk  to  you  of  your  departure 
with  a  decent  visage — so  let  me  say  one 
word  in  this  way,  to  spare  my  philos- 
ophy. "With  the  expectations  which  I 
have  I  never  will  nor  can  ask  you  to 
stay  one  moment  longer  than  you  are 
inclined  to  do.  It  would  [be]  the  worst 
return  for  all  I  ever  received  from  you. 
But  in  this  at  least  I  am  'truth  itself,' 
when  I  say  that  whatever  the  situation 
may  be,  there  is  no  one  whose  society 
is  dearer  to  me,  or  can  contribute  more 
to  my  happiness.  These  feelings  will 
nob  change  under  any  circumstances, 
and  I  should  be  grieved  if  you  did  not 
understand  them.  Should  you  here- 
after condemn  me,  I  shall  not  love  you 
le.^g.  I  will  say  no  more.  Judge  for 
yourself  about  going  or  staying.  I  wish 
you  to  consider  yourself,  if  you  could 
be  wise  enough  to  do  that  for  the  first 
tine  in  your  life.— Thine,  A.  I.  B." 


Addressed  on  the  cover  "  To  the 
Hon.  Mrs  Leigh." 

Lady  Byron  left  London  on  the 
15th  of  January,  and  immediately 
afterwards  sent  to  her  husband 
what  is  now  generally  known  as 
the  "  dear  Duck"  letter,  contem- 
poraneously with  which  she  wrote 
to  Mrs  Leigh  as  follows  : — 

"  KIRBY  MALLORY,  Jan.  16, 1816. 
(The  day  after  she  left  London.) 
"  MY  DEAREST  A., — It  is  my  great 
comfort  that  you  are  in  Piccadilly." 

A  week  afterwards  she  writes  : — 

"  KIRBY  MALLORY,  Jan.  23,  1816. 
"  DEAREST  A. , — I  know  you  feel  for 
me  as  I  do  for  you,  and  perhaps  I  am 
better  understood  than  I  think.  You 
have  been,  ever  since  I  knew  you,  my 
best  comforter,  and  will  so  remain, 
unless  you  grow  tired  of  the  office, 
which  may  well  be." 

And  then  in  rapid  succession 
came  the  following  letters  : — 

"  Jan.  25,  1816. 

"  MY  DEAREST  AUGUSTA, — Shall  I  still 
be  your  sister  ?  I  must  resign  my  rights 
to  be  so  considered  ;  but  I  don't  think 
that  will  make  any  difference  in  the 
kindness  I  have  so  uniformly  experi- 
enced from  you." 

"  KIRBY  MALLORY,  Feb.  3,  1816. 

"MY  DEAREST  AUGUSTA, — You  are 
desired  by  your  brother  to  ask  if  my 
father  has  acted  with  my  concurrence 
in  proposing  a  separation.  He  has.  It 
cannot  be  supposed  that,  in  my  present 
distressing  situation,  1  am  capable  of 
stating  in  a  detailed  manner  the  reasons 
which  will  not  only  justify  this  meas- 
ure, but  compel  me  to  take  it ;  and  it 
never  can  be  my  wish  to  remember  un- 
necessarily [sic]  those  injuries  for  which, 
however  deep,  I  feel  no  resentment.  I 
will  now  only  recall  to  Lord  Byron's 
mind  his  avowed  and  insurmountable 
aversion  to  the  married  state,  and  the 
desire  and  determination  he  has  ex- 
pressed ever  since  its  commencement 


*  As  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  cast  doubts  on  the  genuineness  of  these  let- 
ters, which  first  appeared  in  an  article  in  the  '  Quarterly  Review '  of  last  Novem- 
ber, we  are  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  stating,  as  we  are  authorised  to  do, 
that  the  first,  second,  third,  and  last  of  the  series  are  vouched  for  by  the  Earl  of 
Chichester.  The  other  three  letters  are  derived  from  a  source  equally  unimpeach- 
able ;  but  as  we  have  not  obtained  a  distinct  authority  to  mention  whence  they 
come,  we  must  request  the  reader  for  the  present  to  trust  to  their  authenticity 
on  the  credit  of  the  well-known  writer  of  that  article,  of  the  editor  and  publisher 
of  the  'Quarterly  Eeview,'  and  of  ourselves. 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLI.  I 


130 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


to  free  himself  from  that  bondage,  as 
finding  it  quite  insupportable,  though 
candidly  acknowledging  that  no  effort 
of  duty  or  affection  has  been  wanting 
on  my  part.  He  has  too  painfully  con- 
vinced me  that  all  these  attempts  to 
contribute  towards  his  happiness  were 
wholly  useless,  and  most  unwelcome  to 
him.  I  enclose  this  letter  to  my  father, 
wishing  it  to  receive  his  sanction. — 
Ever  yours  most  affectionately, 

"A.  I.  BYHON." 

"  Feb.  4,  1816. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  A.,  that  you  would 
on  no  account  withhold  from  your  bro- 
ther the  letter  which  I  sent  yesterday, 
in  answer  to  yours  written  by  his  de- 
sire ;  particularly  as  one  which  I  have 
received  from  himself  to-day  renders  it 
still  more  important  that  he  should 
know  the  contents  of  that  addressed 
to  you. — I  am,  in  haste  and  not  very 
well,  yours  most  affectionately, 

"A.  I.  BYRON." 

"  KIRBY  MALLOKY,  Feb.  14,  1816. 
' '  The  present  sufferings  of  all  may 
yet  be  repaid  in  blessings.  Do  not  de- 
spair absolutely,  dearest ;  and  leave  me 
but  enough  of  your  interest  to  afford 
you  any  consolation,  by  partaking  of 
that  sorrow  which  I  am  most  unhappy 
to  cause  thus  unintentionally.  You 
will  be  of  my  opinion  hereafter,  and  at 
present  your  bitterest  reproach  would 
be  forgiven  ;  though  Heaven  knows  you 
have  considered  me  more  than  a  thou- 
sand would  have  done — more  than  any- 
thing but  my  affection  for  B. ,  one  most 
dear  to  you,  could  deserve.  I  must  not 
remember  these  feelings.  Farewell ! 
God  bless  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  A.  I.  B." 

Mrs  Leigh  remained  with  her 
brother  in  Piccadilly  until  after  the 
first  week  in  March,  when  she  re- 
moved to  the  rooms  in  St  James's 
Palace,  which  she  held  as  one  of 
the  ladies  attached  to  the  Court 
of  Queen  Charlotte.  Preparations 
were  being  then  made  for  the  ap- 
proaching marriage  of  the  Princess 
Charlotte.  Lord  Byron  left  Eng- 
land about  the  middle  of  April. 
From  the  day  that  Lady  Byron  left 
her  husband  under  the  same  roof 
with  his  sister,  until  the  day  he  left 
his  country  for  ever — a  period  of 
more  than  three  months — Lady  By- 
ron kept  up  an  uninterrupted  inter- 
course of  the  most  affectionate  kind 


with  Mrs  Leigh,  not  only  in  the 
correspondence  of  which  we  have 
given  some  specimens,  but  in  re- 
peated personal  interviews  ;  and 
subsequently  to  Lord  Byron's  de- 
parture, the  same  kind  of  inter- 
course, both  by  letter  and  per- 
sonally, in  London  and  during  visits 
in  the  country,  continued  up  to  the 
time  of  Lord  Byron's  death,  which 
occurred  in  1824.  About  two  years 
after  that  event,  Lady  Byron  intro- 
duced a  near  relative,  the  present 
Major  Noel,  then  a  young  man 
just  going  up  to  Cambridge,  to  Mrs 
Leigh,  who  was  living  in  St  James's 
Palace,  and  who  gave  him  introduc- 
tions to  her  Cambridgeshire  friends. 
We  have  Major  Noel's  authority  for 
this  anecdote. 

We  now  turn  to  the  statement 
made  by  Lady  Byron  to  Lady 
Anne  Barnard — at  what  period  it 
does  not  very  clearly  appear,  but 
certainly  within  two  years  after  the 
separation,  and  communicated  by 
Lord  Lindsay  to  the  '  Times '  in  a 
letter  dated  3d  September  —  and 
what  do  we  find  ?  A  totally  differ- 
ent charge — not  only  utterly  incon- 
sistent with  Mrs  Stowe's  story,  but 
contradictory  to  it.  The  charge 
made  to  Lady  Anne  Barnard  was 
that  Lord  Byron  was  in  the  habit 
of  spending  his  evenings  in  "  the 
haunts  of  vice."  Everybody  knows 
what  that  means.  Lady  Byron  told 
Lady  Anne  Barnard  that  she  "kept 
his  sister  "  (the  very  sister  against 
whom  this  revolting  charge  is  now 
made)  "  as  much  with  him  as  pos- 
sible," evidently  meaning  that  she 
did  so  as  a  check  upon  her  hus- 
band's alleged  profligacy.  She 
expressed  astonishment  at  his 
avowals  of  remorse  for  these  alleged 
transgressions  being  made  "  though 
his  sister  was  present."  It  is  impos- 
sible to  read  Lady  Anne  Barnard's 
narrative  without  seeing  that  Lady 
Byron  at  that  time  represented  Mrs 
Leigh  as  exercising  a  purifying 
and  restraining  influence  over  her 
brother. 

We  will  not  insult  the  intellect 
of  our  readers  by  adding  one  word 


1870.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


131 


to  this  conclusive  evidence.  It  is 
morally  impossible  that  these  letters 
could  have  been  addressed  and  this 
line  of  conduct  pursued  by  Lady 
Byron  towards  a  woman  whom  she 
believed  to  have  been  carrying  on 
an  incestuous  intercourse  with  her 
husband. 

Dr  Lushington's  letter  has  always 
been  the  chief  card  in  the  hands  of 
Lady  Byron's  advocates.  It  has 
been  supposed  that  Dr  Lushington 
knew  all  the  circumstances,  and  by 
this  letter  gave  his  sanction  to 
the  whole  of  Lady  Byron's  conduct 
in  the  affair  of  the  separation.  It 
will  be  well,  therefore,  to  examine 
what  ground  there  is  for  this  as- 
sumption, what  part  Dr  Lushington 
played  in  the  transaction,  and  what 
his  letter  really  was. 

Dr  Lushington  was  Lady  Byron's 
counsel.  He  was  first  consulted 
after  Lady  Byron  had  left  London 
in  January  1816.  He  says,  "I  was 
originally  consulted  by  Lady  Noel 
on  your  behalf  whilst  you  were  in 
the  country."* 

Lady  Byron  states  that  she  had 
empowered  her  mother  to  take 
legal  opinions  on  a  written  state- 
ment drawn  up  by  herself,  f 

Lady  Noel  upon  this  consulted 
Dr  Lushington,  then  a  young  advo- 
cate rising  into  practice.  We  do  not 
know  the  exact  age  of  the  venerable 
lawyer ;  but  as  these  events  occurred 
fifty-three  years  ago,  and  he  still 
happily  survives,  we  may  fairly 
reckon  that  he  was  not  at  this 
time  much  above  five -and -thirty 
years  of  age,  which  at  the  bar  is 
considered  young.  The  advice 
which  he  gave  was  that  a  recon- 
ciliation was  practicable,  and  this 
was  accompanied  by  an  offer  of 
his  assistance  towards  effecting 
that  object.  Lady  Noel  left,  hav- 


ing received  this  very  judicious 
advice.  A  fortnight  passed,  and 
then  Lady  Byron  in  person  sought 
an  interview  with  Dr  Lushington. 
Then  says  Dr  Lushington  :  "  I  was 
for  the  first  time  informed  by  you 
of  facts  utterly  unknown,  as  I  have 
no  doubt,  to  Sir  Ralph  and  Lady 
Noel.  On  receiving  this  informa- 
tion, my  opinion  was  entirely 
changed ;  I  considered  a  recon- 
ciliation impossible.  I  declared 
my  opinion,  and  added  that,  if 
such  an  idea  should  be  entertained, 
I  could  not,  either  professionally  or 
otherwise,  take  any  part  towards 
effecting  it."  Such  are  Dr  Lush- 
ington's words  in  a  letter  written 
in  1830,  in  reply  to  a  request  from 
Lady  Byron  that  he  would  state 
what  he  recollected  of  the  circum- 
stances attending  her  consultation 
with  him. 

It  is  a  trite  saying,  that  the  opin- 
ion is  worth  nothing  without  the 
case.  Till  we  know  what  Lady 
Byron  told  Dr  Lushington,  it  is 
impossible  that  we  should  estimate 
the  value  of  the  advice  she  received. 
As  to  this,  Dr  Lushington  has 
hitherto  observed  the  most  pro- 
found silence.  No  rumour  has  ever 
reached  the  outer  world  as  to  what 
this  secret  communication  was  that 
could  be  traced  to  him.  Whether 
he  will  consider  that  the  chain  of 
professional  confidence  still  binds 
his  tongue  we  know  not,  but  until 
he  gives  utterance  we  are  driven  to 
an  analysis  of  such  facts  as  are  in 
our  possession  to  assist  us  in  arriv- 
ing at  a  conclusion  as  to  what  that 
communication  was.  Lady  Byron, 
at  various  times,  and  ultimately  to 
Mrs  Stowe,  has  unquestionably  as- 
serted that  incest  with  his  sister 
was  the  cause  of  her  separation 
from  her  husband.  Did  she  state 


*  Life  of  Byron,  p.  662.  In  a  note  to  "Don  Juan,"  canto  i.  st.  xxvii.,  a  paren- 
thesis is  filled  up  with  the  name  of  Dr  Lushington  where  Lord  Byron  had  evi- 
dently merely  said  "  a  lawyer."  It  is  hut  justice  to  Dr  Lushington  to  point  out 
the  error  committed  in  attributing  to  him  the  very  unprofessional  act  there  alluded 
to.  Dr  Lushington's  own  letter  is  conclusive  that  he  was  not  the  person  who  so 
misconducted  himself. 

t  Lady  Byron's  Remarks  ;  Life  of  Byron,  p.  662. 


132 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


this,  or  some  other  reason,  to  Dr 
Lushington  in  1816  as  the  ground 
of  her  determination  to  separate 
from  her  husband  ]  If  she  stated 
that  this  was  the  cause,  her  letters 
written  to  Mrs  Leigh  at  the  very 
same  time,  her  statement  made  to 
Lady  Anne  Barnard  immediately 
afterwards,  and  her  whole  course 
of  conduct  subsequently,  prove,  in- 
contestably,  either  that  she  was 
stating  to  Dr  Lushington  what  she 
knew,  to  be  false,  or  that  she  was 
guilty  of  an  amount  of  duplicity 
which  is  not  only  wholly  incredible, 
but  which,  if  it  could  be  believed, 
would  deprive  her  of  all  right  to  be 
treated  as  a  witness  worthy  of  belief. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  she  as- 
signed a  different  cause  to  Dr  Lush- 
ington, she  either  spoke  falsely  to 
him,  or  she  has  spoken  falsely  to 
Mrs  Stowe  and  her  other  confi- 
dants. From  one  horn  or  the 
other  of  this  dilemma  escape  is 
impossible.  Each  is  equally  de- 
structive of  all  reliance  on  Lady 
Byron's  testimony.  Which  is 
most  disgraceful  it  is  difficult  to 
say.  Mistake  in  this  case  is  im- 
possible. Mrs  Stowe  may  have 
embellished  Lady  Byron's  narra- 
tive, but  that  incest  committed 
with  Mrs  Leigh  during  the  period 
of  Lady  Byron's  cohabitation  with 
her  husband,  known  at  that  period 
to  Lady  Byron  to  have  been  so 
committed,  was  asserted  by  Lady 
Byron  to  have  been  the  cause  and 
justification  of  the  separation,  there 
can  be  no  doubt. 

Lady  Byron  has  unquestionably 
told  this  story  to  other  persons 
besides  Mrs  Stowe,  though  at  what 
period  she  began  to  do  so  we 
are  unable  to  state  with  accuracy ; 
and  we  see  no  valid  ground  for 
supposing  that  she  told  any  other 
to  Dr  Lushington.  It  is  amply 
sufficient  to  account  for  his  change 
of  opinion  ;  and  that  being  so,  we 
think  we  should  not  be  justified  on 
mere  conjecture  in  suspecting  Lady 
Byron  of  the  complicated  and  im- 
probable guilt  of  having  given  birth 
to  another  fabrication  equally  as 


monstrous  as  that  with  which  Mrs 
Stowe  has  disgusted  the  world. 

We  do  not  assert  with  any  confi- 
dence that  this  is  so.  In  treading 
on  a  soil  so  fertile  in  mendacity,  we 
may  easily  lose  our  way  in  a  thicket 
of  falsehoods,  but  the  most  simple 
solution  seems  to  us  to  be  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

Lady  Byron,  we  doubt  not,  told 
her  mother  that  her  husband  had 
been  guilty  of  infidelity,  and  told 
her  no  more.  Dr  Lushington, 
upon  receiving  this  statement  from 
Lady  Noel,  gave  the  advice  which 
any  one  but  a  pettifogging  lawyer 
who  sought  to  inflame  a  quarrel 
would  give  under  such  circum- 
stances. 

Lady  Byron,  then,  relying,  as  the 
result  has  proved  she  might  safely 
rely,  on  Dr  Lushington' s  secrecy, 
makes  the  damning  addition  that 
the  partner  of  his  guilt  was  his 
sister.  It  may  naturally  occur  to 
the  reader  to  ask,  Why  did  not  Dr 
Lushington  require  proof  of  the 
truth  of  Lady  Byron's  statement 
before  giving  his  opinion  on  it  ? 
The  answer  is  obvious  to  any  pro- 
fessional man.  Dr  Lushington  was 
asked  for  his  opinion  on  a  given 
statement  of  facts.  Lady  Byron 
was  responsible  for  the  truth  of 
those  facts,  not  Dr  Lushington. 
He  was  not  asked,  Are  such  and 
such  circumstances  sufficient  to 
warrant  me  in  coming  to  the  con- 
clusion that  my  husband  has  been 
guilty  of  such  a  crime  1  but,  Assum- 
ing that  he  has  committed  it,  am  I 
required  any  longer  to  continue  co- 
habitation with  him  1  Dr  Lushing- 
ton, as  Lady  Byron's  counsel,  was 
bound  to  receive  her  statement,  and 
might  well  believe  that  she  would 
not  make  so  revolting  a  charge 
without  conclusive  proofs  to  sup- 
port it,  into  which  it  was  not  his 
duty  to  inquire. 

Who  could  suppose  that  at  the 
very  time  that  Lady  Byron  was 
making  this  horrible  charge  against 
Mrs  Leigh  in  the  secrecy  of  Dr 
Lushington's  chambers,  she  was 
addressing  her  as  her  "  dearest 


1870.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


133 


Augusta,"  telling  her  that  it  was 
hor  "  great  comfort "  that  she  was 
in  Piccadilly  with  her  brother, 
imploring  her  still  to  consider  her 
"  as  a  sister,"  and  "  blessing  her 
from  the  bottom  of  her  heart"  !  ! 
Yet  such  is  the  fact.  Having  at- 
tained her  object,  she  preserved 
the  most  obdurate  silence  for  a 
time.  When  Lord  Byron  was  dead, 
M  hen  his  Memoirs  were  burned,  she 
began  to  whisper  into  willing  and 
credulous  ears  the  malignant  calum- 
ny which  has  been  crawling  about 
the  world  for  years,  like  some 
loathsome  reptile,  until  at  last  it 
has  blundered  into  daylight  only 
to  be  crushed. 

This  appears  to  us  to  be  the  hy- 
pothesis most  consistent  with  all 
the  known  facts  of  the  case.  We 
do  not  deny  that  it  is  possible  that 
the  same  mind  which  produced 
this  wicked  fabrication  may  have 
given  birth  to  another  as  foul  and 
unnatural ;  but  until  Dr  Lushing- 
ton  breaks  silence,  or  we  have  some- 
thing more  in  support  of  such  a 
suggestion  than  the  vaguest  conjec- 
ture, we  shall  adhere  to  the  belief 
that  Lady  Byron  told  Dr  Lushing- 
ton  in  1816  the  same  story  in  its 
main  facts  that  she  told  Mrs  Stowe 
in  1856. 

It  has  been  frequently  urged  that 
Lord  Byron's  repeated  assertion, 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  what  was 
imputed  to  him,  must  have  been 
false  ;  and  it  is  argued  that,  had  he 
not  been  conscious  of  some  deep 
criminality,  he  would  have  sought 
to  compel  Lady  Byron's  return  to 
his  bed  by  instituting  a  suit  for 
the  restoration  of  conjugal  rights. 
There  are  two  answers  to  this  argu- 
ment. In  the  first  place,  the  en- 
forcement of  the  legal  rights  of  a 
husband  upon  the  person  of  a  re- 
luctant wife  by  the  strong  arm  of 
the  law  is  a  proceeding  revolting 
to  the  mind  of  every  man  who  has 
risen  above  the  rank  of  a  savage. 
The  suggestion  even  of  a  resort  to 
such  a  course  is  worthy  of  a  Hot- 
tentot. Secondly,  it  is  not  impos- 
sible that  Byron  might  be  conscious 


of  such  irregularities  as  would  have 
barred  such  a  suit ;  and  it  must  be 
remembered  that  any  transgression 
of  this  kind,  though  it  might  be  such 
as  even  the  stern  moralist  Johnson 
declared  it  was  a  wife's  duty  to  for- 
give, would  have  been  sufficient  for 
that  purpose. 

The  present  discussion  has  hap- 
pily brought  to  light  two  pieces  of 
evidence  which  put  the  question  of 
Lord  Byron's  sincerity  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt.  At  the  time 
of  the  separation,  Lord  Broughton, 
then  Mr  Hobhouse,  acted  as  Lord 
Byron's  friend ;  Mr  Wilmot  Hor- 
ton,  and,  if  we  are  not  mistaken, 
the  late  Sir  Francis  Doyle,  acting 
for  Lady  Byron.  The  following 
memorandum  from  a  lady  of  a  con- 
versation with  Lord  Broughton 
has  been  furnished  by  Lord  Lind- 
say, who  thus  makes  himself  re- 
sponsible for  its  genuineness,  to 
the  '  Times '  :— 

"  Six  or  seven  years  ago,  when  Lord 
Broughton's  remarkable  memory  was 
as  good  as  ever,  he  said  to  me  most 

earnestly,  '  Mrs  ,  when  I  was 

appointed  (or  desired)  by  Byron  to 
examine  matters  with  Lady  Byron's 
friends,  I  wrote  down  every  vice,  and 
sin,  and  crime,  and  horror,  in  short,  of 
which  a  human  being  can  he  capable  ; 
and  I  said,  "Now  I  shall  not  stir  in 
this  business  till  you  tell  me  whether 
you  accuse  him  of  any  of  these  things, 
and  which  of  them  it  is."  And  the 
answer  was,  "It  is  none  of  these  things." 
Then  I  said,  ' '  What  is  it  ?  "  But  they 
never  would  say.' 

"  After  a  pause,  Lord  Broughton  con- 
tinued :  '  I  said  to  Byron,  "  Byron  ! 
what  is  it  ?  "  He  said,  "  I  give  you  my 
word  I  don't  know  (or,  I  know  no  more 
than  you  do)."  I  said,  "Have  you 
ever  been  unkind  or  harsh  to  her  ?  "  He 
said,  ' '  Only  once,  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it.  One  day  in  the  middle  of  my 
trouble"  ('money  trouble  he  meant,' 
said  Lord  Broughton),  "I  came  into 
the  room  and  went  up  to  the  lire ;  she 
was  standing  before  it,  and  said,  'Am 
I  in  your  way  ? '  I  answered,  '  Yes, 
you  are  ! '  with  emphasis.  She  burst 
into  tears,  and  left  the  room.  I  hopped 
up-stairs  as  quickly  as  I  could"  ('  Poor 
fellow  ! '  said  Lord  Broughton,  '  you 
know  how  lame  he  was')  "and  begged 
her  pardon  most  humbly ;  and  that  was 


134 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


the  only  time  I  spoke  really  harshly  to 
her."' 

"  Lord  Broughton  laid  great  stress  on 
the  words  most  humbly.  He  spoke  of 
Lord  Byron  with  j  dty  and  tenderness,  and 
evidently  believed  in  what  he  told  him." 

We  have  ourselves  received  the 
same  account,  in  all  its  material 
facts,  from  Lord  Broughton  through 
a  channel  of  the  highest  and  most 
unimpeachable  character.  Indeed 
he  made  no  secret  either  of  his 
own  inability  to  obtain  any  specific 
charge,  or  of  his  perfect  belief  in 
Lord  Byron's  sincerity.  But  the 
evidence  does  not  stop  here.  Mr 
Murray,  the  son  and  successor  of 
Lord  Byron's  friend  and  publisher, 
has  given  to  the  public  a  more 
formal  and  absolutely  conclusive 
testimony  to  the  fact. 

"The  following  document  is  printed  as 
a  contribution  to  literary  history.  It 
was  drawn  up  by  Lord  Byron  in 
August  1817,  while  Mr  Hobhxm.se  was 
staying  with  him  at  La  Mira,  near  Ven- 
ice, and  given  to  Mr  Matthew  Gregory 
Lewis  for  circulation  among  friends  in 
England.  It  was  found  amongst  Mr 
Lewis's  papers  after  his  death,  and  is 
now  in  the  possession  of  Mr  Murray. 

"The  document  speaks  for  itself  suf- 
ficiently to  need  no  comment  on  our 
part. 

"It  has  been  intimated  to  me,  that  the 
persons  understood  to  be  the  legal  advisers 
of  Lady  Byron  have  declared  '  their  lips 
to  be  sealed  up'  on  the  cause  of  the  se- 
paration between  her  and  myself.  If 
their  lips  are  sealed  up,  they  are  not 
sealed  up  by  me,  and  the  greatest  favour 
they  can  confer  upon  me  will  be  to  open 
them.  From  the  first  hour  in  which  1 
was  apprised  of  the  intentions  of  the  Noel 
family  to  the  last  communication  between 
Lady  Byron  and  myself  in  the  character 
of  ivife  and  husband  (a  period  of  some 
months)  I  called  repeatedly  and  in  vain 
for  a  statement  of  their  or  her  charges, 
and  it  was  chiefty  in  consequence  of  Lady 
Byron's  claiming  (in  a  letter  still  exist- 
ing) a  promise  on  my  part  to  consent  to 
a  separation  if  such  was  really  her  wish, 
that  I  consented  at  all ;  this  claim,  and 
the  exasperating  and  inexpiable  manner 
in  which  their  object  was  pursued,  which 
rendered  it  next  to  an  impossibility  that 
two  persons  so  divided  could  ever  be  re- 
united, induced  me  reluctantly  then,  and 


repentantly  still,  to  sign  the  deed,  which 
I  shall  be  happy — most  happy—  to  cancel, 
and  go  before  any  tribunal  ivhich  may 
discuss  the  business  in  the  most  public 
manner. 

"  Mr  Hobhouse  made  this  proposition 
on  my  part — viz.,  to  abrogate  all  prior 
intentions,  and  go  into  Court — the  very 
day  before  the  separation  was  signed, 
and  it  was  declined  by  the  other  party, 
as  also  the  publication  of  the  correspon- 
dence during  the  previous  discussion. 
Those  propositions  I  beg  here  to  repeat, 
and  to  call  upon  her  and  hers  to  say 
their  worst,  pledging  myself  to  meet  their 
allegations — whatever  they  may  be — and 
only  too  happy  to  be  informed  at  last  of 
their  real  nature. 

(Signed)     "  BYRON. 

"August^,  1817, 

"P.S. — /  have  been,  and  am  now, 
utterly  ignorant  of  what  description  her 
allegations,  charges,  or  whatever  name 
they  may  have  assumed,  are ;  and  am 
as  little  aware  for  what  purpose  they 
have  been  kept  back — unless  it  was  to 
sanction  the  most  infamous  calumnies  by 
silence* 

(Signed)     "  BYRON. 

"  La  Mira,  near  Venice. "  * 

The  attempts  that  have  been 
made  to  obtain  confirmation  of  Mrs 
Stowe's  story  by  identifying  Lord 
Byron  with  Manfred  are  too  child- 
ish to  deserve  a  serious  answer. 
Did  anybody  ever  charge  on  Mas- 
singer  the  crimes  of  Mallefort,  or 
on  Otway  the  abominations  of 
Polydore  1  It  may  be  well  for  the 
memory  of  Shakespeare  that  his 
wife  survived  him,  and  that  the 
critics  have  been  left  to  contend 
amongst  themselves  whether  his 
bequest  to  her  of  his  "  second-best 
bed"  was  a  studied  insult,  implying 
that  some  one  else  had  shared  the 
best,  or  whether  it  was  an  indica- 
tion of  tender  affection,  that  par- 
ticular piece  of  furniture  being 
endeared  to  him  by  the  recollection 
of  the  chaste  loves  of  their  early 
life ;  otherwise  some  wiseacres 
might  have  identified  him  with 
Othello,  with  just  as  good  ground 
as  it  is  now  sought  to  identify 
Byron  with  Manfred. 

It  remains  to  say  a  few  words 


*  Academy,  No.  1. 


1870.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


135 


ou  the  most  culpable  recklessness 
that  Mrs  Stowe  has  shown  in  mak- 
ing assertions  which  a  reference  to 
the  most  ordinary  authority  would 
have  shown  her  were  altogether 
erroneous. 

We  will  select  a  few  examples : — 

At  p.  389  she  speaks  of  Lady 
Byron's  married  life  as  extending 
over  a  period  of  "  two  years." 

The  marriage  took  place  on  the 
2d  January  1815  ;  Lady  Byron  left 
her  home  on  the  15th  January  1816 
— exactly  one  year  and  thirteen  days 
after  her  marriage. 

At  page  394  she  speaks  of  the 
"  few  years "  after  Lord  Byron's 
death,  during  which  "  the  life  of 
this  frail  delicate  creature"  (Lady 
Byron)  "  upon  earth  was  a  miracle 
of  mingled  weakness  and  strength/' 

Lord  Byron  died  in  1824,  and 
Lady  Byron  in  1860,  so  that  the 
"few  years"  of  her  widowhood 
wore  thirty-six — exactly  equal  to 
the  whole  life  of  her  husband  ! 

At  page  393  Mrs  Stowe  asserts 
that  Lady  Byron's  daughter  "  mar- 
ried a  man  of  fashion,  and  ran  a 
brilliant  course  as  a  gay  woman  of 
fashion."  The  husband  of  Lady 
Byron's  daughter  is  well  known 
as  a  man  of  extensive  reading,  fond 
of  literary  and  scientific  inquiries, 
and  of  the  society  of  men  eminent 
in  such  pursuits.  He  would  pro- 
bably smile  at  finding  a  character 
ascribed  to  him  which  he  has  cer- 
tainly never  publicly  shown  any 
ambition  of  assuming.  Perhaps 
a  similarity  of  name  may  have  led 
Mrs  Stowe  to  confound  the  Earl  of 
Lovelace  with  the  hero  of  Richard- 
son's famous  novel. 

At  page  389  Mrs  Stowe  says 
that "  Moore  tells  us  that  about  this 
time  "  (i.e.,  shortly  before  the  sepa- 
ration) "  Byron  was  often  drunk 
day  after  day  with  Sheridan." 

Moore  tells  us  nothing  of  the 
kind.  The  only  shadow  of  foun- 
dation for  this  reckless  assertion 
is  a  letter  from  Byron  to  Moore, 
dated  Oct.  31,  1815,  in  which  he 
gives  an  account  of  a  party  at  which 
Sheridan  got  drunk,  and  Douglas 


Kinnaird  and  Byron  had  to  con- 
duct him  "down  a  d d  cork- 
screw staircase,  which  had  certainly 
been  constructed  before  the  dis- 
covery of  fermented  liquors,  and 
to  which  no  legs,  however  crooked, 
could  possibly  accommodate  them- 
selves." "  We  deposited  him,"  says 
Lord  Byron,"safe  at  home, where  his 
man,  evidently  used  to  the  business, 
waited  to  receive  him  in  the  hall." 
Pretty  good  proof  that,  though 
Sheridan  was,  Byron  was  not,  drunk, 
even  though  he  "  carried  away  much 
wine,"  and  "  his  last  hour  or  so 
was  all  hiccup  and  happiness." 

The  slightest  care,  or  reference 
to  the  commonest  authorities,  would 
have  prevented  these  misstate- 
ments,  had  there  been  any  desire 
on  the  part  of  Mrs  Stowe  to  ob- 
serve truth  or  accuracy.  But  far 
worse  is  the  garbling  of  the  account 
of  the  deathbed  of  Lord  Byron, 
and  of  his  last  words  to  his  faith- 
ful servant^  Fletcher.  Mrs  Stowe 
must  have  had  the  only  authentic 
account  (that  given  by  Parry,  and 
printed  in  Moore's  'Life  of  Byron') 
before  her ;  and  it  is  impossible  to 
account  for  the  suggestio  falsi, 
no  less  than  the  suppressio  veri, 
of  which  she  has  been  guilty,  ex- 
cept on  the  ground  of  wilful  and 
deliberate  falsehood. 

We  now  come  to  the  considera- 
tion of  the  second  count  of  Mrs 
Stowe's  indictment;  or,  in  other 
words,  having  disposed  of  the 
felony,  we  may  proceed  to  in- 
quire into  the  misdemeanour. 

The  charge  now  shapes  itself 
as  follows  :  That  having  married 
Miss  Milbanke,  in  the  hope  that  she 
would  be  "  the  cloak  and  accom- 
plice "  of  an  abominable  crime, 
Lord  Byron  forthwith,  even  be- 
tween the  solemnisation  and  the 
consummation  of  their  union,  be- 
gan to  treat  her  with  the  vulgar 
brutality  of  a  drunken  coster- 
monger,  and  continued  that  course 
of  conduct  up  to  the  time  of  their 
separation. 

Here  again  Lady  Byron  is  the 
only  witness.  What  is  her  testi- 


136 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan. 


mony  worth  1  First,  let  us  apply 
the  fourth  principle  which  we  have 
laid  down.  We  have  shown  con- 
clusively that  her  evidence  is 
utterly  unworthy  of  belief  as  to 
the  principal  charge.  It  follows 
that  it  is  equally  worthless  to  esta- 
blish the  minor  offence.  It  is  not 
to  be  expected  that  after  the  lapse 
of  fifty-three  years,  living  testimony 
should  be  at  hand  to  show  on  what 
terms  a  particular  married  couple 
lived  with  each  other ;  yet  it  does 
happen  that  in  this  case  there  is 
even  at  this  period  sufficient  to 
show  the  absurdity  of  the  charge. 

The  marriage  took  place  on  the 
2d  January.  After  spending  about 
three  weeks  at  Halnaby,  Lord  and 
Lady  Byron  returned  to  Seaham, 
where  they  remained  until  the  9th 
of  March  with  Sir  Ralph  and  Lady 
Noel.  It  was  during  this  time  that 
Lord  Byron  wrote  the  letters  which 
we  quoted  in  a  former  article,  and 
which  negative  in  the  clearest  man- 
ner the  idea  of  any  discomfort  hav- 
ing existed  at  that  time.  We  dis- 
tinctly challenge  the  advocates  of 
Lady  Byron  to  produce  a  single 
particle  of  contemporaneous  evi- 
dence from  her  correspondence  to 
the  contrary.  The  ridiculous  story 
which  Mrs  Stowe  quotes  from 
another  scandalous  female  pen,  of 
Lady  Byron  having  alighted  from 
the  carriage  on  her  wedding-day 
"  with  a  countenance  and  frame 
agonised  and  listless  with  evident 
horror  and  despair,"  has  been  dis- 
tinctly negatived  by  her  own  maid, 
who  was  with  her,  who  is  still  liv- 
ing, and  who,  though  she  certainly 
entertains  no  friendly  feeling  to 
wards  Lord  Byron,  states  that  she 
saw  the  bride  alight  from  the  car- 
riage "buoyant  and  happy  as  a 
bride  should  be." 

Thackeray  has  often  remarked 
on  the  ordeal  which  a  man  has  to 
undergo  from  the  inquisitor  who 
stands  behind  his  chair  at  dinner 
and  the  jury  who  sit  upon  his 
character  rn  the  servants'  hall. 
Mrs  Stowe's  "True  Story"  has 
aroused  one  of  these  keen  ob- 


servers to  denounce  its  falsehood. 
Mr  William  Child,  who  has  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  the  editor  of 
the  'Daily  Telegraph,'  was  a  ser- 
vant at  Newstead,  where  his  aunt 
was  housekeeper  from  the  year 
1800  until  Lord  Byron  sold  the 
estate,  when  he  continued  in  the 
service  of  Colonel  Wildman  as 
gamekeeper.  He  has  exchanged 
the  perilous  duty  of  maintaining 
nightly  combats  with  the  poachers 
of  Nottingham,  in  the  wilds  of 
Sherwood  Forest,  for  the  more 
peaceful  occupation  of  representing 
the  majesty  of  the  law,  and  striking 
terror  into  the  souls  of  unruly 
urchins  in  Golden  Square,  where 
he  enjoys  an  old  age  which  is  "  like 
a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly." 

We  have  ourselves  conversed  with 
this  "  honest  chronicler,"  and  can 
bear  witness  to  the  indignation  with 
which  he  repudiates  the  slanders 
on  his  master,  and  the  warmth  and 
earnestness  with  which  he  expa- 
tiates on  his  generosity  and  kind- 
ness to  every  one  around  him  (in- 
cluding the  dumb  animals  which 
formed  a  part  of  his  establishment), 
and  every  quality  the  very  reverse 
of  what  Mrs  Stowe  would  have  us 
believe  constituted  his  character. 
It  is  well  worthy  of  note  also,  as 
confirming  the  peculiar  weakness 
of  Byron  (a  weakness  which  he 
shared  with  many,  and  amongst 
them  with  one  of  the  best  men  and 
best  judges  that  ever  adorned  the 
English  Bench)  to  indulge  in  the 
"  f  anf  aronnade  des  vices  qu'il  n'avait 
pas,"  that  he  utterly  denies  the 
debaucheries  of  which  Newstead  is 
supposed  to  have  been  the  scene, 
and  which  are  so  vividly  portrayed 
in  the  opening  stanzas  of  "  Childe 
Harold,"  but  which  he  declares  had 
no  existence  except  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  poet. 

When  Dr  Ireland,  the  Dean  of 
Westminster,  and  annotator  of 
Massinger,  refused  to  admit  the 
statue  of  Byron,  which  now  adorns 
the  library  of  Trinity  College,  to 
the  sanctuary  of  the  Abbey,  on 
the  ground  that  the  poet  was  too 


1370.] 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


137 


impure  and  profane  to  be  fit  com- 
pany for  Dryden  and  Congreve ;  and 
when  the  Bishop  of  London  backed 
the  intolerance  of  the  Dean  in  de- 
fiance of  the  protest  of  hundreds, 
amongst  whom  were  men  eminent 
no  less  for  their  spotless  character 
than  for  their  brilliant  abilities  and 
high  position — of  Scott,  of  Peel,  of 
Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,Brougham , 
Denman,  Macintosh,  Jeffrey,  Lock- 
hart,  the  Dukes  of  Bedford  and 
Devonshire,  and  many  more  — 
the  late  Lord  Broughton,  then  Sir 
J  Dhn  Cam  Hobhouse,  in  a  few  elo- 
qaent  and  indignant  pages,  gave 
e:tpression  to  the  feelings  of  indig- 
n  ition  which  such  a  display  of  nar- 
rowness and  bigotry  was  well  cal- 
culated to  excite.  Now  if  any  man 
was  qualified  to  judge  fairly  of  the 
character  of  Lord  Byron,  Lord 
Broughton  was  that  man.  He  was 
tlie  chosen  comrade  of  his  youth, 
the  companion  of  his  early  travel, 
the  associate  of  his  short  and  bril- 
liant career  of  popularity,  and  his 
steadfast  friend  when  the  tide 
turned  and  the  unreasoning  world 
sought  to  overwhelm  him  with  ob- 
loquy. Upon  Lord  Broughton's 
own  character,  public  or  private,  no 
breath  of  slander  has  ever  rested. 
H  e  was  a  keen  and  experienced  ob- 
server of  men.  He  writes,  not  in 
the  fervour  of  youth  or  under  the 
impulse  of  feelings  excited  by  a 
recent  event,  but  at  the  mature  age 
of  fifty-eight,  and  when  twenty 
years  had  passed  since  the  death 
of  Lord  Byron,  and,  be  it  remem- 
bc  red,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the 
contents  of  the  suppressed  memoirs ; 
arid  here  is  his  testimony  to  what 
he  was  : — 

"Lord  Byron  had  hard  measure  dealt 
to  him  in  his  lifetime,  but  he  did  not 
di  s  without  leaving  behind  him  friends — 
deaply  and  affectionately  attached  friends 
—  whom  the  bishop  himself  would  de- 
sp-.se  if  they  suffered  this  attack  to  pass 
unnoticed.  Those  friends,  however,  do 
not  prefer  their  late  much-loved  associ- 
ate to  truth — they  would  not  sacrifice 
th-3  best  interests  of  society  at  the  shrine 
ev<m  of  his  surpassing  fame.  They  were 
not  blind  to  the  defects  of  his  character, 

VOL.  CVTI. — NO.  DCLT. 


nor  of  his  writings,  but  they  know  that 
some  of  the  gravest  accusations  levelled 
against  him  had  no  foundation  in  fact ; 
and  perhaps  the  time  may  come  when 
justice  may  be  done  to  the  dead  without 
injury  to  the  feelings  of  the  living.  Even 
now  it  may  be  permitted  to  say  some- 
thing of  him,  and  it  will  be  said  by  one 
who  perhaps  knew  him  as  well  as  he 
was  known  by  any  human  being. 

"Lord  Byron  had  failings — many  fail- 
ings, certainly — but  he  was  untainted 
with  any  of  the  baser  vices ;  and  his  vir- 
tues— his  good  qualities— were  all  of  the 
higher  order.  He  was  honourable  and 
open  in  all  his  dealings  ;  he  was  gener- 
ous, and  he  was  kind.  He  was  affected 
by  the  distress,  and,  rarer  still,  he  was 
pleased  with  the  prosperity  of  others, 
Tender-hearted  he  was  to  a  degree  not 
usual  with  our  sex,  and  he  shrunk  with 
feminine  sensibility  from  the  sight  of 
cruelty.  He  was  true-spoken — he  was 
affectionate — he  was  very  brave,  if  that 
be  any  praise  ;  but  his  courage  was  not 
the  effect  of  physical  coolness  or  indif- 
ference to  danger ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
entertained  apprehensions  and  adopted 
precautions,  of  which  he  made  no  secret 
and  was  by  no  means  ashamed.  His 
calmness  and  presence  of  mind  in  the 
hour  of  peril  were  the  offspring  of  re- 
flection, and  of  a  fixed  resolution  to  act 
becomingly  and  well.  He  was  alive  to 
every  indication  of  good  feeling  in  others 
—  a  generous  or  noble  sentiment,  a  trait 
of  tenderness  or  devotion,  not  only  in 
real  but  in  imaginary  characters,  af- 
fected him  deeply — even  to  tears.  He 
was,  both  by  his  habits  and  his  nature, 
incapable  of  any  mean  compliance,  any 
undue  submission  towards  those  who 
command  reverence  and  exact  flattery 
from  men  of  the  highest  genius;  and  it 
will  be  the  eternal  praise  of  his  writings, 
as  it  was  one  of  the  merits  of  his  con- 
versation, that  he  threw  no  lustre  on 
any  exploit,  however  brilliant,  any  char- 
acter, however  exalted,  which  had  not 
contributed  to  the  happiness  or  welfare 
of  mankind. 

"Lord  Byron  was  totally  free  from 
envy  and  from  jealousy,  and,  both  in 
public  and  in  private,  spoke  of  the 
literary  merits  of  his  contemporaries  in 
terms  which  did  justice  to  them  and 
honour  to  himself.  He  was  well  aware 
of  his  own  great  reputation  ;  but  he  was 
neither  vainglorious  nor  -overbearing, 
nor  attached  to  his  productions  even 
that  value  which  was  universally  granted 
to  them,  and  which  they  will  probably 
for  ever  maintain. 

"Of  his  lesser  qualities  very  little 


138 


Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


[Jan.  1870. 


need  be  said,  because  his  most  inveterate 
detractors  have  done  justice  to  his  powers 
of  pleasing,  and  to  the  irresistible  charm 
of  his  general  deportment.  There  was 
indeed  something  about  him  not  to 
be  definitely  described,  but  almost  uni- 
versally felt,  which  captivated  those 
around  him,  and  impressed  them,  in 
spite  of  occasional  distrust,  with  an  at- 
tachment not  only  friendly,  but  fixed. 
Part  of  this  fascination  may  doubtless  be 
ascribed  to  the  entire  self-abandonment, 
the  incautious,  it  may  be  said  the  dan- 
gerous,' sincerity  of  his  private  conver- 
sation ;  but  his  very  weaknesses  were 
amiable,  and,  as  has  been  said  of  a  por- 
tion of  his  virtues,  \aere  of  a  feminine 
character — so  that  the  affection  felt  for 
him  was  as  that  for  a  favourite  and 
sometimes  froward  sister. 

"In  mixed  society  Lord  Byron  was 
not  talkative,  neither  did  he  attempt  to 
surprise  by  pointed  or  by  humorous  re- 
marks ;  but  in  all  companies  he  held 
his  own,  and  that,  too,  without  unbe- 
coming rivalry  with  his  seniors  in  age 
and  reputation,  and  without  any  offen- 
sive condescension  towards  his  inferior 
associates.  In  more  familiar  intercourse 
he  was  a  gay  companion  and  a  free,  but 
never  transgressed  the  bounds  of  good- 
breeding  even  for  a  moment.  Indeed 
he  -was,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  a 
gentleman. " — '  Remarks  on  the  Exclusion 
of  Lord  Byron's  Monument  from  West- 
minster Abbey,'  p.  42. 

To  add  to  this  testimony  would 
be  but  to  weaken  its  effect.  Such 
was  Lord  Byron.  The  time  (anti- 
cipated by  Lord  Brougliton)  when 
justice  could  be  done  to  the  dead 
has  arrived,  though  in  a  mode  that 
could  little  be  expected.  The  at- 
tempt to  give  form  and  substance 


to  the  foul  calumnies  which  have 
for  half  a  century  been  floating 
about  the  world  against  Lord  Byron 
has  ended  in  their  complete  and 
triumphant  refutation.  The  char- 
acter of  Mrs  Leigh  stands  forth 
pure  and  unsullied.  As  to  Mrs 
Stowe,  one  universal  cry  of  indig- 
nation has  arisen  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic.  All  who  glory  in  the 
fame  of  Byron— all  who  revere  the 
memory  of  Mrs  Leigh — all,  and 
they  were  not  few,  who  were  at- 
tached by  the  ties  of  friendship  to 
Lady  Byron  herself — all  who  would 
guard  the  purity  of  home  from  pol- 
lution, and  the  sanctity  of  the  grave 
from  outrage — have  joined  in  one 
unanimous  chorus  of  condemna- 
tion. With  regard  to  Lady  Byron, 
who  shall  read  the  riddle  which  her 
conduct  now  presents]  Did  she 
believe  the  hideous  tale  she  told  ? 
Was  she  the  wilful  fabricator  of  the 
monstrous  calumny,  or  was  she  her- 
self the  victim  of  insane  delusions  ? 
Is  her  memory  to  be  regarded  with 
the  deepest  abhorrence  or  the  most 
profound  compassion  1  These  are 
questions  to  which  it  is  impossible 
at  present  to  give  a  satisfactory 
answer.  It  may  be  that  the  reply 
is  to  be  found  amongst  the  papers 
left  behind  by  herself.  Whether 
those  to  whom  they  are  intrusted 
will  make  them  public  we  know 
not.  Till  then,  though  the  ques- 
tions most  interesting  to  the  public 
are  set  at  rest  for  ever,  the  "  Byron 
mystery  "  is  not  completely  solved. 


Printed  by  William  Blaclwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCLII. 


FEBRUARY  1870. 


VOL.  CYIT. 


UNIVERSITY    TESTS. 


THE  question  of  University  tests 
has  fairly  come  on  for  settlement. 
One  particular  solution  of  the  pro- 
blem has  on  repeated  occasions 
beon  accepted  by  the  House  of 
Commons  ;  and  that  fact  by  itself 
alone  shows  that  the  .action  of  the 
whole  Legislature  cannot  now  be 
distant.  Movements  within  the 
Universities  themselves  are  acceler- 
ating its  progress.  To  use  a  Spanish 
word,  pronunciamentos  have  taken 
place  at  Cambridge  and  Oxford, 
which  indicate  great  internal  fer- 
mentation within  these  academical 
bodies.  Deputations  to  the  Prime 
Minister  have  issued  from  this  agi- 
tation ;  and  in  an  age  like  the  pre- 
sent, such  events  cannot  occur  with- 
out engendering  very  speedily  an 
Acs  of  Parliament.  The  question, 
moreover,  possesses  surpassing  in- 
terest. It  raises  discussions  of  the 
first  magnitude.  It  appeals  to 
principles  among  the  most  powerful 
which  can  determine  the  conduct 
of  nations.  It  directly  sets  in  mo- 
tion the  inquiry  into  the  relation 
which  the  Christian  religion  posses- 
ses towards  the  civil  world.  It  puts 
questions  as  to  the  relative  rights 
of  the  several  Christian  communi- 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLII. 


ties  towards  each  other ;  it  seeks 
to  know  whether  the  State  is 
authorised  to  select  one  of  these 
religious  societies,  and  to  confer  on 
it  social  advantages  above  the  rest. 
Still  more,  the  matter  of  the  Uni- 
versity tests  moots  the  very  first 
principles  of  political  philosophy. 
We  know  of  no  question  of  the 
present  hour  which  leads  so  imme- 
diately to  the  inquiry,  What  are 
the  foundations  on  which  the  ac- 
tion of  the  State  rests  ;  what  the 
rights  and  the  limits,  both  of  the 
governors  and  the  governed,  which 
ought  to  determine  the  relations 
which  should  subsist  between  the 
several  classes  of  society1?  The 
determination  ultimately  to  be 
reached  on  University  tests  must, 
above  all  things,  flow  from  the 
nature  of  the  principles  which  are 
supposed  to  be  laid  down  by  po- 
litical philosophy.  The  decision, 
apart  from  its  religious  elements, 
will  take  one  shape  or  another  very 
much  according  to  the  ideas  enter- 
tained of  the  duties  and  the  rights 
of  the  State — that  is,  of  the  very 
foundations  themselves  of  those 
doctrines  which  constitute  political 
philosophy. 

L 


140 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


It  is  hardly  possible,  therefore, 
for  a  subject  to  be  more  fitted  to 
excite  universal  interest,  as  assur- 
edly there  can  scarcely  be  one  which 
has  more  important  bearings  on 
most  departments  of  our  social  life. 
It  cannot  be  settled  in  any  way 
except  upon  an  enunciation  of  first 
principles.  Any  Act  of  Parliament 
which  may  be  passed  respecting  it 
must  of  itself  be  a  declaration  of 
first  principles.  But  unfortunately 
it  is  also  a  subject  on  which  the 
enlightenment  of  the  public  that 
discusses  it  falls  far  below  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  issue  raised.  What- 
ever is  done  must  be  an  act 
embodying  principles  of  extreme 
significance,  and  pregnant  with  vast 
consequences  in  the  future ;  yet 
how  many  of  those  who  speak  and 
write  about  this  matter  exhibit  the 
care  which  a  consciousness  of  its 
magnitude  would  be  sure  to  en- 
force ?  The  public  at  large  under- 
stands very  little  of  the  issues 
involved  in  this  great  question. 
Sonorous  principles  of  great  range 
are  poured  forth  with  much  confi- 
dence, and  circulate  triumphantly 
from  mouth  to  mouth ;  yet  few 
have  taken  the  pains  to  ascertain  on 
what  evidence  these  wide  sweeping 
assertions  are  founded.  The  state 
of  the  Universities  and  the  changes 
which  they  require  are  the  favourite 
field  in  which  the  new  political 
philosophy  delights  to  roam.  The 
general  condition  of  the  whole 
country  is  a  more  sterile  and  un- 
profitable region  for  the  new  intel- 
lectual lights  ;  it  is  a  land  of  con- 
flicting interests,  of  forces  which 
cannot  be  entirely  overcome,  and 
consequently  of  compromise.  The 
rights  of  manhood,  the  veto  of  a 
minority  on  public  action,  cannot, 
in  the  present  political  world,  be 
either  theoretically  sustained,  or, 
still  less,  carried  into  practice.  But 
it  is  otherwise  with  the  Univer- 
sities. Here  the  pure  doctrines  of 
abstract  right  can  be  revelled  in, 
and  political  principles  may  pass 
instantly  into  the  broadest  revolu- 
tion. And  how  great  is  the  delight 


of  enunciating  an  unlimited  prin- 
ciple, and  then  demolishing  with 
its  powerful  lever  the  accumulated1 
rubbish  of  centuries  !  No  wonder 
that  no  one  attempts  to  establish 
by  proof  such  grave  and  powerful 
propositions  ;  they  carry  their  own 
evidence  on  their  front.  To  try  to 
prove  them  would  be  an  insult  to 
truths  which  shine  with  such  over- 
whelming luminousness ;  and  then 
it  would  spoil  so  much  pleasant 
satisfaction.  Meanwhile  the  un- 
wary public  is  misled.  It  is  sup- 
plied with  much  sound,  but  na 
investigation.  It  is  enough  that 
what  is  disliked  should  be  howled 
at ;  that  is  proof  sufficient  that  it  is 
worthless,  fit  only  to  be  destroyed. 
Under  such  circumstances  it  is 
supremely  important  to  call  on  the 
good  sense  of  the  nation  to  look 
carefully  into  this  great  question 
before  any  irretrievable  act  shall 
have  consummated  ruin.  The 
Universities  have  rendered  incal- 
culable service  to  the  people  of 
England  during  many  centuries  in 
the  past,  and  they  are  full  of  vitality 
in  the  present.  They  are  neither 
effete  nor  out  of  date  ;  the  very 
effort  to  remould  them  is  an  act  of 
homage  to  their  power.  The  ambi- 
tion of  the  innovators  is  to  wield 
their  force  to  their  own  ends.  The 
Universities  are  known  to  be  strong 
in  moulding  the  minds  and  natures 
of  the  young  men  of  England  ;  the 
object  sought  is  to  employ  this 
strength  as  an  instrument  to  pro- 
mote designs  which  are  not  aca- 
demical. There  are  men  who 
desire  to  destroy  the  aristocracy  or 
the  British  Constitution  ;  but  here 
the  end  pursued  is  not  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Universities,  but  the 
application  of  their  vast  influence 
to  diffuse  certain  ideas  and  prin- 
ciples over  the  whole  English 
society.  We  do  not  say  that  these 
men  are  to  be  blamed  for  pursuing 
such  an  object ;  from  their  point  of 
view  they  are  justified  in  proposing 
what  they  hold  will  be  beneficial  to 
the  world.  But  just  in  proportion 
as  the  consequences  must  be  vast 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


141 


if  they  succeed  in  tlieir  design, 
circumspection  and  thorough  pre- 
vious examination  before  action  is 
commenced  are  imperatively  de- 
manded in  the  interest  of  all. 

Let  us  now,  at  the  outset,  lay 
clown  the  principle  on  which  we 
propose  to  examine  this  very  serious 
question.  We  stand  on  the  ground 
c-f  expediency,  and  expediency 
alone.  We  shall  not  assume  the 
truth  of  Christianity  as  a  religion, 
nor  insist  on  any  dogma  as  a  true 
interpretation  of  its  teaching.  We 
shall  riot  say  a  word,  as  Mr  Glad- 
stone once  did,  on  the  duty  of  the 
State  to  profess  and  support  the 
true  religion.  For  the  purposes  of 
this  discussion,  we  are  content  to 
place  Christianity,  as  to  its  claims 
to  recognition,  on  the  same  level 
with  other  religions.  We  shall  take 
public  policy  for  our  basis,  the 
policy  of  expediency,  the  rule  of 
the  general  good,  on  a  balance  of 
the  considerations  for  and  against 
any  measure  that  may  be. proposed. 
Assuredly  we  shall  refuse  to  regard 
a  round  assertion,  a  general  sen- 
tence of  dislike  and  condemnation, 
as  a  self-obvious  truth  or  the  neces- 
s  iry  exponent  of  expediency.  We 
shall  demand  proof  of  the  utility  of 
such  a  principle,  of  its  ability  to 
promote  the  public  good,  of  its 
effects  on  the  whole  community, 
and  will  think  little  about  its  con- 
formity with  the  taste  and  ideas  of 
particular  persons.  The  Univer- 
sities are  national  institutions,  we 
clieerfully  grant ;  their  continuance 
and  the  form  of  their  existence,  we 
entirely  admit,  must  be  justified 
by  a  demonstration  built  on  public 
policy  and  national  expediency.  If 
any  part  of  their  constitution  can- 
not be  defended  on  this  ground, 
v.  e  shall  make  no  objection  against 
its  removal.  We  ask  for  no  favour, 
no  respect  for  old  ideas  merely 
because  they  are  old  and  have  been 
beneficial  in  their  day  ;  but  neither, 
on  the  other  hand,  will  we  yield  to 
formulas  as  absolute  and  as  peremp- 
tory as  M.  Proudhon's  dictum,  La 
propriete  c'est  le  vol.  Nor  will  we 


accept  reasoning  of  the  quality  that 
"  All  tests  are  odious ;  therefore 
the  Universities  must  know  nothing 
about  religion." 

And  now,  what  are  the  facts 
with  which  we  have  to  deal  in  this 
question  of  the  Universities  1  They 
originated  in  days  when  the  whole 
nation  professed  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic religion  ;  and  they  were  founded 
for  the  purpose  of  educating  the 
young,  both  for  the  priesthood  and 
for  other  professions.  The  teachers 
who  were  to  carry  on  this  work 
were  clergymen,  as  a  matter  of 
course ;  for  there  were  no  literary 
classes  in  those  ages  except  the 
clergy.  No  question  about  the  pro- 
priety of  tests  could  then  arise  ;  for 
every  citizen  was  assumed  to  be  a 
Christian.  These  institutions  re- 
ceived public  privileges  from  the 
State  :  they  were  incorporated  as 
public  bodies,  and  were  empowered 
to  confer  degrees,  whatever  might 
be  the  value  belonging  to  such  hon- 
ours. They  do  not  appear  to  have 
received  large  endowments  of  money 
from  the  State ;  but,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  they  obtained  very  ample 
benefactions  from  private  persons. 
These  benefactions  were  indisput- 
ably private  and  personal  gifts,  be- 
stowed on  trusts  of  precisely  the 
same  nature  with  the  endowments 
given  to  grammar-schools  and  other 
educational  bodies  all  over  the  coun- 
try. The  State  unanimously  judged 
such  institutions  to  be  wise  and 
beneficial :  it  encouraged  them  with 
all  its  power  and  influence.  No 
one  in  those  days  challenged  their 
expediency;  if  ever  institutions 
rested  on  universal  suffrage,  it  has 
been  the  Universities,  and  Univer- 
sities such  as  they  were  in  the  mid- 
dle ages.  Then  came  the  Reforma- 
tion, and  a  very  decisive  change, 
pregnant  with  political  principle, 
occurred.  The  Universities  were 
continued  on  the  same  general 
footing  ;  but  the  profession  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  was  sup- 
pressed, and  the  endowments  ab- 
solutely taken  away  from  the  mem- 
bers of  that  Church.  It  cannot  be 


142 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


disputed  that  most  of  these  endow- 
ments had  their  root  in  Roman 
Catholic  ideas — that  the  giving  of 
them  was  most  frequently  an  act  of 
religion — a  deed  done  in  the  name 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith — and 
that  but  for  those  ideas  these  gifts 
would  never  have  had  any  exist- 
ence at  all.  Thus  they  were  alien- 
ated by  the  act  of  the  State  from 
the  very  purposes  for  which  they 
had  been  bestowed.  The  question 
arises,  Was  the  State  justified  in 
this  appropriation  of  their  funds  to 
objects  which  not  only  were  diverse 
from  those  contemplated  by  the 
donors,  but  which  we  know  would 
have  been  regarded  by  them  as  in  the 
highest  degree  mischievous  and  de- 
testable 1  To  this  question  scarcely 
a  man  in  our  day  would  hesitate  to 
declare  that  the  State  was  justified 
in  the  course  which  it  adopted. 
No  single  generation  can  possibly 
acquire  the  right  of  prescribing  its 
mode  of  life  to  posterity.  If  any 
of  its  arrangements  are  respected, 
acquiescence  is  given,  not  because 
ancestors  —  dead  men  —  possessed 
a  right  of  dictating  to  those  that 
came  after,  but  because  the  inter- 
ests of  society  advise  compliance 
with  their  regulations.  To  assert 
that  owners  of  property  in  the  past 
are  endowed  with  an  indefeasible 
right  of  perpetuating  opinions  or 
teachings  or  social  arrangements 
which  are  rejected  by  the  convic- 
tions of  their  successors,  is  to  utter 
an  absurdity  and  an  impossibility. 
The  world  cannot  belong  to  the 
dead  :  it  belongs  to  the  living.  The 
State  thus  becomes  an  implied  trus- 
tee to  every  abiding  endowment : 
it  cannot  help  from  time  to  time 
revising  the  trust.  Whether  the 
State  in  repudiating  Roman  Catho- 
licism acted  j  udiciously  with  funds 
devoted  to  Roman  Catholic  pur- 
poses is  fairly  open  to  inquiry,  but 
its  power  and  its  duty  to  revise  and 
remodel  are  unchallengeable. 

The  principle  which  we  thus  ac- 
quire reaches  far,  and  covers  the 
demand  for  every  kind  of  Univer- 
sity reform  which  is  demanded  in 


our  day.  We  do  not  repel  the 
right  and  authority  of  the  State  to 
alter  any  part  of  the  academical 
constitution.  What  we  insist  upon 
on  our  side  is,  that  the  wisdom  and 
expediency  of  the  changes  suggest- 
ed should  be  demonstrated.  When 
the  State  ceased  to  be  Roman 
Catholic,  it  manifestly  could  not 
allow  its  two  Universities  to  re- 
main in  the  hands  of  the  teachers 
of  that  religion.  It  transferred 
them  and  all  their  endowments  to 
the  Church  of  England  then  estab- 
lished. It  was  inevitable  that  it 
should  adopt  such  a  measure  in 
that  age.  Toleration  had  not  made 
its  appearance  in  the  world  :  every 
man  was  held  to  belong  to  the 
Established  Church,  as  he  formerly 
had  belonged  to  the  Roman  Church. 
In  this  manner  the  Universities,  in 
respect  of  religion,  had,  as  it  were, 
a  second  origin.  They  were  made 
Church  of  England  institutions, 
and  they  have  continued  to  be 
such  for  more  than  three  centuries. 
The  change  was  irreproachable  at 
that  time  on  the  score  of  expedi- 
ency :  no  one  disputed  the  public 
policy  of  the  transformation. 

The  religious  element  of  the  Uni- 
versities has  now  developed  a  new 
phase.  The  demand  now  is  that 
they  should  be  officially  discon- 
nected with  religion — that  no  par- 
ticular form  of  religion  shall  be 
recognised  in  respect  either  of  Uni- 
versity functions  or  collegiate 
endowments  —  that  every  religion 
shall  stand  on  the  same  academical 
level — and  that  no  inquiry  into  a 
man's  religion  shall  ever  be  made 
either  under  the  authority  of  the 
University  or  the  statutes  of  any 
College.  This  is  a  complete  inno- 
vation, it  cannot  be  denied,  in  the 
constitution  of  these  bodies.  No 
precedent  can  be  cited  in  support 
of  such  a  change  from  the  long 
history  of  the  Universities.  Under- 
graduates, it  is  true,  were  recently 
exempted  from  professing  the  faith 
of  the  Church  of  England ;  but 
then  they  were  mere  learners,  and 
no  very  good  reason  could  be  shown 


1870.] 


University  Testst 


143 


why  youths  of  any  kind  should  not 
be  admitted  to  the  teaching  con- 
tained in  the  system  of  the  Univer- 
sities. That  the  alteration,  how- 
ever, should  be  unprecedented,  is 
no  proof  that  it  is  unreasonable, 
though  the  fact  may  justify  a  more 
rigorous  requirement  of  proof.  What 
reasons,  then,  are  assigned  for  dis- 
connecting all  religion  with  the 
oificial  character  of  not  only  the 
Universities,  but  of  their  Colleges 
also  ?  Religion  has  always  formed 
a  most  prominent — nay,  the  most 
prominent  —  part  of  their  system 
daring  a  long  lapse  of  ages.  In 
what  name,  and  upon  what  prin- 
ciple, is  so  immense  a  revolution 
demanded  ?  Is  it  alleged  that  re- 
ligion is  a  bad  thing — an  exploded 
fiction,  a  worn-out  device — fit  only 
to  be  consigned  to  the  limbo  of 
things  exhausted1?  We  can  find 
no  one  making  such  an  assertion. 
We  can  discover  no  English  parent 
requiring  that  his  son  shall  not  be 
taught  any  religion.  The  regard  for 
religion,  for  the  Christian  religion, 
does  not  appear  to  have  diminished 
throughout  the  country.  If  the 
families  of  the  English  parents  of 
the  middle  and  upper  classes  were 
polled,  we  should  be  greatly  aston- 
ished to  find  any  considerable  num- 
ber.expressing  a  positive  wish  that 
their  children  should  not  be  edu- 
cated in  the  general  doctrines  of 
the  Christian  religion.  It  is  not  a 
commotion  of  such  a  kind  in  this 
quarter  which  gives  this  violent 
impulse  to  the  requirement,  that 
th'3  Universities,  officially,  should 
ignore  religion.  Yet  it  is  true  that 
a  considerable  number  of  persons 
who  have  no  desire  to  sweep  away 
religion  are  supporting  this  cry  ; 
but  though  they  abet  the  demand 
for  the  separation  of  religion  from 
tho  public  life  of  the  Universi- 
ties, it  is  in  the  name  of  religious 
rights,  and  under  the  impulse  of 
wounded  religious  feeling,  that  they 
adopt  a  course  apparently  so  con- 
tradictory. These  persons  consti- 
tute a  class  which  has  sprung  up 
since  the  Reformation  —  the  Dis- 


senters, the  Christian  Nonconform- 
ists— and  they  and  their  claims  are 
the  force  which  has  given  its  chief 
strength  to  the  movement  for  re- 
pealing tests  at  the  Universities. 
They  demand  admission  into  these 
bodies,  and  a  share  in  their  privi- 
leges and  emoluments.  They  deny 
that  their  exclusion  can  be  justified 
by  any  valid  reason :  in  other 
words,  their  claim  amounts  to  a 
plea  that  the  Universities  and  their 
advantages  shall  not  be  restricted 
to  members  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. They  impugn  the  settlement 
made  at  the  Reformation  as  being 
no  longer  applicable  at  the  present 
day  ;  they  point  to  the  altered  cir- 
cumstances of  the  nation  in  reli- 
gious matters,  and  they  repudiate 
an  arrangement,  which  did  not,  at 
the  time  when  it  was  made,  but 
does  now,  confer  an  exclusive 
monopoly  of  academical  privi- 
leges on  a  particular  Church. 
Unfortunately  the  Christian  Non- 
conformists are  not  the  only  per- 
sons who  agitate  for  the  repeal  of 
religious  tests,  though  they  make 
up  the  rank  and  file  of  the  attack- 
ing hosts.  However,  we  must  con- 
sider their  case  separately,  for  the 
mixing  up  together  of  all  kinds  of 
ideas  and  claims  is  the  most  fruit- 
ful cause  of  the  want  of  clear  in- 
telligence which  distinguishes  the 
agitation  which  rolls  against  Uni- 
versity tests.  Are,  then,  the  Dissen- 
ters entitled,  on  grounds  of  expe- 
diency and  public  policy,  to  free 
access  to  University  privileges  and 
endowments'?  In  other  words, 
ought  these  advantages  to  be  strict- 
ly confined  to  members  of  the 
Church  of  England  in  the  actual 
circumstances  of  our  time  1  Stated 
in  this  form,  the  question,  we  can- 
not doubt,  will  receive  but  one  re- 
ply from  the  majority  of  the  people. 
The  Dissenters  neither  can  nor 
ought  to  be  excluded  from  the  Uni- 
versities. Their  aggregate  numbers 
approach  too  much  to  equality  with 
those  of  the  Established  Church  to 
admit  of  their  permanent  privation 
of  the  benefits  of  the  Universities. 


144 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


Their  political  power,  moreover, 
would  be  decisive  of  the  matter,  if 
it  were  otherwise  exposed  to  doubt. 
Nor — which  is  the  capital  point — 
does  their  admission  violate  any 
important  principle,  either  of  re- 
ligion or  civil  polity.  They  are 
Christians  ;  they  profess  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  with  many  and  impor- 
tant variations  in  detail,  it  cannot 
be  denied — still  it  is  the  Christian 
faith.  They  all  hold  fundamental 
truths  of  Christian  morals  and  of 
Christian  belief.  The  points  on 
which  they  agree  contain  principles 
of  extreme  significance  in  the  train- 
ing of  the  young.  A  very  broad 
foundation  of  common  Christian 
ideas  would  be  left,  after  the  com- 
plete infusion  of  all  the  Dissenters 
into  the  academical  body.  In  lite- 
rature, in  philosophy,  in  morals,  and 
in  many  other  respects,  a  basis 
would  subsist  on  which  a  solid 
and  definite  structure  of  education 
might  be  raised. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  lamented  that 
the  question  of  opening  the  doors 
of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  to  per- 
sons who  are  not  members  of  the 
Church  of  England,  did  not  take 
the  form  of  a  demand  to  admit 
Christian  Dissenters  within  these 
societies.  As  we  remarked  above, 
it  was  the  claims  and  interests  of 
these  Nonconformists  which  gave 
substance  and  political  importance 
to  this  question.  Had  it  assumed 
such  a  shape,  the  two  chief  inquir- 
ies would  have  been  simple,  and 
would  have  admitted  of  direct  and 
easy  replies.  First,  Could  the  exclu- 
sive monopoly  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land be  sustained  under  the  condi- 
tions of  our  day  ?  The  answer  must 
have  been  in  the  negative.  Se- 
condly, Would  the  infusion  of  Chris- 
tian Dissenters  into  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  so  damage  these  insti- 
tutions as  places  of  education  for 
the  young,  as  practically  to  destroy 
their  value,  and  to  be  equivalent 
to  their  ruin  ]  Here  again  an  affir- 
mative reply  could  not  have  been 
made  good.  The  nation  would 
have  judged,  beyond  doubt,  that 


the  difference  between  the  Christi 
anity  of  the  Church  of  England 
and  the  Christianity  of  the  Dissen- 
ters was  not  such  as  to  warrant  the 
assertion  that  the  authority  of  the 
Christian  religion,  as  the  official  basis 
of  their  education,  would  have  been 
extinguished  at  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge. But  unhappily  the  demand 
was  not  raised  in  this  form.  The 
repeal  of  the  condition  of  member- 
ship of  the  Church  of  England  was 
not  treated  as  a  pure  question  of 
Dissenting  rights.  The  issue  was 
not  debated  on  the  relative  posi- 
tions and  creeds  of  the  competing 
Christian  societies.  The  nation 
was  not  simply  asked  whether  there 
were  valid  reasons  for  keeping  Dis- 
senters out  of  University  degrees 
and  emoluments.  The  Dissenters, 
partly  through  their  own  fault, 
partly  from  causes  which  they  were 
unable  to  control,  became  associ- 
ated with  allies  who  made  them- 
selves masters  of  the  situation. 
The  Dissenters  supplied  the  politi- 
cal force,  the  arguments  which  told 
with  electors  from  the  hustings  ; 
they  provided  politicians  with 
complaints  which  were  enforced 
by  the  Liberal  press  all  over  the 
country,  with  wrongs  which  the 
national  sense  of  justice  acknow- 
ledged to  require  redress.  But  the 
new  associates  stated  the  questions 
to  be  tried.  They  enunciated  the 
principle  to  be  enforced.  They 
raised  the  issue,  which  was  not  the 
true  issue  for  the  Dissenters,  but 
something  of  a  very  different  kind. 
They  thus  gave  a  turn  to  the  dis- 
cussion which  was  not  in  harmony 
with  the  real  interests  of  the  Dis- 
senters. The  hands  were  the  hands 
of  Esau,  but  the  voice  was  the  voice 
of  Jacob.  The  Dissenters  at  the 
outset  went  in  for  one  thing,  their 
confederates  for  another.  The  Dis- 
senters were  incomparably  the  more 
numerous  body,  and  their  claim 
commanded  the  general  sympathy 
of  the  country.  Their  allies  were, 
in  numbers,  an  insignificant  minor- 
ity, and  what  they  sought  was  not 
really  desired  by  the  nation.  Never- 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


145 


theless  they  overwhelmed  the  Dis- 
senters, and  that  in  the  worst  con- 
3eivable  manner,  by  compelling  the 
Dissenters  to  adopt  their  ideas. 
They  led  the  Dissenters  like  sheep 
into  fields  where  there  was  no 
sound  pasture  for  them.  They 
substituted  their  own  object  for 
the  natural  object  of  the  Dissenters, 
[n  a  word,  whilst  the  Dissenters 
desired  to  enter  the  Universities  as 
Christians,  their  allies  compelled 
:Jiem  to  cry  out  for  the  official  ejec- 
tion of  all  religion  from  Oxford  and 
Cambridge. 

The  Dissenters  have  been  made 
iupes  in  this  matter.  We  say  this, 
oecause  if  the  end  pursued  is  suc- 
cessfully attained,  and  the  Univer- 
sities ignore  all  profession  of  reli- 
gion, none  will  be  treated  with 
more  scorn  and  contumely  by  their 
allies  than  these  unhappy  and  un- 
reflecting Dissenters.  It  needs  but 
;i  slender  acquaintance  with  the 
actual  feelings  of  many  of  these 
men  to  convince  one's  self  of  the 
truth  of  this  belief.  The  Dissen- 
ters, we  know,  are  strongly  attach- 
ed to  their  several  forms  of  Chris- 
tian faith,  and  in  general  they  are 
not  very  tolerant  of  each  other  ; 
and  Dissenters  who  stand  stiffly  on 
their  religion,  and  strive  to  give  it 
effect  in  the  world,  will  be  met 
with  expressions  of  feeling  which 
we  do  not  care  to  characterise.  Of 
one  thing  the  Dissenters  may  be 
quite  sure,  that  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  upon  a  perfectly  open 
system,  where  freethinking  will 
have  absolute  free  play,  and  will 
be  authorised  to  say  and  preach 
•what  it  pleases,  they,  the  Dissen- 
ters, will  be  nowhere.  There  are 
forces  belonging  to  the  Church, 
vv'hether  it  will  be  Established,  as 
i  tow,  or  be  a  Voluntary  society,  as 
^o  many  expect,  which  will  inevi- 
tably command  for  it  some  social 
weight  and  consideration  ;  but  we 
can  perceive  no  hope  of  any  consi- 
o.erable  influence  for  Dissent.  We 
entertain  the  strongest  doubts  of 
their  appearing  at  the  Universities 
iii  numbers  worth  mentioning.  Is 


this  what  the  Dissenters  intend  1 
Is  this  the  object  which  their  pas- 
sionate and  persevering  efforts  seek 
to  accomplish  ?  Are  Universities 
filled  with  infidels  and  Episcopa- 
lians— for  if  the  Universities  con- 
tinue to  exist,  these  last  will  be 
found  in  them,  with  here  and  there 
a  strong  Dissenter,  or  other  non- 
Episcopalian — the  ideal  of  academi- 
cal life  which  they  long  to  procure 
for  England  1 

But  how  has  this  unnatural 
alliance  been  brought  to  pass1? 
Partly,  we  have  said,  through  the 
fault  of  the  Dissenters  themselves. 
They  have  been  more  intent  on 
pulling  down  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land than  on  advancing  their  own 
specific  cause.  They  have  been 
carried  along  by  the  heat  of  the 
contest ;  they  have  thought  only  of 
the  enemy  in  their  front.  They 
found  the  Church  of  England 
strongly  intrenched  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  country  and  its  laws  ; 
and  they  felt  they  needed  every 
support  they  could  gather  for 
obtaining  their  end.  They  thus 
committed  themselves  to  the  doc- 
trine that  the  State  must  not 
connect  itself  with  any  kind  of 
Church  or  religion.  From  that 
moment  they  inevitably  fell  under 
the  leadership  of  the  unbelievers. 
The  principle  that  the  State  must 
know  nothing  of  religion  was 
more  emphatically  the  banner  of  un- 
belief than  of  dissent.  It  was  sus- 
tained with  stronger  powers  of  intel- 
lect by  the  non-Christian  than  by 
the  Christian  Nonconformists.  It 
was  held  by  them  more  thoroughly ; 
they  could  denounce  limitation 
with  greater  force  and  consistency. 
In  the  civil  and  political  world, 
therefore,  it  was  scarcely  possible 
for  Dissenters  to  avoid  this  union 
with  men  so  very  unlike  them- 
selves, for  they  could  have  no  hope 
of  creating  a  Broad  Church  which 
should  comprise  Dissenters  ;  and 
there  was  nothing  left  for  them  but 
alliance  with  the  unbelievers,  who 
had  the  same  identical  end  with 
themselves.  But  the  consequences 


146 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


of  such  an  alliance  were  sure  to  be 
not  all  agreeable.  The  divergence 
of  interests  or  feelings  was  cer- 
tain to  break  out  somewhere.  It 
has  come  forth  in  this  very  question 
of  the  Universities.  The  Dissen- 
ters here  have  suffered  themselves 
to  fall  under  the  control  of  men 
who  in  some  vital  respects  are  their 
opponents.  They  have  accepted  the 
formula  of  real  adversaries.  Their 
manifest  interest  was  to  enter  the 
Universities  as  Christians.  Their 
actual  cry  is  for  dechristianising  the 
Universities.  The  exclusive  reten- 
tion of  Christianity  was  possible 
in  the  academical  world,  it  was  im- 
possible in  the  civil.  There  was 
no  chance  of  limiting  the  House  of 
Commons  and  the  electoral  vote  to 
Christians.  The  far  narrower  range 
and  more  special  function  of  a  Uni- 
versity made  the  specific  mainten- 
ance of  the  Christian  religion  more 
natural  and  more  practicable.  But 
this  distinction  the  Dissenters  have 
failed  to  perceive,  or,  having  per- 
ceived it,  have  been  unable  or  un- 
willing to  give  it  effect  in  practice. 
They  thus  battle  under  the  flag  of 
unbelief.  They  demand  the  total 
secularisation  of  the  Universities. 

The  result  has  been  a  change  in 
the  form  of  the  claim  insisted  on. 
Instead  of  requiring  the  admission 
of  Dissenters,  the  agitation  clamours 
for  the  repeal  of  religious  tests. 
The  question  is  viewed  from  the 
aspect  of  tests.  The  dominant 
idea  is  derived  from  that  word. 
The  manner  of  the  exclusion  of 
Nonconformists  is  dwelt  upon  rather 
than  the  fact  itself,  and  the  differ- 
ence is  very  important.  The  ques- 
tion is  no  longer  whether  the  Dis- 
senters are  fit  or  not  to  enter  the 
Universities,  but  whether  the  par- 
ticular barrier  which  shuts  them 
out  shall  be  swept  away  altogether. 
The  test  is  regarded  in  respect  of 
what  it  is  in  itself,  rather  than  in 
respect  of  the  exclusion  which  it 
produces.  A  test  is  held  up  as  a 
thing  odious  by  its  very  nature.  It 
is  painted  as  an  impertinent  and 
offensive  inquiry  into  matters  which 


are  private  and  personal,  and  which 
ought  to  be  exempt  from  all  official 
scrutiny.  Why,  it  is  triumphantly 
asked,  should  the  religious  opinion 
of  a  man  who  teaches  Euclid  be 
questioned?  What  connection  is 
there  between  Greek  and  particular 
religious  opinions?  Why  should 
the  belief  in  religious  dogmas  be 
required  in  a  secular  University 
whose  business  is  to  teach  letters  ] 
What  is  a  test  but  a  hateful  prying 
into  a  man's  conscience,  an  offensive 
exploring  of  his  inner  mind  ? 
What  matters  heresy  or  orthodoxy, 
belief  or  unbelief,  to  an  institution 
at  once  national  and  secular  ?  Re- 
ligious sects  have  ever  been  wont 
to  dwell  on  dogma  on  the  necessity 
of  right  belief  in  particular  religious 
propositions.  They  are  never  satis- 
fied about  a  man  till  he  has  been 
turned  over  and  examined,  and  his 
religious  form  has  been  brought  to 
the  appointed  standard  and  found 
correct.  The  world  is  outliving, 
we  are  told,  such  odious  processes. 
Even  amongst  Christians  orthodoxy 
has  no  longer  the  value  which  it 
once  possessed,  and  unbelief  raises 
its  head  on  all  sides,  and  has  ceased 
to  be  a  reproach  and  a  title  for 
contempt.  The  nature  of  the  teach- 
ing of  Christianity  is  itself  under 
discussion.  The  conclusions  arriv- 
ed at  by  men  to  whom  the  title  of 
Christian  can  in  no  way  be  refused, 
are  extremely  discordant  with  one 
another.  To  bind  men  down,  there- 
fore, to  one  single  interpretation  of 
the  Christian  revelation,  is  a  pro- 
ceeding repulsive  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age.  It  is  a  necessary  consequence 
from  such  an  intellectual  state  of 
modern  thought,  that  the  impo- 
sition of  tests  which  imply  de- 
tailed assent  to  minute  and  specific 
statements  of  Christian  doctrine, 
must  encounter  resistance  in  many 
quarters.  They  necessarily  present 
a  very  vulnerable  side  when  made 
the  condition  of  membership  of 
the  Universities. 

Other  causes  combine  to  swell 
the  difficulty.  The  University  test 
in  substance  is  a  declaration  of 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


147 


membership  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land }  but  in  form  it  is  a  subscrip- 
tion to  a  vast  number  of  proposi- 
tions respecting  the  dogmas  of  the 
Christian  faith.  We  know  that  in 
the  Church  at  large,  in  these  recent 
years,  the  consistency  of  these  doc- 
trines with  one  another,  the  truth 
of  some,  the  necessary  acceptance 
of  others,  are  fiercely  challenged  on 
every  side.  Some  escape  the  per- 
plexities hence  resulting  by  meth- 
ods of  interpretation  which  take 
great  liberties  with  the  letter.  For 
others  the  words  of  formularies  are 
a  snare  to  the  conscience,  implying 
.some  degree  of  dishonesty  when 
the  actual  expression  cannot  be 
literally  accepted.  It  is  easy  to 
understand  how  a  strong  feeling  of 
distaste  should  creep  up  under  such 
circumstances  against  the  demand 
of  assent  to  a  multitude  of  diverse 
statements.  And  if  this  feeling 
is  powerful  when  appointment  to 
the  ministry  of  the  Church  is  con- 
cerned, how  much  more  powerful 
must  it  be  in  the  case  of  Univer- 
sities whose  object  is  general  and 
not  clerical  education  1  The  recoil 
against  a  test  of  such  a  kind  has 
been  violent  enough  to  procure 
from  the  Legislature  a  relaxation 
in  the  laws  of  subscription  required 
of  clergymen  ;  and  so  far  relief  has 
been  acquired  by  members  of  the 
Universities.  Still  further  progress 
in  that  direction  has  been  made  in 
the  case  of  Colleges ;  for  we  believe 
we  are  correct  in  stating  that  a 
simple  profession  of  membership  of 
the  Church  of  England  is  all  that  is 
required  for  admission  to  college 
endowments. 

These  influences  combined  have 
precipitated  the  University  question 
down  to  the  lowest  level.  Chris- 
tians and  non-Christians  have  alike 
been  irritated  by  the  existing  tests. 
Those  who  took  the  tests,  and  are 
supposed  to  be  working  under  the 
conditions  implied  in  their  accept- 
ance of  their  offices,  but  have  sub- 
sequently lost  their  belief  in  either 
a  part  or  the  whole  of  Christianity, 
naturally  are  impatient  to  obtain 


relief  by  the  cancelling  of  obliga- 
tions which  they  no  longer  fulfil. 
All  such  persons  constitute  a  large 
force  in  the  aggregate,  and  furnish 
very  vigorous  aid  in  promoting  the 
end  aimed  at  by  Dissenters — their 
own  entrance  into  the  Universities. 
Neither  party  singly  could  easily 
have  achieved  success  ;  combined, 
they  have  been  strong  enough  to 
obtain  successive  majorities  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  And  thus  the 
word  and  idea,  test,  has  occupied 
the  whole  ground.  Everything 
else  is  forgotten  by  the  side  of  it ; 
every  consideration  which  attaches 
to  Oxford  and  Cambridge  as  places 
of  education  for  the  young  has  been 
thrust  aside  as  not  worth  thinking 
about.  The  recent  meetings  at  Cam- 
bridge and  Oxford  furnish  a  strik- 
ing illustration  of  this  mischievous 
and  unphilosophical  method  of 
reasoning.  We  say  the  word 
"  unphilosophical  "  deliberately  ; 
for  whilst  it  is  the  loudly -pro- 
claimed vaunt  of  the  repealers  of 
all  religious  limitations  that  they 
emphatically  stand  on  first  prin- 
ciples and  on  philosophy,  they  ex- 
hibit the  shallowest  departure  from 
the  fundamental  law  of  all  true 
philosophy,  that  all  the  elements 
of  a  problem  shall  be  investigated 
and  weighed.  Nothing  could  be 
more  one-sided  than  the  point  of 
view  adopted  by  all  the  speakers. 
They  dwelt  on  the  grievances  suf- 
fered by  graduates ;  they  painted 
the  irritation  excited  by  assent 
demanded  for  countless  proposi- 
tions ;  they  repelled  the  thrusting 
in  of  religion  into  the  teaching 
of  secular  subjects  ;  they  de- 
nounced the  interference  of  the 
State  with  a  man's  belief ;  and  then, 
in  a  passionate  glow  of  resentment, 
they  indignantly  repelled  all  tests. 
And  what  was  the  reasoning  on 
which  they  took  their  stand  1 
Because  existing  tests  work  ill, 
therefore  all  inquiries  into  the 
belief  of  University  teachers  were 
impertinent  and  against  principle. 
The  word  test  of  itself  alone  was 
enough  for  them;  it  carried  its 


148 


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[Feb. 


condemnation  on  its  very  face. 
And  this  they  recklessly  think  to 
be  excellent  logic :  the  illicit  process 
of  inferring  from  the  condemnation 
of  some  to  the  condemnation  of  all 
was  a  trifle  of  no  account  in  so 
obvious  a  matter.  Were  they  not 
carrying  out  faithfully  the  grand 
philosophical  method  of  our  day] 
Were  they  not  scattering  to  the 
winds  the  restrictions  and  limita- 
tions and  other  miserable  devices 
with  which  antiquated  statesman- 
ship and  old-fashioned  philosophy 
loved  to  narrow  the  application  of 
the  truth  ;  and  did  they  not  stand 
in  the  full  and  free  sunshine  of 
unlimited  formulas,  of  absolute  pro- 
positions, of  principles  which  soared 
into  the  infinite  ?  The  House  of 
Lords  sometimes  does  wrong:  Down 
with  the  peerage !  The  Established 
Church  has  become  too  narrow  : 
Away  with  an  Established  Church ! 
Dogma  has  been  too  strictly  insisted 
on !  let  religion  never  be  mentioned ! 
Young  men  have  been  educated  in 
the  teaching  of  a  sect :  henceforth 
let  them  be  lectured  in  every  reli- 
gion upon  earth,  and  then  let  them 
select  one  for  themselves  ! 

The  total  forgetfulness  of  the 
educational  character  of  the  Uni- 
versities was  the  most  remarkable 
feature  of  these  anti-test  meetings. 
Fellows  and  their  wrongs  filled  the 
minds  of  the  speakers.  The  Uni- 
versities figured  there  as  conferrers 
of  privileges  only  ;  graduates  were 
regarded  as  the  recipients  of  money ; 
and  then  the  hardship  was  feelingly 
described  of  religion  interfering 
with  profit.  Fellows  had  obtained 
their  endowments  by  dint  of  hard 
study ;  was  it  not  intolerable  that  in- 
quiries into  their  belief  should  step 
i  ti  between  them  and  their  rewards  1 
The  possessors  of  endowments  con- 
stituted for  these  speakers  the  Uni- 
versity itself  :  no  one  could  have 
gathered  from  the  speeches  delivered 
that  undergraduates  existed  at  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge,  or  that  they 
were  worthy  of  a  moment's  consid- 
eration. Astrange  and  capital  illu- 
sion surely  !  What  is  Oxford  but  a 


school  1  what  gives  it  importance 
except  the  students  who  frequent 
its  Colleges  1  what  is  the  very  end 
of  the  University  but  its  action  on 
these  young  men  1  The  young 
students  are  emphatically  Oxford. 
Oxford  was  created  and  exists  only 
for  them.  The  endowments  them- 
selves were  granted  out  of  regard 
to  their  welfare.  Oxford  without 
undergraduates  would  at  best  be 
only  a  board  of  examiners  ;  and 
then  the  fellowships  and  the  other 
endowments  would  speedily  dis- 
appear. In  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
the  nation  possesses  two  great 
schools  to  which  her  young  men 
resort  for  education  ;  and  it  is  by 
the  effects  which  it  produces  on 
these  youthful  students  that  the 
repeal  of  the  tests,  or  any  other 
change  in  the  academical  constitu- 
tions, must  be  judged.  This  is  the 
true  point  of  view  for  estimating 
and  pronouncing  upon  every  statute 
which  affects  the  Universities.  We 
find  no  trace  of  a  knowledge  of  this 
truth  in  the  speeches  of  the  re- 
pealers at  these  meetings.  We  per- 
ceive no  attempt  to  investigate  what 
results  on  the  young  men  the  repeal 
of  the  tests  may  have.  Graduates 
may  be  relieved,  Fellows  may  gather 
comfort,  in  the  enjoyment  of  their 
good  things;  irritation  may  be 
allayed,  and  every  senior  allowed 
in  peace  to  be  a  Christian  or  an 
unbeliever  at  his  pleasure :  but, 
after  all,  there  remains  the  all-im- 
portant question,  How  will  all 
these  things  tell  upon  the  school  ] 
This  is  the  one  practical  and  de- 
cisive consideration.  If  the  under- 
graduates are  injured,  still  more,  if 
they  are  driven  away,  what  signifies 
the  gain  which  the  Fellows  may 
have  won  1  If  indeed  the  present 
sj'stem,  or  any  modification  of  it,  is 
essentially  immoral  or  unjust,  then, 
clearly,  fiat  justitia,  mat  ccelum. 
Better  that  the  Univerities  should 
perish  than  that  a  wicked  or  inex- 
pedient institution  should  disgrace 
this  land.  But  who  imputes  such 
a  character  to  the  Universities  1 
Who  demands  their  suppression  ou 


1870.] 


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149 


this  ground  1  That  there  are  per- 
sons who  in  their  hearts  prefer 
that  Oxford  and  Cambridge  should 
cease  to  be,  rather  than  that  any 
form  of  Christianity  should  be 
recognised  in  the  education  they 
bestow,  we  do  not  doubt ;  but  they 
are  few,  and  they  do  not  openly 
avow  their  opinions.  If  they  did, 
a  fair  and  manly  issue  would  be 
raised,  and  the  country  would  know 
the  nature  of  the  measure  it  was 
discussing.  The  mass  of  the  sup- 
porters of  the  abolition  of  tests  are 
men  of  a  very  different  kind.  They 
are  not  enemies  of  the  Christian 
religion,  but  they  have  worked 
themselves  into  an  intense  dislike 
of  tests;  and  the  complaint  we  make 
is,  that  they  have  thought  only  of 
themselves  and  their  class,  and 
have  left  out  of  account  those  for 
whose  sake  they  exist  at  the  Univer- 
sities. They  would  be  quick  enough 
to  perceive  the  effects  which  mea- 
sures for  the  relief  of  certain 
feelings  in  the  masters  might  have 
on  Eton  and  Harrow,  and  very 
possibly  they  would  suggest  that 
those  who  were  inconvienced  should 
be  withdrawn,  and  the  boys  be  not 
driven  off  from  the  school ;  but 
when  they  think  of  the  Universi- 
ties, their  view  becomes  radically 
altered.  Their  essential  character 
as  schools  fades  away  into  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  mass  of  Fellows  arid 
graduates  alone  occupies  the  field  of 
vision.  That  this  is  a  capital  mis- 
take no  one  will  deny,  except  those 
who  deliberately  wish  to  see  the 
Universities  converted  into  bodies 
which  conduct  examinations  of 
students  trained  in  other  places, 
and  confer  degrees  and  privileges 
as  academical  and  not  as  scholas- 
tic corporations.  Again  we  say,  if 
this  is  the  end  designed,  let  it  be 
fairly  proclaimed,  and  the  debate 
on  its  expediency  be  distinctly 
placed  before  the  nation. 

But  we  are  barred  from  entering 
on  an  examination  whether  it  is 
inexpedient,  in  the  interests  of 
the  students,  that  the  test  which 
requires  membership  of  the  Church 


of  England   should  be  absolutely 
repealed.     The  question  is  judged, 
we   are   told  :   a  first  principle  of 
overwhelming  force  has  pronounced 
that  the  Universities  are  national 
institutions,  and  that  this  quality 
of  nationalness  bestows  on  every 
Englishman  the  indefeasible  right 
of  sharing  the  advantages  of  these 
bodies  without  regard  to   his  reli- 
gion.    The  word  national  has  set- 
tled the  matter  conclusively.    Grant 
that  the  Universities  are  national — 
and  who  refuses  them  this  quality  ? 
—  and   every   Englishman,   be   he 
Christian  or  Atheist,  Brahmin  or 
Mohammedan,    has     an    inherent 
right  to  present   himself   at    their 
portals  and  claim  admission  either 
as   a  Fellow   or   a    tutor.      Great 
is  the  magic  of  a  word,  or  rather 
great  is  the  power  of  this  new  phi- 
losophy— a  philosophy  which  is  so 
capable  of  being  extemporised  for 
the  moment,  and  is  so  susceptible 
of  expansion  or  compression  accord- 
ing as  the  needs  of  the  philosopher 
may  require.      The    formula    has 
great  range,  beyond  doubt.     When 
an  institution  is  national,  it  entitles 
every  Englishman  to    receive    an 
equal   share   in   it.      It   is  a   new 
doctrine  in  political  philosophy,  cer- 
tainly :  but  is  it  true  1    Let  us  test 
it  by  a  case  or  two.    There  is  no 
institution    so    intensely   national 
as    the    electoral    vote ;    the   way 
in   which   he   is   governed  affects 
every  inhabitant  of   these  islands. 
Has  every  member  of  the  State  a 
share  in  the  election  of  the  House 
of  Commons'?     Are  not  one  half 
of  the  people  deprived  of  all  parti- 
cipation in  the  government  of  the 
country  1  and  of  the  remaining  half 
are  not  multitudes  excluded  from 
the  suffrage,  avowedly,  and; upon 
principle,  and   with   the   approba- 
tion of  the  majority  of  even  Ra- 
dicals'?    Upon  the  theory  that  a 
national  institution  must  be    en- 
joyed, of  right,  by  every  English- 
man, manhood  suffrage  is  an  inde- 
feasible right,  and  every  man  who 
withholds   manhood    suffrage  vio- 
lates the  most  cardinal  principle  of 


150 


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[Feb. 


the  liberal  philosophy.  What,  again , 
shall  we  say  of 'the  Crown  1  That 
indisputably  is  a  national  institu- 
tion, and  if  national,  it  belongs 
equally  to  every  Englishman.  Why 
should  it  be  restricted  to  a  single 
family  ?  If  it  must  be  given  to  all, 
then  manifestly  the  doctrine  re- 
quires that  the  Crown  should  be 
abolished,  and  the  government  of 
the  people  assigned  to  a  republic. 
We  must  not  be  told  in  reply 
that  the  interest  of  the  whole 
nation  and  the  nature  of  the  case 
demand  the  limitation  of  the 
Crown  to  the  Royal  Family,  for  the 
word  national  is  applied  to  the 
Universities  for  the  very  purpose  of 
shutting  out  the  general  considera- 
tion of  the  public  good ;  it  is  used 
expressly  to  found  a  personal  and 
inherent  right  apart  from  all  weigh- 
ing of  general  utility,  belonging  to 
every  Englishman,  be  he  Atheist 
or  Christian,  to  an  equal  share  of 
University  position  and  emolument. 
To  bring  this  right  under  the  con- 
tingency of  its  being  shown  to  be 
expedient,  on  grounds  of  general 
policy,  is  to  destroy  the  very  object 
for  which  its  nationalness  is  pro- 
claimed. The  avowed  aim  is  to  ob- 
tain admission  and  authority  to 
teach  for  all  religions,  without  any 
previous  inquiry  whether  such  ad- 
mission is  for  the  good  of  the  Uni- 
versity or  of  the  nation.  Here, 
again,  is  a  third  case  for  the  appli- 
cation of  the  principle.  If  the  in- 
tentions of  benefactors  are  no 
longer  to  be  held  of  any  account 
at  Oxford,  the  same  rule  must 
apply  to  every  endowment  through- 
out the  land.  If  the  Oxford 
moneys  are  become  national,  in 
the  sense  that  every  Englishman 
is  entitled  to  a  share  of  them,  so 
must  also  the  funds  of  every  en- 
dowed school ;  and  not  only  has 
every  Atheist  the  right  to  be  ap- 
pointed schoolmaster,  but  the  local 
appropriation  of  funds  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood becomes  indefensible. 
This  is  something  very  like  a  re- 
ductio  ad  absurdum.  Then,  too,  if 
the  University  funds  are  national, 


as  belonging  to  every  Englishman, 
why  should  they  be  given  to  the 
clever  men  only  ?  If  a  man  is 
not  to  lose  his  fellowship  because 
he  does  not  profess  the  religion  of 
the  majority,  why  should  another 
lose  it  because  nature  gave  his 
rival  an  unfair  superiority  of  talent  1 
and  why,  too,  should  the  enjoyment 
of  these  good  things  be  limited  to 
the  rich — to  those  who  can  afford 
the  expense  of  a  University  educa- 
tion 1  Is  not  this  a  manifest  and 
monstrous  diversion  of  national 
moneys  to  the  advantage  of  a  few  ? 
It  is  needless  to  test  the  principle 
further.  The  doctrine  that  national 
property  must  be  participated  in  by 
all,  not  in  the  way  of  a  general 
good  which  benefits  the  community 
as  a  whole,  but  specifically  as  a 
personal  right  belonging  to  each 
man  individually,  without  reference 
to  any  other  consideration  than  his 
own  individual  right,  can  lead  but 
to  one  conclusion,  that  the  property 
should  be  sold,  and  the  proceeds 
applied  to  the  extinction  of  the 
national  debt.  In  no  other  way  can 
justice  be  done  to  every  one  on  the 
basis  of  this  principle ;  and  thus 
the  further  conclusion  becomes  evi- 
dent, that  the  principle  itself  is  an 
absurdity.  Stated  in  this  absolute 
form  we  can  call  it  by  no  milder 
name  than  pure  nonsense.  An  in- 
dividual right  in  a  national  institu- 
tion, to  be  enjoyed  personally  and 
directly,  and  in  no  way  mediately 
through  the  general  good,  is  a  doc- 
trine fit  for  communists  and  spout- 
ers  in  debating  societies. 

But  is  there,  then,  no  principle 
which  governs  the  appropriation  of 
national  funds  1  Are  we  left  to 
the  practical  dilemma  between  the 
right  of  every  one  to  be  every- 
where and  mere  chance  and  hap- 
hazard'? Very  far  from  it.  In 
every  such  case  there  are  two  rules 
which  are  rational  in  themselves, 
and  fully  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  problem.  The  institution,  in 
the  first  place,  must  be  desirable 
in  itself ;  and,  secondly,  no  limita- 
tion should  be  put  on  participation 


1870.] 


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151 


in  its  benefits,  except  such  as  are 
demanded  by  regard  for  the  common 
good,  and  by  the  very  nature  and 
function  of  the  institution.  These 
principles  are  simple  and  obvious, 
tut  they  are  deep  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  furnish  the  means 
of  judging  every  case.  Let  us  now 
apply  them  to  the  Universities. 
First,  are  the  Universities  advanta- 
geous institutions  for  the  nation  1 
I>o  they  serve  purposes  which  pro- 
mote the  good  of  the  people]  Is 
it  desirable,  in  the  name  of  expe- 
diency and  public  policy,  to  retain 
their  existence  and  preserve  their 
efficiency  ?  On  this  issue  no  objec- 
tion has  been  raised.  No  one  argues 
that  the  time  has  come  for  their 
suppression — that  they  may  have 
baen  useful  in  the  past,  but  are 
hopelessly  worthless  for  the  future. 
It  is  assumed  on  all  sides  that  they 
are  valuable  and  of  great  national 
utility;  the  dispute  turns  entirely 
ou  the  condition  on  which  their 
existence  shall  be  continued.  The 
second  inquiry,  therefore,  is  the 
field  of  battle.  The  regulations 
which  govern  their  administration 
are  complained  of  as  violating  ex- 
pediency, and  as  needlessly  and 
mischievously  trenching  on  the 
rights  of  individual  Englishmen. 
A  change  is  demanded  ;  and  that 
change  is,  the  abolition  of  all 
of  tidal  recognition  of  any  particular 
religion,  and  the  placing  on  the 
same  level  of  equality  the  profes- 
sors of  every  kind  of  religious  be- 
lief. The  question  then  becomes  : 
Is  the  change  demanded  consistent 
with  the  function  of  the  Universi- 
ties and  the  discharge  of  it  in  a 
m  inner  that  shall  promote  the  pub- 
lic good  1 

This  question  must  be  considered 
in  a  twofold  relation,  in  conformity 
with  the  double  function  of  the 
U Diversities.  One  office  of  the 
Universities  is  to  examine  students, 
to  award  prizes  and  honours,  and  to 
grant  degrees.  In  this  respect  they 
arc  great  incorporations,  stimulat- 
ing the  pursuit  of  certain  studies, 
through  examinations  and  rewards, 


and  binding  their  members  together 
in  a  corporation  commanding  re- 
spect and  influence  with  the  public. 
Viewed  from  this  point  of  view,  it 
is  no  longer  possible  to  annex  the 
profession  of  any  particular  religion 
as  a  condition  for  the  exercise  of 
this  function  and  the  enjoyment  of 
these  privileges.  The  University 
of  London  takes  no  cognisance  of 
religion,  and  yet  it  is  readily  granted 
that  it  serves  one  great  purpose  of 
a  University,  that  its  examinations 
and  honours  accomplish  a  highly 
useful  end,  and  that  the  absence  of 
religious  tests  does  not  impede  the 
efficiency  of  the  University,  either  in 
the  work  it  achieves  or  in  the  rela- 
tions of  its  members  with  one  an- 
other. If  it  is  intended  to  reduce 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  to  mere 
boards  of  examiners,  inquiring  into 
literary  attainment  and  distribut- 
ing prizes  and  distinctions,  no  rea- 
sonable and  successful  opposition 
can  be  directed  against  the  repeal  of 
religious  tests.  It  is  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  under  such  a  hypothesis 
the  preservation  of  fellowships  seems 
scarcely  possible.  They  will  have 
lost  their  raison  d'etre;  they  will  be 
in  manifest  excess  of  any  need  which 
the  Universities,  so  constructed, 
will  possess  for  them.  It  may  be 
assumed,  therefore,  as  certain  that, 
in  these  circumstances,  they  would 
receive  a  new  destination ;  possibly 
they  would  be  taken  away  from  the 
Universities  altogether,  and  assign- 
ed to  some  general  education  fund 
available  over  the  whole  country. 
But  does  any  one  profess  to  aim  at 
the  conversion  of  the  Universities 
into  mere  boards  of  examiners  and 
granters  of  degrees  1  Does  the 
country  understand  this  to  be  the 
object  for  which  Sir  John  Coleridge 
brought  in  his  bill  into  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  for  which  the 
meetings  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
were  convened]  Nothing  of  the 
kind,  we  know,  is  proposed;  and 
consequently  the  case  supposed,  in 
which  we  conceded  the  repeal  of 
the  tests,  is  not  the  one  now  under 
debate.  It  is  not  sought  to  make 


152 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


Oxford  and  Cambridge  assume  the 
type  of  the  University  of  London. 
Throughout  the  discussions  raised 
on  this  question,  it  is  always  sup- 
posed that  the  old  Universities  are 
to  retain  their  character  of  places 
where  young  men  reside  for  the  pur- 
pose of  education.  They  are  neither 
a  board  of  examinations,  nor  yet  a 
group  of  lectures  to  which  students 
may  have  recourse  to  be  instructed 
in  some  branch  of  literature,  and 
then  return  to  their  homes  with  their 
manifold  influences.  This  is  a  fact 
of  the  highest  moment  in  this  grave 
question.  It  merits  the  most  care- 
ful attention.  The  Oxford  under- 
graduates reside  at  Oxford  during 
nearly  six  months  of  the  year ;  and 
they  come  under  no  other  influences 
except  those  which  the  University 
places  around  them.  A  student  re- 
pairing to  a  lecture  at  London  Uni- 
versity for  an  hour's  Greek  or  Eu- 
clid is  in  a  very  different  position 
from  one  whose  whole  life  is  spent 
at  college  amidst  his  teachers  and 
his  fellows.  There  is  no  reason  why 
any  other  quality  should  be  sought 
in  the  London  professor  besides 
proficiency  in  Greek  or  mathema- 
tics. It  may  be  quite  otherwise  at 
Oxford.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that 
the  abolition  of  tests  must  be  judged 
with  reference  to  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  the  Universities  as  societies 
in  which  the  students  pass  their 
whole  life  during  half  the  year. 
The  students  must  be  considered 
as  young  men  who  have  no  other 
homes  than  the  Universities. 

We  have  now  reached  the  true 
form  of  the  question.  What  effect 
will  the  abolition  of  tests  produce 
on  Oxford  and  Cambridge  as  places 
of  education  for  resident  young 
men?  Will  it  be  injurious  or 
beneficial  ?  Will  it  be  compatible 
with  the  efficient  discharge,  or  even 
the  continuance  of  their  most  char- 
acteristic and  important  function  ? 
Before  we  can  obtain  a  correct  an- 
swer to  this  inquiry,  we  must  first 
learn  what  the  abolition  of  tests 
really  means.  On  this  point  we 
fear  that  the  public  mind  is  singu- 


larly unenlightened.  The  public 
thinks  only  of  the  removal  of  a 
needless  annoyance  to  graduates. 
It  imagines  that  after  the  repeal  no 
senior  member  of  the  University 
will  be  tormented  with  a  scrutiny 
into  his  exact  acceptance  of  a  mul- 
titude of  dogmatic  assertions.  He 
will  be  left  in  peace ;  he  will  escape 
the  irritation  which  now  harasses 
him;  he  will  deliver  his  secular 
lectures  in  a  calmer  mood ;  and  the 
University  will  go  on  pretty  much 
as  at  present.  We  grieve  to  have 
to  explain  that  this  is  a  most  in- 
adequate conception  of  the  change 
which  the  abolition  of  tests  will 
accomplish.  It  is  not  a  negative 
statute,  a  mere  removal  of  surplus- 
age. On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  most 
enacting,  a  most  creating,  law.  It 
confers  a  most  positive  right  on  any 
and  every  member  of  the  University 
to  teach  any  religion  that  he  pleases. 
It  gives  power  to  any  college  to 
make  the  religion  of  Auguste 
Comte  and  the  worship  of  human- 
ity the  basis  of  its  moral  and  reli- 
gious teaching.  It  enables  any 
popular  and  attractive  teacher  to 
collect  a  large  class  of  undergradu- 
ates in  which  an  atheistic  philoso- 
phy may  be  expounded.  It  autho- 
rises any  instructor  of  the  school  of 
Miss  Martineau  and  Mr  Atkinson 
to  dwell  on  the  happiness  of  be- 
lieving in  no  future  state  after 
death.  No  interference  will  be 
possible,  for  the  University  officials 
will  ignore  religion.  Some  gover- 
nors of  Colleges  may  endeavour  to 
forbid  their  students  from  being 
present  at  such  classes,  but  the 
effort  will  be  futile.  It  will  jar 
with  the  new  spirit  of  the  Univer- 
sity ;  it  will  contradict  its  admitted 
principle;  and  no  machinery  will 
be  practicable  for  enforcing  the 
prohibition.  And  then  the  debates 
and  the  agitations  which  will  spring 
up  amongst  the  undergraduates 
themselves — their  incessant  argu- 
ments for  and  against  Atheism,  for 
and  against  Christianity — the  im- 
pulses which  make  young  men  adopt 
a  side,  fashion,  conceit,  cleverness 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


153 


in  arguing,  love  of  notoriety.  These 
will  be  a  creation  of  a  new  condition 
of  university  life — of,  in  truth,  a 
new  society.  But  surely,  we  shall 
be  told,  such  monstrous  things  will 
be  impossible  in  a  country  like  Eng- 
3  and.  Only  a  fervid  imagination 
could  contemplate  such  a  moral 
chaos  as'capable  of  existing  in  Eng- 
land. That  may  be  very  true,  for  it 
may  kill  the  Universities,  but  that 
^uch  things  surely  will  occur  is  for 
us  a  certainty.  It  is  a  radical  mistake 
to  suppose  that  mere  relief  for  a 
lender  conscience  is  the  impelling 
motive  with  some  of  the  most  ar- 
dent for  the  abolition  of  tests. 
They  scarcely  affect  to  conceal  that 
they  seek  the  non-recognition  of 
religion  for  its  own  sake.  They 
desire  the  fullest  liberty  for  every 
kind  of  religious  teaching;  and 
when  they  have  obtained  it  they 
will  unquestionably  exercise  that 
liberty.  To  suppose  otherwise 
would  be  to  mistake  some  of  the 
riost  distinguishing  features  of  our 
time;  nay,  it  would  be  to  fail  to 
perceive  symptoms  which  have  al- 
ready made  their  appearance  at  the 
Universities.  There  will  be  no 
toleration  for  the  smallest  inter- 
ference of  authority;  the  conquer- 
ors will  not  have  won  a  victory 
which  they  will  suffer  to  remain 
without  fruit.  Absolute  religious 
freedom  for  teaching  and  for  speak- 
ing will  be  the  law  of  the  Univer- 
sities. But  we  are  incessantly  re- 
minded by  Liberal  journalists  and 
other  advocates  of  the  non-recogni- 
tion of  religion,  that  Christianity 
.has  nothing  to  fear.  They  shut  us 
up  in  the  neat  dilemma,  that  if  it 
is  the  true  religion  it  will  hold  its 
own  against  all  opponents;  and  if 
it  is  a  false  religion,  no  one  ought 
to  mourn  over  its  defeat.  Such  a 
statement  misses  the  point  alto- 
gether. The  Universities  deal  with 
b)ys — with  pupilary  students  at 
any  rate ;  and  the  question  is, 
whether  it  is  expedient,  on  the 
bust  principles  of  education,  that 
young  people  of  that  age  should  be 
brought  up  amid  the  perpetual  dis- 


cussion of  the  first  principles  of 
religion,  amid  perpetual  argumenta- 
tion between  competing  systems  of 
religious  opinion  and  of  morals. 
Is  it  good  for  the  young  to  pass 
their  days  for  months  together  in 
such  an  atmosphere  of  combat  on 
first  principles  ?  We  say  that  it  is 
not  good;  that  it  is  pre-eminently 
bad  to  educate  young  persons  on 
the  method  of  everything  in  morals 
and  religion  being  an  open  ques- 
tion. It  violates  the  fundamental 
laws  of  education.  Education 
must  have  a  backbone  of  authority; 
something  must  be  laid  down, 
something  assumed  to  be  true, 
whilst  the  educational  process  lasts. 
We  stand  on  this  position  ;  and  we 
say  further,  that  we  are  confident 
that  English  parents  will  ratify  our 
judgment.  We  affirm  our  belief 
that  they  will  not  send  their  sons 
to  college,  to  learn,  on  their  return 
home,  that  they  had  occupied  them- 
selves during  the  term  in  debating 
whether  there  is  a  God  or  not. 
Unless  we  grossly  deceive  ourselves, 
English  parents  will  not  endure  such 
a  system  of  training  the  young ;  they 
will  not  send  their  sons  to  college  ; 
and  the  Universities  will  be  con- 
verted, by  the  spontaneous  action 
of  the  parents,  into  mere  boards  of 
examination.  Such  is  our  convic- 
tion; and  consequently  we  regard 
the  abolition  of  all  official  recogni- 
tion of  any  religion  by  the  Univer- 
sities as,  in  substance,  an  enact- 
ment that  they  shall  cease  to  be 
schools  for  the  education  of  resi- 
dent youths.  We  can  look  at  the 
matter  in  no  other  light.  We  are 
absolutely  certain  that  the  aboli- 
tion will  call  into  active  play 
energetic  teachers  of  all  manner  of 
religions,  and  then  we  say  that  the 
inevitable  consequence  will  be  that 
college  life  will  come  to  an  end. 
The  conclusion  we  are  brought 
to  rests  on  the  nature  of  the  case. 
We  build  our  conviction  on  no  ab- 
solute formula;  on  no  intuitive  dic- 
tum; on  no  sweeping  generalisation 
extracted  from  the  word  "nation- 
al." We  look  at  the  nature  of  the 


154 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


case,  we  repeat;  at  the  nature  of 
young  men  ;  at  the  primary  laws  of 
education ;  at  the  function  of  the 
Universities;  at  the  position  of 
the  young  men  within  these  so- 
cieties. We  find  limitations  which 
rise  irresistibly  out  of  such  a  com- 
bination of  circumstances,  and  we 
deduce  the  conclusion,  that  free 
liberty  to  teach  and  discuss  all  re- 
ligions is  incompatible  with  the 
existence  of  resident  young  men  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  It  is  per- 
fectly true  that  in  the  big  world, 
amongst  grown-up  men,  Christian- 
ity must  maintain  itself  on  the  con- 
dition of  free  discussion  with  all 
thinkers.  It  is  the  law  of  human 
life;  it  would  not  deserve  to  be 
believed  in  as  the  true  religion  if  it 
could  not  sustain  such  a  conflict. 
Bat  the  grown-up  world  is  one 
thing,  a  school  is  another.  The 
majority  of  grown-up  men  and 
women  may  escape  the  strife;  they 
need  not  read  the  arguments  of 
controversy;  they  may  leave  the 
contest  to  the  trained  and  the  in- 
tellectual. At  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, on  the  contrary,  the  young 
men  will  be  plunged  into  the  very 
whirlpool  of  the  argumentation ; 
and  such  a  mode  of  life  is  radically 
injurious  to  people  of  that  age. 
Still  less  is  it  good  for  them  to  be 
subjected  to  the  preaching  and  pro- 
selytising of  every  kind  of  religious 
belief.  The  power  of  Christianity 
to  face  every  adversary  is  irrelevant 
here;  it  is  the  state  of  conflict,  of 
urging  young  men  to  select  a  reli- 
gion for  themselves,  which  we  de- 
clare to  be  incompatible  with  their 
residence  at  the  Universities. 

But  we  have  heard  it  often  said, 
such  or  such  a  man  is  so  great,  his 
intellectual  or  scientific  eminence 
is  so  conspicuous, that  he  has  a  right 
to  be  at  Oxford.  He  cannot  be  kept 
out  without  injustice  and  the  viola- 
tion of  a  natural  right.  If  the  plea 
had  been  that  public  policy,  that  ex- 
pediency, demanded  his  admission, 
we  should  have  acknowledged  its  le- 
gitimateness,  and  have  joined  issue 
upon  the  fact  of  the  expediency. 


That  right  we  utterly  repudiate.  No 
man  can  possess  a  right  to  come  and 
ruin  the  Universities.  If  Oxford 
serves  a  great  public  purpose,  and 
confers  a  great  national  benefit,  the 
demand  of  admission,  at  the  cost  of 
destroying  this  utility,  deserves  no 
attention  whatever.  It  is  empty 
and  worthless.  That  the  presence 
of  a  particular  teacher  at  Oxford 
would  not  be  injurious,  that  it 
would  establish  no  mischievous 
principle,  and  could  have  no  bad 
consequences,  is  a  perfectly  fair 
issue,  and  must  be  met.  But  it  is 
not  a  plea  of  an  unchallengeable 
right :  it  must  be  argued,  and  this 
is  just  what  those  who  bring  it  for- 
ward are  not  disposed  to  do.  Their 
only  object  in  bringing  it  forward 
is  to  escape  the  necessity  of  proof 
by  the  help  of  an  absolute  formula. 
But  what  is  to  be  said  of  the  en- 
dowments ]  They  at  any  rate  are 
silent  and  impersonal  things  ;  they 
do  not  preach  a  religion  ;  they 
carry  no  philosophical  principles  on 
their  front.  Why  should  they  be 
appropriated  to  a  single  creed  or 
party  in  the  State?  They  who 
speak  thus  ought  to  be  reminded 
that  these  funds  proceed  from 
private  benefactions ;  and  that  the 
doctrine  which  has  hitherto  pre- 
vailed in  this  country  is,  that  when 
such  endowments  can  no  longer  be 
applied  in  the  manner  prescribed 
by  founders,  it  is  expedient  to  de- 
vote them  to  some  kindred  object, 
to  some  modification  of  the  original 
purpose  ;  and  that  it  has  not  been 
the  practice  to  apply  them  to  objects 
in  which  every  man  in  the  nation 
directly  participates.  This  national 
theory,  which  is  so  freely  bandied 
about  in  the  case  of  the  Universities, 
has  no  precedent,  so  far  as  we  are 
a  ware,  in  the  political  or  social  world. 
It  is  very  obvious  that  those  who 
proclaim  it  really  assume  that  it 
is  possible  for  all  to  have  an  equal 
share  in  the  Universities  without 
destroying  their  utility ;  but  that 
is  manifestly  to  beg  the  question, 
to  assume  the  only  point  which  has 
to  be  proved.  But  even  if  the 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


155 


claim  to  a  wider  distribution  of  the 
finds  could  be  made  good,  there 
would  still  remain  the  principle 
that  it  would  be  better  and  more 
beneficial  for  the  nation  that  the 
endowments  should  be  sold,  and 
the  fellowships  suppressed,  than 
that  for  the  sake  of  them  the  work 
of  the  Universities  should  be  ex- 
t  nguished.  In  our  opinion — nay, 
LI  the  opinion  of  all — the  highest 
expediency  requires  the  continu- 
ance of  the  Universities  as  schools, 
whilst  no  consideration  of  equal 
weight  forbids  the  extinction  of  the 
fellowships. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  Univer- 
sities, let  us  now  say  a  few  words 
about  the  Colleges.  And  in  the  first 
place,  if  the  petitions  advocated  at 
the  meetings  at  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge be  granted,  and  the  abolition 
of  all  religious  tests  be  made  com- 
pulsory, what,  we  ask,  is  to  become 
oj'  Christ-Church  at  Oxford  1  This 
college  is  the  property  of  the  dean 
and  chapter  of  a  cathedral  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  its  head  is 
an  ecclesiastical  dignitary.  Is  this 
violation  of  the  new  principle  to  be 
suffered  ?  Will  it  be  permitted  that 
the  chief  of  the  largest  college  at 
Oxford  should  always  be  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Established  Church? 
Tiien  follow  the  Christ-Church  pro- 
fessorships, of  which  some  half-a- 
dozen  are  held  by  canons  of  the 
cathedral.  These  are  officers  of  the 
University,  and  not  merely  of  a  col- 
lege j  their  case,  therefore,  admits 
of  no  doubt.  They  are  professor- 
ships of  divinity,  and  can  hardly 
escape  being  suppressed  by  the 
new  rule  :  if,  however,  they  are 
retained,  they  will  be  separated 
from  the  canonries,  only  the  en- 
dowments will  be  lost  to  the  Univer- 
sity. The  canonries  will  retain  the 
ecdowments,  which  are  ecclesias- 
tical property.  The  college  itself, 
so  far  as  we  can  see,  will  necessarily 
be  suppressed ;  for  the  buildings 
arc  a  portion  of  the  estate  of  the 
cathedral,  and  so  are  the  funds 
allotted  to  the  studentships. 

But  however  this  may  be,  let  us 

VOL.  CVH. — NO.  DCLII. 


look  at  the  other  colleges.  The 
meetings  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
strongly  urged  the  expediency  of 
carrying  the  change  beyond  the 
bill  of  the  Solicitor-General,  and 
of  rendering  the  abolition  of  tests 
in  every  college  compulsory,  on  the 
ground  that  a  mere  permissive 
clause  would  disturb  the  peace  of 
the  colleges  and  of  the  University 
by  incessant  contests  within  each 
for  the  abolition  of  tests.  But  did 
the  speakers  make  any  effort  to 
think  the  matter  out?  Did  they 
actually  believe  that,  when  the 
tests  were  removed,  the  minds  of 
the  Fellows  would  sink  into  a  pro- 
found calm,  and  the  struggle  about 
religion  would  be  banished  from 
the  University  region  1  If  they  did, 
we  fear  they  were  the  victims  of  a 
very  strong  delusion.  It  requires 
but  a  slender  acquaintance  with  the 
Universities,  and  the  movements 
which  are  stirring  below  the  sur- 
face, to  feel  assured  that  the  new 
phase  of  their  social  life  will  be  a 
letting  out  of  the  waters  of  strife  ; 
that  a  new  era  of  contest  will  have 
set  in ;  that  it  will  be  fierce  and 
incessant,  and  that  the  point  of 
the  struggle  will  not  be  a  mere  ex- 
emption from  inquisitorial  prying 
into  a  man's  religion,  but  the 
Christian  or  non-Christian  charac- 
ter of  each  college.  The  effort  will 
be  to  carry  the  government  of  the 
college,  and  thereby  to  determine 
the  whole  spirit  of  its  teaching,  and 
of  the  sociaj.  life  within  its  walls. 
A  non-Christian  majority  will  have 
an  enormous  power  for  destroying 
all  that  at  present  distinguishes  an 
English  college.  It  may  shut  up 
the  chapel,  abolish  every  lecture  in 
Christian  theology,  elect  tutors,  who 
will  be  not  suspected  but  avowed  and 
active  unbelievers,  and  determine 
the  tone  of  its  teaching  in  the  in- 
terpretation of  ancient  and  modern 
philosophy  in  a  sense  directly  hos- 
tile to  Christianity.  These  are  im- 
mense objects  to  fight  for,  and,. we 
grieve  to  say,  we  cannot  entertain 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  con- 
flict will  be  hot  and  endless,  both 


156 


U)dversity  Tests. 


[Feb. 


with  Christians  and  non- Christians ; 
and  instead  of  being  relieved  from 
the  bitterness  of  religious  contro- 
versy, the  Universities,  we  are  con- 
vinced, will  be  more  beset  with 
religious  strife  than  ever,  and  the 
ultimate  result  will  be  that  the 
students  will  be  driven  away,  and 
the  Universities  will  be  killed  as 
places  of  education.  Does  any  one 
believe  that  the  parents  of  England 
will  look  on  such  scenes  with  indif- 
ference? The  non-Christians  will 
fall  under  the  strongest  impulses 
which  can  stir  ardent  minds  to 
win  the  youths,  the  future  men  of 
the  nation,  to  their  convictions  ; 
and  the  effort  to  persuade  will  be 
perfectly  legitimate  in  itself,  and 
will  be  distinctly  sanctioned  by  the 
new  constitution  of  the  Universi- 
ties. 3  But  equally  on 'the  other  side, 
Christian  parents  will  have  the 
most  powerful  interest  to  rear 
up  their  sons  in  a  faith  which 
they  hold  to  be  of  infinite  im- 
portance for  their  present  and 
future  welfare;  and  unless  they 
sink  into  apathy — a  violent  and  in- 
credible supposition — they  cannot 
fail  to  seek  the  only  protection 
within  their  reach,  the  removal  of 
the  daily  life  of  their  children  from 
such  a  hotbed  of  contention  be- 
tween believers  and  unbelievers. 
The  first  disputed  college  election 
for  fellowships,  in  which  the  de- 
feated candidate  raised  a  cry  that 
he  had,  with  superior  merit,  been 
passed  over  on  religious,grounds,  for 
or  against  Christianity,  would  open 
the  eyes  of  all  the  world  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  atmosphere  in  which 
University  students  had  to  pass 
their  lives.  It  is  not  for  us  a  be- 
lievable supposition,  that  under- 
graduates will  come  in  any  number 
to  receive  their  education  under 
such  conditions  ;  nor  can  we  bring 
ourselves  to  think  that  those  who 
have  clamoured  so  loudly  for  the 
repeal  of  University  tests — most  of 
all,  the  Christian  Dissenters — ever 
pictured  to  their  minds  distinctly 
what  was  the  mode  of  life  which 


they  were  introducing  into  Oxford 
and  Cambridge. 

And  now  we  shall  of  course 
be  asked  what  we  ourselves  pro- 
pose to  do  1  The  question  must 
be  answered,  we  entirely  admit. 
The  present  state  of  things  can- 
not continue ;  a  profession  of  re- 
ligion expressed  by  subscription, 
however  understood,  to  a  multitude 
of  minute  assertions,  is  no  longer 
tenable.  Nor  will  a  general  de- 
claration of  membership  of  the 
Church  of  England,  we  fear,  solve 
the  difficulty.  What  membership 
of  the  Church  implies  is  itself  a 
question  keenly  debated,  and  one 
on  which  a  conclusive  decision  is 
at  any  rate  distant.  Were  it  other- 
wise— if  the  true  nature  of  the  com- 
prehensiveness of  the  Church  of 
England  could  be  defined  in  an  ex- 
plicit statement  ratified  by  public 
opinion,  we  should  warmly  urge 
membership  of  the  Church  as  a  rea- 
sonable and  sufficient  settlement 
of  the  problem,  but  for  one  con- 
sideration— the  Dissenters  would 
be  left  out,  and  that  objection 
would  be  fatal.  The  solution, 
then,  must  embrace  Dissenters  as 
well  as  Churchmen  ;  and  what  pos- 
sible terms  of  comprehension  can 
there  be,  except  some  general  con- 
fession of  Christianity"?  We  can- 
not deny  that  membership  of  a  de- 
finite society,  of  a  religious  organ- 
isation or  church,  would  be  prefer- 
able to  a  declaration  of  belief  in 
certain  truths.  But  the  case  ex- 
cludes such  a  settlement.  The 
time  is  gone  by  for  hoping  to  in- 
clude Churchmen  and  Dissenters 
within  one  body ;  and  public 
opinion  has  irrevocably  decided 
that  no  valid  reason  can  be  as- 
signed for  excluding  Christian  Dis- 
senters from  the  Universities.  This 
must  be  acknowledged  by  all,  and 
this  being  so,  there  remains  no- 
thing else  to  fall  back  upon  but 
some  profession  of  the  Christian 
religion.  The  question  then  be- 
comes, whether  the  advantages  of 
such  a  requirement  exceed  its  dis- 


University  Tesfs. 


157 


advantages  1  As  we  have  shown 
in  the  preceding  argument,  this 
question  must  be  answered  with 
reference  to  the  school  character 
of  the  Universities.  We  are  not 
inquiring  whether  teachers  of  Latin 
f,nd  chemistry  should  be  called 
upon  to  declare  their  religion,  but 
whether  every  kind  of  religion  or 
iio-religion  may  be  taught  officially 
and  openly  at  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge ;  and  if  not,  whether  a  de- 
claration of  a  general  adhesion  to 
the  Christian  belief,  a  declaration 
that  the  teacher  is  a  Christian,  is 
the  best  limitation  for  attaining  the 
end  desired. 

The  first  and  most  obvious  ob- 
jection to  such  a  method  is  also  the 
strongest.  It  does  not  define 
Christianity.  It  does  not  say  what 
it  is  to  be  a  Christian ;  and  conse- 
quently it  leaves  it  open  to  every 
one  who  makes  this  profession  to 
a:fix  his  own  interpretation  to  it. 
We  must  expect,  therefore,  if  it 
were  adopted,  to  see  men  ranking 
themselves  by  a  public  declaration 
as  Christians,  to  whom  the  world  at 
large  would  scarcely  accord  the  title. 
S:andal,  therefore,  it  is  argued, 
would  still  continue  at  the  Uni- 
versities; and  it  would  be  greatly 
aggravated  by  the  perception  that 
precisely  those  non-Christians  in 
whom  the  sense  of  honour  was 
most  sensitive,  and  whose  con- 
sciences would  compel  them  to  act 
up  to  the  spirit  of  the  requirement, 
would  be  shut  out  of  the  Uni- 
versities, whilst  those  whose  moral 
perceptions  were  weaker,  or  who 
hfid  reasoned  themselves  into  a  par- 
ticular mode  of  interpretation  as 
legitimate,  would  have  free  access 
to  Oxford  and  Cambridge  as  pro- 
fessors and  tutors.  There  is  con- 
siderable truth  in  this  statement ; 
bn  t  it  is  not  decisive  of  the  matter, 
nevertheless.  The  question  must 
be  judged  practically.  The  object, 
be  it  carefully  observed,  is  not  to 
make  an  accurate  investigation  into 
the  quality  of  the  belief  of  the 
person  who  makes  the  declara- 


tion, to  ascertain  whether  strictly 
he  is  or  is  not  a  Christian.  The 
purpose  to  be  fulfilled  is  to  lay 
down  some  limitation  on  religi- 
ous teaching  within  the  Universi- 
ties—  to  assert  some  few  religi- 
ous principles  as  the  basis  of  the 
life  of  the  students  —  to  prevent 
certain  theories  of  morals  and  reli- 
gion from  having  the  right  to  be 
publicly  and  officially  inculcated 
—  to  shut  out  certain  questions 
from  being  open  questions,  subject 
to  perpetual  challenge  and  dispu- 
tation. The  good  and  the  evil  of 
requiring  University  teaching  to 
observe  certain  restrictions  must 
be  estimated  with  reference  to  these 
ends.  Nor  is  this  the  only  practi- 
cal element  of  the  problem.  There 
must  be  superadded  to  it,  accord- 
ing to  our  view,  the  enormous  con- 
sitferation  that,  if  the  profession  of 
Christianity  cannot  be  practically 
carried  out,  the  Universities  will 
be  destroyed  as  places  of  public 
education.  It  is  our  belief  that  the 
existence  of  what  England  means 
by  the  old  Universities  is  at  stake. 
It  may  be  that  the  condition  of 
Christianity  is  not  completely  satis- 
factory; but  if  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge cannot  be  had  on  any  other 
terms,  we,  at  any  rate,  will  think 
that  the  advantages  of  the  profes- 
sion of  the  Christian  religion  will 
very  much  outweigh  its  disadvan- 
tages. 

Such  are  the  considerations  which 
are  urged  against  this  proposal.  We 
should  not  be  sure,  we  are  told, 
of  always  having  Christians  in 
the  men  who  make  the  declara- 
tion required.  The  consciences  of 
those  who  hang  on  the  border  be- 
tween accepting  or  rejecting  the 
condition  will  be  wounded.  Some 
men  will  be  kept  out  who,  on 
the  very  ground  of  Christianity, 
will  better  deserve  to  be  admitted 
amongst  University  teachers  than 
others  who  have  felt  no  scruple 
in  complying  with  the  condition. 
There  will  be  a  certain  antago- 
nism with  the  spirit  of  our  time, 


153 


University  Tests. 


[Feb. 


which  is  much  set  against  inquisi- 
tions into  religious  belief.  True  ; 
but  the  departure  from  the  intel- 
lectual tendency  of  the  age  will 
have  an  adequate  motive.  The 
majority  of  Englishmen  have  not  yet 
reached  that  point,  and  in  all  pro- 
bability never  will,  where  negation 
is  to  be  omnipotent,  where  practical 
considerations  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance on  the  positive  side  are  thrown 
over,  simply  because  the  dislike  and 
antipathies  of  negation  are  more 
deserving  of  respect.  Polygamy  is 
not  lawful  in  England,  although  in 
some  of  her  dependencies  a  man 
may  have  more  wives  than  one. 
Positive  feeling  on  this  point  is  as 
yet  stronger  than  negative,  than 
the  claim  advanced  by  some  that 
every  man  should  be  able  to  do  as 
he  likes.  The  adequacy  of  the 
motive  for  restriction  is  the  very 
pinch  of  the  question.  We  hold 
that  it  is  an  immense  gain  in  edu- 
cation to  have  some  things  fixed  in 
the  matter  of  religion  and  morals. 
We  say  that  it  is  an  essential  law 
of  all  education  of  the  young,  that 
something  should  be  laid  down 
upon  authority.  No  one  disputes 
the  right  and  duty  of  a  parent 
to  proclaim  some  code  of  morals 
and  belief  for  a  young  child.  The 
only  question  is,  whether  young 
men  at  the  Universities  have  not 
passed  beyond  this  stage?  We 
say  further,  then,  that  some  things 
ought  not,  and  cannot,  be  open 
questions  at  places  of  education. 
They  ought  not,  because  they  are 
against  the  nature  of  the  case  ;  arid 
they  cannot,  because  parents  will 
practically  decide  the  point  by  re- 
fusing to  send  their  sons  to  col- 
lege. The  bishops  of  the  Church 
cannot  be  conceived  as  requiring  a 
University  training  from  candidates 
for  orders  under  a  sj^stem  of  every 
religious  question  being  open  ;  and 
if  the  Universities  lose  the  under- 
graduates destined  for  ordination, 
how  many  will  be  the  remainder  of 
the  students,  and  how  long  will 
they  continue  to  resort  to  the  Uni- 
versities }  It  is  a  very  great  thing 


to  lay  down  at  least  the  exist- 
ence of  a  God  and  the  belief  in  a 
future  state  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments as  the  conditions  of  educa- 
tion in  the  English  Universities, 
which,  unlike  the  Scotch,  are  not  a 
mere  body  of  lectures,  but  take 
charge  of  the  whole  life  of  the  stu- 
dents. These  are  advantages  so 
great,  that,  in  our  judgment,  they 
completely  overbalance  the  incon- 
veniences which  may  be  alleged  on 
the  other  side,  and  merit  adop- 
tion by  all,  except  those  who  would 
rather  see  the  school  character  of 
the  Universities  annihilated,  than 
suffer  any  restriction  on  their  fa- 
vourite dogma  that  no  religion  of 
any  kind  should  be  professed. 

But  if  the  time  for  establishing 
such  a  condition  on  the  student- 
life  of  the  Universities  has  passed 
away,  the  only  hope  left  is  to 
carry  out  the  plan,  which  has 
been  suggested  in  many  quarters, 
of  apportioning  the  existing  col- 
leges to  distinct  bodies  of  religion- 
ists. To  us  this  is  an  unsatisfactory 
solution  of  the  problem,  because  it 
leaves  the  teaching  of  all  religion 
open ;  and  it  is  not  possible  to 
isolate  the  undergraduates  of  Chris- 
tian colleges  and  so  limit  their  social 
intercourse  to  their  own  members. 
Then,  further,  we  do  not  know 
whether  the  proposers  of  this  scheme 
include  in  it  the  abandonment  of 
some  of  the  colleges  to  those  who 
will  not  recognise  any  religion 
whatever.  Infidel  colleges  by  the 
side  of  Christian  ones  is  assur- 
edly not  a  powerful  recommenda- 
tion of  University  education;  nor 
does  it  hold  out  brilliant  prospects 
of  University  peace.  Already, 
too,  the  promoters  of  the  anti-test 
movement  have  taken  the  field 
against  this  suggestion  ;  they  de- 
mand imperiously  to  have  access 
everywhere — to  be  shut  out  from 
no  foundation  which  enjoys  emol- 
uments derived  from  benefactors. 
They  claim  these  as  national 
moneys  ;  and  with  them  the  word 
national  means  something  which 
every  individual,  as  individual,  has 


1870.] 


University  Tests. 


159 


a  right  of  sharing.  However,  it 
seems  certain,  if  anything  can  be 
certain  amidst  so  much  confusion, 
that  institutions  like  Keble  Col- 
lege, which  have  no  endowments 
of  any  kind,  which  are  nothing 
tut  a  group  0f  buildings,  with  a 
single  man  as  head,  teacher,  school- 
master, or  whatever  else  he  may  be 
c ailed,  will  be  able  to  carry  on 
their  own  system  without  interfer- 
ence. Those  who  own  the*  build- 
ings cannot  be  prevented  from 
placing  any  man  they  may  choose 
in  the  occupation  of  the  col- 
lege ;  and,  manifestly,  he  may 
let  out  rooms  in  it  to  any  per- 
son he  may  select.  No  Act  of 
Parliament  can  prevent  his  offering 
t;iem  to  Christians,  and  asking,  as 
the  condition  of  their  admission, 
that  they  will  attend  Christian 
worship  ;  for  even  a  statute  which 
forbade  compulsory  attendance  at 
chapel  could  apply  to  those  only 
who  enjoyed  public  emoluments. 
But  although  individual  colleges 
and  halls  may  establish  themselves 
on  a  Christian  basis,  the  formidable 
fact  will  still  remain,  that  their 
students  must  form  one  general 
society  with  all  other  young  men 
at  the  University.  They  could  not 
be  prevented  from  attending  any 
lectures  given  by  any  member  of 
the  University,  wherever  he  may 
deliver  them ;  and  consequently 
they  could  not  be  withdrawn  from 
the  turmoil  and  the  strife  which, 
we  conceive,  must  be  engendered 
by  unrestricted  liberty  of  teaching. 
What  then,  we  shall  again  be  ask- 
e  1,  do  we  propose  under  the  actual 
C'rcumstances  of  the  problem  1 
1  irst  of  all,  we  assent  to  the  demand 
that  all  profession  of  religion  shall 
bo  disconnected  from  academical 
degrees.  We  accept  the  condition 
that  a  declaration  of  religious  be- 
lief shall  not  be  required  in  order 
ti  >  qualify  a  graduate  to  take  part 
in  the  councils  of  the  Universities. 
Sacondly,  we  entirely  and  readily 
adopt  the  proposal  that  the  enjoy- 
ii.ent  of  a  fellowship,  regarded  sim- 
ply as  an  academical  prize,  as  a 


reward  for  successful  study,  shall  be 
wholly  independent  of  all  religious 
profession.  Let  young  men  who 
are  unconnected  with  the  teach- 
ing of  the  Universities  enjoy  their 
fellowships  at  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, or  in  London,  whatever 
be  their  creeds.  But,  thirdly,  we 
ask  that  the  teaching  of  the  Uni- 
versities, everything  which  consti- 
tutes them  schools  for  the  education 
of  the  young,  shall  be  combined 
with  some  profession  of  Christian- 
ity. In  the  name  of  their  charac- 
ter as  schools  which  embrace  the 
whole  life  of  the  young  students 
during  six  months  of  the  year,  we 
demand  that  something  positive, 
some  principles  of  morals  and  reli- 
gion, asserted  upon  authority,  and 
not  to  be  contradicted  officially  or 
publicly,  shall  be  laid  down  as  the 
basis  of  the  Universities.  And  this 
condition  we  hold  to  be  first  expe- 
dient on  the  naked  ground  of 
public  policy,  and  further  necessary, 
if  it  is  wished  that  the  system  of 
sendingyoungmento  college  should 
be  continued.  We  ask  that  the 
whole  body  of  teachers  should  pro- 
fess the  Christian  religion,  either  by 
avowing  their  belief  in  the  Apos- 
tles' Creed,  or,  if  that  cannot  be 
obtained,  by  simply  declaring  them- 
selves to  be  Christians.  Should, 
however,  the  unstatesmanlike  spirit 
of  our  time  prevail ;  if  men  are  bent 
on  imitating  the  processes  of  the 
great  French  Revolution,  and  choose 
to  rush  into  all  kinds  of  abso- 
lute and  unlimited  principles  ;  if 
they  will  demean  themselves  to 
such  reasoning  as,  that  because  the 
present  tests  are  unsatisfactory, 
therefore  all  religion  must  be  ig- 
^nored, — then  let  it  be  permitted  to 
separate  colleges  to  be  specifically 
appropriated  to  various  forms  of 
religion.  But  if  even  this  is  re- 
jected by  the  insatiable  determina- 
tion to  ignore  religion  altogether, 
be  it  so.  Then  let  the  whole  of 
the  endowments  be  abandoned  to 
all  winners  of  them,  be  they  Mo- 
hammedans, Atheists,  or  Christians. 
One  resource  will  still  remain.  Col- 


160 


University  Tests. 


.[Feb. 


leges  without  endowments,  pure 
private  schools,  cannot  be  forbid- 
den from  taking  such  students  as 
they  may  choose,  and  educating 
them  after  their  own  fashion.  The 
atheist  who  demands  that  every 
one  should  do  as  he  likes,  must  of 
necessity  grant  to  Christians  the 
same  liberty  of  living  and  talking 
together  as  he  claims  for  unbeliev- 
ers. He  cannot  pretend  that 
atheism  shall  be  the  sole  recognised 
and  free  religion. 

It  will  be  evident  that  our  feel- 
ings as  to  the  future  of  the  old 
English  Universities  are  gloomy. 
Reluctantly,  and  with  much  sor- 
row, we  find  ourselves  compelled  to 
believe  that  the  abolition  of  tests, 
pure  and  simple,  means,  in  sub- 
stance, the  extinction  of  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  as  schools  of  edu- 
cation, and  their  conversion  into 
boards  of  examiners  and  granters 
of  degrees.  We  should  rejoice  uri- 
feignedly  if  our  anticipations  proved 
to  be  unfounded,  and  if  some  heal- 
ing power,  now  hidden  from  our 
eyes,  should,  in  the  time  of  need, 
correct  evils  for  which,  at  present, 
we  see  no  remedy.  But  it  seems  to 
us  to  be  a  clear  duty,  now  that  legis- 
lation has  become  irresistible,  to  lay 
clearly  before  the  public  what  we 
conceive  to  be  involved  in  the 
movement  for  the  repeal  of  all 
tests.  This  momentous  question, 
we  see  plainly,  has  not  been  looked 
at  on  all  sides.  The  graduates,  their 
difficulties  and  their  irritation,  have 
alone  been  thought  of.  The  young 
men,  the  students,  who  are  the  very 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  which  the 
nation  now  possesses,  have  been 
forgotten.  No  one  has  taken  the 
pains  to  trace  out  deliberately  what 
effects  such  a  measure  may  produce 
on  their  wellbeing.  Least  of  all 
have  the  Christian  Nonconformists 
reflected  on  the  nature  of  the  haven 
which  they  are  bent  on  reaching. 
We  find  it  difficult  to  persuade  our- 


selves that  in  their  hearts  they 
desire  to  have  Universities  in 
which  every  form  of  religion  and 
no-religion  shall  stand  on  the  same 
level.  We  still  cherish  a  hope, 
faint  though  it  be,  that  they  may, 
ere  it  be  too  late,  ask  themselves 
the  question,  whether  they  aim  at 
the  same  final  object  as  their  free- 
thinking  allies;  whether  they  are  not 
lending  the  strength  which  will  win 
the  battle  to  those  whose  victory 
will  assuredly  not  be  their  own  1  It 
behoves  them  to  watch  the  signs  of 
the  times ;  there  are  warnings,  if 
they  choose  to  notice  them,  which 
might  make  them  doubt  whether 
the  destruction  of  every  institution 
of  the  Church  of  England  is  a  gain 
for  Dissent.  The  time  will  come, 
sooner,  perhaps,  than  many  expect, 
when  Christians  of  every  denomi- 
nation will  feel  an  urgent  need  for 
mutual  association  and  support. 
Portce  inferni  non  prcevakbunt  ad- 
versus  earn,  will  be  eventually  true 
of  the  Christian  Church,  in  the  full 
catholicity  of  the  communion  of  all 
Christians ;  but  it  is  not  true  that 
the  wisdom  or  the  folly  of  Chris- 
tians can  have  no  effect  on  the 
fluctuating  fortunes  of  the  Church, 
as  it  passes  through  this  world. 
Churchmen  and  Dissenters  have 
injured  each  other  much  in  the 
past.  They  may  redeem  their  error 
by  fighting  the  common  battle  to- 
gether in  the  future.  To  sweep 
Christianity  away  from  all  official 
recognition  of  the  Universities, 
because  it  will  be  a  heavy  blow  for 
the  Church  of  England,  is  a  folly 
of  which  we  will  not,  if  we  can 
help  it,  assume  that  the  Dissenters 
can  be  guilty.  What  we  ask  of 
them  now  is  to  study  the  question, 
to  ascertain  the  facts,  and  to  esti- 
mate carefully  probable  consequen- 
ces. If  we  can  persuade  all  Chris- 
tians to  do  this,  our  object  will 
have  been  answered. 


1670.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  1 V. 


1G1 


EAEL'S   DENE. — PART  iv. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


CEETAINLY  the  new  Fellow  of 
St  Margaret's  might  consider  that 
hes  had  made  the  most  of  him- 
self, so  far.  It  was  not  only  that 
he  had  succeeded,  but  his  success 
had  been  entirely  owing  to  his 
own  exertion ;  and  in  such  a  case 
a  little  self-glorification  is  not  un- 
becoming. Unlike  most  men,  he 
was  not  forced  to  think  how  dif- 
ferently he  would  act  were  it  in 
his  power  to  begin  his  university 
life  over  again.  He  had  not  run 
into  debt ;  he  had  formed  no  social 
habits  that  require  an  expenditure 
of  time  or  money ;  he  had  not  even 
wasted  himself  in  conversation,  in- 
tellectual speculation,  or  desultory 
reading.  As  he  had  been  at  school, 
such  was  he  in  his  freshman's  year, 
acd  such  he  remained  until  he  put 
on  his  bachelor's  hood.  From  the 
very  first  day  of  his  taking  posses- 
sion of  his  attic  in  St  Margaret's 
College  he  devoted  himself  entirely 
to  the  orthodox  work  of  the  place, 
in  his  pursuit  of  which  he  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  disturbed  by 
any  kind  of  distraction  whatever. 
Moreover,  every  day  with  him 
meant  work — work  conscious  and 
actual ;  and  his  power  of  realising 
the  immediate  end  to  be  attained, 
and  of  adopting  and  carrying  out 
the  right  means  to  attain  it,  was 
so  strong  that  he  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  exercised  any  real 
self-denial  in  the  course  which  he 
pursued.  Spurred  on  by  his  special 
form  of  ambition,  or  rather  by  what 
stood  in  the  place  of  ambition,  he 
showed  what  may  be  done  by  a  stu- 
dent without  genius,  without  the 
incentive  afforded  by  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  without  enthusiasm,  or 
love  of  learning  for  its  own  sake. 
H  id  the  rewards  of  his  university 
been  bestowed  for  proficiency  in  bil- 
lifirds,  to  billiards  he  would  have 
devoted  himself  with  equal  zeal ; 


and  it  was  in  precisely  the  same 
spirit  that  he  devoted  himself  to 
Greek  and  mathematics.  As  may 
well  be  supposed,  he  was  not  very 
popular  among  the  men  of  Jus  own 
standing,  and  made  but  few  ac- 
quaintances ;  but  he  made  himself 
respected,  and  he  valued  college 
popularity  at  its  true  worth — which 
is  very  little.  While  far  abler  men 
than  himself  were  living  according 
to  the  number  of  their  years,  this 
old  head  upon  young  shoulders  was 
exemplifying  the  fable  of  the  hare 
and  the  tortoise. 

Not  a  remarkably  amiable  char- 
acter this,  but  certainly  not  weak 
or  contemptible.  Such  men  do  not 
often  achieve  greatness,  but  success 
they  can  scarcely  help  achieving. 
In  the  result,  at  the  end  of  his 
three  years,  Warden  was,  on  the 
whole,  beaten  by  only  two  men  in 
his  year :  in  mathematics,  by  a  man 
who,  young  as  he  was,  loved  science 
with  the  unselfish  and  all-absorbing 
love  that  she  demands  from  her 
lovers ;  and  in  classics,  by  a  strange 
sort  of  ruffian  who  was  drunk  five 
days  in  the  week,  who  slept  all  the 
sixth,  and  who  then  on  the  seventh, 
when  he  was  awake  and  sober, 
laughed  over  Aristophanes  till  he 
was  drunk  again,  but  who  spouted 
Anacreon  o  ver  his  cups,  and  dreamed 
of  Greek  roots  in  iambic  trimeters. 
But,  barring  the  enthusiast  and  the 
genius,  the  practical  man,  who 
simply  read  hard  to  secure  his 
'fellowship,  was  in  front  of  the 
field.  And  he  had  his  reward :  for 
while  he  sat  in  ease  and  comfort  at 
the  high  table  of  St  Margaret's,  the 
senior  wrangler  was  dying  of  con- 
sumption ;  and  the  constitution  of 
his  other  rival,  originally  as  strong 
as  that  of  a  hundred  horses,  had 
begun  to  yield  to  the  inevitable 
Nemesis  of  drink,  after  its  possessor 
had  come  to  grief  with  the  authori- 


162 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


ties  on  account  of  some  Greek 
epigrams  which  had  displayed  a 
great  deal  more  wit  and  scholar- 
ship than  reverence  or  decency. 

And  now  Mark  Warden,  to  whom 
Aristophanes  was  only  so  much 
matter  to  be  "  read" — to  use  the 
word  in  its  undergraduate  sense — 
to  whom  the  stars  might  have  been 
bits  of  tinfoil  for  anything  he 
cared,  and  who,  for  reasons  that 
Marie  could  have  told,  had  no  right 
to  sit  at  the  high  table  at  all,  re- 
turned to  his  father's  house  as  it 
were  in  a  halo  of  triumph.  When 
he  reached  it,  the  street-door  was 
standing  open,  so  that  he  had  no 
need  to  knock  or  ring  in  order  to 
pass  through  the  entrance-hall  into 
a  small  parlour  —  how  small  it 
seemed  to  him  now  ! — in  which  a 
suggestion  of  wall-flowers  unnatu- 
rally strove  with  a  decided  perfume 
of  tobacco  and  hot  spirits.  It  was 
furnished  in  a  more  home-like  style 
than  the  room  in  Market  Street, 
and  yet,  somehow,  it  did  not  look 
so  much  like  home.  The  effect  of 
it  upon  Mark  was  even  rather 
chilling.  His  college  rooms  were 
by  no  means  extravagantly  sump- 
tuous or  unnecessarily  comfortable, 
but  they  had  the  advantage  of  the 
comparison  ;  and  then  it  must  be 
remembered  that  he  had  been  a 
little  put  out  of  temper  with  him- 
self and  his  belongings  towards  the 
end  of  his  journey.  And  then  this 
was  no  longer  really  his  home.  He 
had  risen  above  the  family  level, 
and  its  ways  were  no  longer  his 
ways,  nor  its  thoughts  his  thoughts. 
And  then  the  old  scene  suggested 
memories  to  him  that  three  years 
of  work  and  absence  had  naturally 
not  a  little  clouded ;  and  although 
they  had  been  very  bearable  to  him 
while  they  did  not  affect  his  daily 
life,  they  began  to  look  formidable 
now  that  he  was  in  the  very  midst 
of  them  again. 

The  parlour  was  empty  of  all 
save  the  greasy  leather  chair,  the 
scratched  and  bruised  mahogany 
table,  the  worn  -  out  carpet,  the 
dusty  corner-cupboard,  and  all  the 


other  articles  of  furniture  that  he 
had  once  accepted  as  part  of  the 
nature  of  things,  but  which  no\v 
looked  to  him  so  wretchedly  mean 
and  shabby.  He  was  about  to  pull 
the  bell-rope  to  announce  his  arri- 
val, when  a  maid-servant,  not  over 
neat  or  clean,  considering  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  and  who,  to  judge 
from  the  redness  of  her  bared 
arms,  in  which  she  supported  a 
tray,  might  have  been  own  sister 
to  her  of  Market  Street,  as  indeed 
very  likely  she  was,  put  her  head 
in  at  the  door,  and  then,  overcome 
by  either  fear  or  modesty  at  the 
sight  of  a  strange  gentleman,  gave 
a  scream  and  let  the  tray  with  its 
contents — fortunately  riot  fragile — 
clatter  upon  the  floor. 

"  Is  my  father  at  home  1 "  asked 
Mark,  a  little  crossly,  for  such  a 
welcome  as  this  jarred  upon  his 
nerves. 

"Why,  save  us  !  it's  Master 
Mark.  Lord,  sir,  how  you  be 
growed  out  of  sight !  You  give 
one  quite  a  turn." 

"  I  was  expected,  was  I  not  ?" 

"  Well,  Master  M ,  sir,  I  did 

hear  something.  But  master,  he've 
dined " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  Is  he 
in  ?  or  my  sister  ?" 

"Master's  in  the  surg'ry.  And 
Miss  Lorry  —  I'll  go  and  fetch 
her." 

And  this  was  the  triumphant 
return ! 

Presently,  however,  down  ran 
Miss  Lorry  —  beaming,  gushing, 
rosy,  and  untidy.  "Oh,  Mark," 
she  cried,  throwing  herself  upon 
him  with  a  rush,  "  we'd  quite 
given  you  up  !  How  hungry  you 
must  be  ! " — was  it  his  fancy  only 
that  she  said  'ungry  ? — "  But  I'm 
50  glad  !  Did  you  come  all  the 
way  from  Cambridge  to  -  day  1  "- 
This  was  not  likely,  seeing  that  the 
journey  was  over  two  hundred 
miles.  —  "  Only  think  !  why,  I 
shouldn't  have  known  you  !  I  am 
so  glad  !  "  And,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  looked  as  pleased  as  she  said 
she  was. 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


163 


"  It  is  a  long  time,  isn't  it  1  and 
my  father?" 

"  Oh,  lie's  all  right ;  Jane  is 
gone  to  tell  him.  He'll  be  here 
di  rectly.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !  We 
had  dinner  at  one.  I  wonder  is 
tt  ere  anything  in  the  house  !  Oh, 
oi  course — there's  the  mutton  ;  I 
daresay  it's  got  cold  by  now.  Or 
it  might  be  warmed,  mightn't  it  1 
Oh,  here's  papa.  I  thought  he 
wouldn't  be  long." 

And  so  in  came  Mr  Warden  from 
tbe  surgery — tall,  big,  loose,  florid, 
load-mannered  and  loud-voiced  as 
ever,  or  rather  more  than  ever, 
bringing  with  him  a  jovial  smile, 
ard  an  atmosphere  that  showed 
th  at  if  Lorry  had  been  answerable 
for  the  scent  of  the  wall-flowers,  he 
w.is  responsible  for  the  other  part 
of  the  odour  of  the  room. 

"  Ah,  Mark,  my  boy — delighted 
to  see  you  !  So  here  you  are  back 
again  with  three  hundred  a-year  all 
of  your  own  !  Who'd  have  thought 
it  '•  Ah,  college  is  a  fine  thing. 
Fancy  a  boy  of  mine  making  money  ! 
Hi,  ha,  ha!" 

"I've  had  to  work  for  it, 
though." 

"  Well,  well ;  that's  all  the  bet- 
ter, isn't  it  1  Everybody  ought  to 
put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel — 
tint's  my  maxim.  But  all  work 
and  no  play,  you  know.  So  now 
you've  come  to  idle  a  bit,  hey  ?  " 

"  And  how  are  things  with  you, 
fa'.heH"' 

"  Oh,  slack — slack.  But  we  rub 
on,  Lorry  and  me.  One  might  do 
so  nething,  if  it  weren't  for  that 
damned  fool  Jones.  I  was  in  con- 
sultation with  him  to-day.  He's 
got  in  with  madam,  you  know — and 
much  good  he'll  do  her.  Ton  my 
honour,  I  don't  believe  he  knows 
th'.)  liver  from  the  stomach;  and 
as  for  his  diagnosis — pooh  ! " 

By  this  time  the  mutton  made 
its  appearance  upon  the  same  un- 
fortunate tray.  It  was  both  red 
ani  tepid ;  but  hunger,  though 
used  to  look  for  its  satisfaction  to 
tht;  high  table  of  St  Margaret's, 
is  still  hunger,  and  Mark  had  not 


grown  too  dainty  to  be  superior  to 
the  effects  of  a  long  day  spent  on 
the  roof  of  a  coach.  Besides,  the  air 
of  Denethorp  is  not  much  less  ap- 
petising than  that  of  Cambridge 
itself,  which  is  notorious  in  that 
respect.  And  so,  though  his  eyes 
revolted,  he  attacked  the  joint  not 
unwillingly. 

"  You  mentioned  Miss  Clare,"  he 
said,  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence, 
during  which  Lorry  sat  staring  at 
him  with  all  her  eyes,  and  his 
father  ruminated  over  the  sins  of 
Jones.  "  I  travelled  with  her 
nephew  from  Redchester." 

"  Ah,  young  Lester  1  Not  a  bad 
fellow  that.  Set  a  collar-bone  for 
him  once,  out  with  the  hounds, 
when  he  wasn't  that  high.  He's 
tall  enough  now.  Lucky  dog  he 
is.  By  the  way,  there's  to  be  a 


"A  fight?" 

"  Yes,  for  Johnstone's  seat  ;  and 
he'll  be  beat  too.  You're  just  in 
time  to  see  the  fun." 

"And  who's  going  to  stand, 
then  1  "  Politics  had  not  been  in 
Mark's  line,  and  so  he  only  asked 
the  question  for  the  sake  of  saying 
something. 

"  Oh,  a  man  named  Prescot  —  an- 
other lucky  dog,  and  an  out-and- 
outer  —  reformer,  you  know,  and 
that.  Speaks  just  like  a  what's- 
his-name,  and  in  with  all  the  mill 
people.  He  canvassed  me  the 
other  day.  I'd  half  a  mind  to 
promise  for  him,  just  to  go  against 
that  ass  Jones." 

"  But  you  couldn't  do  that  very 
well." 

"  Couldn't  I,  though  ?  And  I 
would  have  too,  only  then  there's 
that  other  ass  young  Smith,  who's 
got  hold  of  that  lot.  What  they 
can  see  in  him  Lord  knows.  Why, 
he  isn't  as  old  as  you  are.  Jones 
don't  know  a  liver  from  a  stomach, 
but  Smith  don't  know  man  from 
mutton.  No,  no.  I  must  vote  for 
Church  and  King  —  Church  and 
King,  you  know  —  if  it  was  only 
to  put  down  young  Smith.  *  Con- 
found their  politics,  frustrate  their 


164 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  1 V. 


[Feb. 


knavish  tricks ! '  Now,  Lorry,  just 
get  out  the  tumblers,  there's  a 
girl,  and  the  brandy.  I'm  going  to 
have  a  pipe." 

His  son  did  not  smoke,  nor  did 
he  drink  spirits,  whatever  taste  he, 
as  a  college  fellow,  had  managed  to 
acquire  for  the  nobler  port.  So 
he  sat  unoccupied  while  his  father 
filled  the  long  clay  pipe,  of  the 
kind  known  to  connoisseurs  as  a 
"  churchwarden,"  and  mixed  him- 
self a  pretty  stiff  tumbler. 

"And  now  we're  comfortable 
and  all  at  home  again/'  said  the 
latter.  "  Why,  bless  my  soul, 
Lorry,  you  haven't  had  that  window 
mended  yet !  We  don't  want  that 
sort  of  draught — ha,  ha,  ha  !  And 
now,  Mark,  my  boy,  what's 
next?" 

"Next?" 

"  Yes — when  you're  going  in  to 
be  a  bishop,  you  know  1 " 

"  I'm  not  at  all  sure  I  shall  go 
into  the  Church  at  all." 

"  What  is  it  to  be,  then  1 " 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  London 
and  read  for  the  bar.  I've  got  my 
fellowship  to  keep  me  meanwhile, 
you  know." 

"  Read  for  the  bar !  Bless  my 
heart  and  soul!"  Let  it  be  re- 
membered that  to  be  a  barrister 
was  in  itself  something  of  a  dis- 
tinction in  those  days,  whatever  it 
may  be  in  these. 

"  Why  not  1  It  seems  my  best 
way  of  doing  something  in  the 
world." 

"  Well,  you  know  best,  no  doubt 
— you  know  best.  Only  be  any- 
thing but  a  doctor,  that's  all  I 
say." 

"La,  Mark,"  said  Lorry;  "  what, 
like  the  people  when  the  judge 
comes  in  at  Redchester  1  And  shall 
you  have  to  wear  a  wig  1 " 

Any  reply  that  her  brother  might 
have  been  going  to  make  to  these 
appreciative  remarks  was  interrup- 
ted by  the  arrival  of  one  of  the 
friends  of  the  house — a  managing 
clerk  to  one  of  the  Denethorp 
attorneys,  who,  like  his  master  in 
the  old  times,  occasionally  used  to 


drop  in  of  an  evening  to  smoke  a 
pipe  with  the  Doctor.  He  was 
rather  a  smart  fellow  in  his  way, 
and  was  publicly  supposed  to  have 
half  an  eye  upon  Miss  Lorry — per- 
haps he  would  have  bestowed  the 
other  half  also  upon  her  had  her 
fortune  been  equal  to  her  merit. 

"  Ah,  Brown,"  said  Mr  Warden, 
"  sit  down,  my  boy.  Mr  Brown — 
my  son  from  Cambridge."  The 
two  bowed  to  each  other  —  Mr 
Brown  genially,  Mark  stiffly.  "  And 
how  are  things  going,  Brown  1" 
continued  the  Doctor.  "  What's 
the  news  1 " 

Mr  Brown  was  certainly  not 
"good  style,"  and  Mark  had  of 
late  grown  marvellously  particular 
about  such  things.  Besides,  he  had 
but  just  parted  from  Lester,  whose 
style  was  undeniable.  And  so  he 
did  not  go  through  his  part  of  the 
introduction  with  a  very  good 
grace. 

"  Miss  Warden,"  said  the  other, 
"  delighted  to  see  you  so  blooming. 
Sir,  delighted  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance— proud  indeed.  John- 
stone's  retired." 

"What?"  said  the  Doctor; 
"  madam  going  to  throw  up  the 
sponge  ]  You  astonish  me  !" 

"  Sounds  queer,  Doctor,  don't 
it  1  But  you  don't  know  elections 
like  I  do.  Between  ourselves,  you 
know,  it'll  turn  out  a  dodge." 

"  To  put  Prescot's  people  off  the 
scent  ] " 

"  May  be.  But  any  way  it'll  be 
a  dodge.  Catch  madam  asleep  — 
catch  a  weasel !  Not  to  speak  of 
White  &  Son.  And  I  will  say  that 
for  them,  that  no  one  ever  caught 
the  office  napping  yet.  And  there's 
something  up  —  that  I  know  for 
certain.  You  know  young  Les- 
ter ]  " 

"  Of  course." 

"Well,  between  ourselves,  you 
know,  it's  a  fact  he  came  down 
by  coach  this  very  day.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ?  Put  two  and 
two  together— eh  1  I  heard  it  from 
Sparks,  who  sat  behind  him  all  the 
way  from  Piedchester." 


1870.] 


Earl1  a  Dene.— Part  IV. 


165 


"  And  what's  he  to  do  1 " 
"  Why,  stand !  that's  what  he's 
to  do.  You  take  my  word  for  itr 
madam  means  fighting ;  and  I  will 
say  that  for  her,  that  when  she 
means  fighting  she  fights — and  no 
mistake.  But  won't  the  money 
have  to  fly,  that's  all !  " 


"  I  wish  some  of  it  would  fly 
my  way,"  said  the  Doctor,  medi- 
tatively. 

"  It'll  fly  every  way  !  "  said  Mr 
Brown,  triumphantly.  "Denethorp 
hasn't  had  such  a  chance  this  many 
a  day ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 


It  must  have  become  pretty  evi- 
dent by  this  time  that  Mark  War- 
den was  sailing  under  false  colours 
— that  he  had  set  out  on  the  voyage 
of  life  in  rather  buccaneer  fashion. 
Ho  could  not  but  own  it,  even  to 
hi.nself,  distinctly  and  consciously. 

And  yet — what  was  he  to  do  ? 
Everything  had  somehow  or  other 
seemed  so  plain  and  easy  to  him 
while  he  was  at  Cambridge.  There, 
he  had  not  been  able,  living  as  an 
unmarried  man  with  other  unmar- 
ried men,  absorbed  in  the  work  of 
tho  place,  with  only  himself  to 
think  of,  to  feel  that  he  was  not 
as  others  were.  Marie  had  become 
a  sort  of  dream  to  him  ;  and  so  he 
felt,  whenever  he  thought  about 
tho  matter  at  all,  that  he  must 
have  become  a  sort  of  dream  to 
Marie.  Had  he  been  an  idle  man, 
wish  nothing  to  do  but  write  love- 
letters,  things  might  have  worn  a 
different  aspect  to  him.  But  when 
a  strong  man's  heart  is  in  his  work, 
and  when  that  work  is  purely  selfish, 
he  is  seldom  able  to  realise  what 
concerns  others.  But  now,  once 
more  in  Denethorp,  relieved  from 
the  iron  of  hard  work,  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  associations  of  three 
years  ago,  the  image  of  Marie  took 
a  J'ar  more  substantial  form,  and 
became  anything  but  a  dream.  Once 
more,  what  was  he  to  do  ? 

He  might  resign  his  fellowship, 
declare  his  marriage,  and  take  a 
curacy  and  pupils.  "  Of  course," 
the  reader  will  say  ;  "  what  else  1 " 
Bufc  then  he  would  have  thrown 
away  the  hopes,  the  labour,  the 
success  of  years ;  he  would  con- 
demn himself  to  an  obscure  and 


uncongenial  life  for  the  rest  of  his 
days  ;  it  would  be  far  worse  than 
committing  suicide.  No — anything 
but  that,  he  thought.  And  let  not 
the  reader  be  too  sure,  if  he  is  not 
guided  by  some  nobler  principle 
than  Mark  Warden,  that  he,  under 
similar  circumstances,  would  not 
think  in  a  similar  way.  And  so, 
before  he  slept,  he  entered  into  a 
sort  of  compromise  with  himself. 
The  marriage  had  been  secret  for 
three  years  —  let  it  be  secret  for 
four  ;  and  then — who  knows  what 
might  happen  1  It  is  not  only 
weak  -  minded  men  who,  when 
pushed  into  a  moral  difficulty,  cast 
their  burden  upon  the  shoulders  of 
Fortune. 

Nevertheless  it  was  in  a  frame 
of  mind  made  up  of  doubt  and* 
of  that  sort  of  self -justification 
which  is  the  surest  symptom  of 
unconscious  shame  that  he,  on 
rising,  faced  the  fresh,  honest 
breath  of  the  morning,  laden  with 
the  old-fashioned  fragrance  of  the 
old-fashioned  flowers  of  long  ago. 
From  the  window  of  his  room  he 
saw  his  sister,  with  uncovered  head, 
sleeves  tucked  up,  and  shoes  down 
at  heel,  mysteriously  engaged  with 
a  clothes-line  which  extended  from 
one  brick  wall  of  the  garden  to  the 
other ;  and  the  sight  did  not  please 
him,  for  it  suggested  to  him  the 
vision  of  a  future  Mrs  Brown. 
Then  he  descended  into  the  parlour, 
still  strongly  flavoured  with  the 
effects  of  last  evening.  It  was  by 
no  means  early,  but  there  were  no 
signs  of  breakfast ;  indeed  in  that 
house  nothing  seemed  to  be  done 
at  any  particular  time  or  in  any 


166 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


particular  manner.  Presently,  how- 
ever, his  father  came  in  ;  and  then, 
somehow  or  other,  breakfast  and 
Lorry  made  their  appearance  to- 
gether. 

"Well,  Mark/'  said  the  Doctor, 
"  what  are  you  up  to  to-day  ?  I 
wanted  to  have  seen  something  of 
you  ;  but  there's  always  something 
or  another.  I  really  must  go  and 
see  that  child  of  Wilkins's.  I  ought 
to  have  gone  yesterday — only  some- 
thing put  it  out  of  my  head ;  and 
— hang  it !  my  boots  weren't  cleaned 
this  morning.  But  never  mind — 
they'll  do  for  once  in  a  way.  But 
that  reminds  me — I  promised  to  go 
and  see  what's-his-name  on  Sunday. 
Well,  well,  I  daresay  it  was  nothing 
particular." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  me.  I  shall 
just  stroll  about  somewhere." 

Laura  looked  knowingly  at  her 
brother  ;  for  though  not  a  confi- 
dante of  his  great  secret,  she  had 
not  been  blind  to  his  great  flirta- 
tion. "  I  think  I  can  fancy  where 
you'll  stroll  to,"  she  said. 

"  And,  Lorry,"  continued  the 
Doctor,  "if  Summers  calls  about 
that  bill  again,  you  know,  tell  him 
I  haven't  forgotten  it,  or  something 
like  that ;  and  if  anybody  else  calls, 
say  I  shall  be  sure  to  be  in  some 
time  or  other.  And  you  can  have 
that  window  mended — only  don't 
pay  for  it ;  and  have  in  another 
bottle  of  brandy  from  the  Chequers 
— I've  got  an  account  against  them 
there  of  some  sort  or  another,  so 
it'll  be  all  right.  And  now  I  must 
be  off."  And  so  he  marched  away 
heavily,  munching  his  last  mouth- 
ful of  breakfast  as  he  left  the  door. 

Then  Lorry  in  a  few  minutes  was 
carried  off  by  the  red-armed  maid, 
and  Mark  was  left  to  follow  his 
own  devices. 

His  sister  had  proved  to  be  a 
true  prophetess.  As,  indeed,  he 
was  only  bound  in  duty  to  do,  he 
took  himself  slowly  and  uncomfort- 
ably to  Market  Street.  The  dis- 
tance was  not  far,  but  he  was  a  long 
time  in  traversing  it ;  for  now  that 
his  meeting  with  Marie  was  im- 


minent and  inevitable,  his  anxiety 
about  it,  and  about  the  nature  of 
the  relation  that  must  somehow  or 
other  be  established  between  him 
and  her,  for  the  present  almost 
tempted  him  to  fly  from  the  situa- 
tion altogether.  He  almost  began 
to  doubt  whether  he,  the  precoci- 
ously wise,  had  not  been  guilty  of 
a  great  piece  of  folly  for  once  in  his 
life. 

Chance  also  aided  his  feeble  at- 
tempts to  procrastinate— attempts 
of  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was 
half  ashamed.  It  was  by  no  means 
a  pleasant  thing  for  him  to  feel  that 
he,  Mark  Warden,  Wrangler,  Fellow, 
et  ccetera,  et  ccetera,  was  afraid  to 
meet  Marie,  who  was  Marie  and 
nothing  more.  He  would  have 
sufficiently  despised  any  other  man 
who  feared  to  meet  a  woman,  and 
that  woman  his  own  wife.  But  for 
himself,  he  welcomed  the  chance 
that  aided  him,  nevertheless. 

At  a  smart  trot  along  the  High 
Street  came  a  light  trap,  driven  by 
his  travelling  companion  of  yester- 
day. Hugh  Lester  also  saw  War- 
den and  pulled  up. 

"  You're  the  very  man  I  want  to 
see,  Warden  !  "  he  said.  "  What 
do  you  think  ?  I'm  going  to  stand 
for  Denethorp." 

"  Indeed  1  But  I  heard  something 
about  it  last  night.  I  wish  you  a 
triumphant  return,  with  all  my 
heart." 

"Thanks,  old  fellow.  But  you 
must  do  something  more  than  that. 
You've  become  a  great  man  here, 
you  know." 

"  I  am  sure  I  did  not  know  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  people  don't 
think  you've  been  doing.  There 
seems  a  sort  of  impression  that 
you've  been  made  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  I've  been  having  a 
little  talk  with  White,  you  know. 
I  wish  you'd  come  and  see  him,  if 
you  wouldn't  mind." 

"  But  what  could  I  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  lots  of  things.  You  see 
this  is  how  things  are,  or  something 
like  it.  You  have  heard,  I  suppose, 
that  they  want  to  turn  us  out  1 " 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.—  Part  1 V. 


167 


"  But  they  won't,  of  course." 

"  Not  if  we  can  help  it.  But 
from  what  White  says  they  seem 
to  have  got  all  the  brains  on  their 
side  and  most  of  the  money.  Are 
yoi  a  good  hand  at  talking — at 
spouting,  I  mean  1 " 

''  I  never  made  a  speech  in  my 
life;." 

"  Never  mind  that.  The  fact  is, 
White  has  been  asking  me  about 
you,  and  I  told  him  you  could  do 
everything.  So  just  come  and  see 
him,  there's  a  good  fellow.  I  shall 
be  tremendously  obliged." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to  be  of 
any  use,  of  course — if  I  thought  I 
could  be  of  any." 

'*  Of  course  you  can.  You'll 
come  and  see  White,  then  1 " 

•'Now?" 

"  If  you  could.     Can  you  ]  " 

Warden  smiled  to  himself.  This 
wag  indeed  a  triumph  in  its  way. 
So  he  was  to  be  pitted  against  the 
new-comer — to  provide  brains  for 
his  party!  It  w&sfaute  de  mieux, 
of  course  ;  but  a  man,  when  he  feels 
really  flattered,  does  not  think  of 
that.  He  had  had  a  welcome  back 
worth  having,  after  all.  "  It  is 
always  so,"  he  thought  to  himself ; 
"  a  man  is  always  best  appreciated 
outside  his  own  home." 

But  then  Marie — he  ought  not 
to  be  an  hour  longer  in  the  place 
without  at  least  trying  to  see  her. 

'*  I  have  a  call  to  make,"  he  said  ; 
"but  that  will  keep,  if  you  and 
White  really  want  me." 

:t  Jump  up,  then — I'll  drive  yon, 
and  we  can  talk  as  we  go  along. 
By  the  way,  I  have  to  go  a  little  out 
of  my  way  first — you  won't  mind  ? 
I  have  to  pick  up  a  young  lady  who 
is  staying  with  us,  and  who  came 
in  to  make  a  visit,  and  whom  I'm 
to  drive  back  to  Earl's  Dene.  You 
know  something  of  her,  perhaps  1 
—  Miss  Raymond  of  New  Court, 
you  know." 

•'  Indeed  1  My  father  used  to 
know  Mrs  Raymond." 

'*  No  doubt ;  she's  a  capital  girl. 
I  mean  her  to  canvass  for  me  furi- 
ously; and  as  you're  to  do  the 


same,  I  must  introduce  you.  I  wish 
I  had  an  elder  brother,  Warden — 
catching  votes  won't  be  such  good 
fun  as  catching  trout,  I  fancy. 
However,  I'm  in  for  it  now — so 
Lester  for  ever !  "  he  said,  with  a 
laugh,  and  a  touch  to  the  horses  that 
made  them  start  off  sharply.  "  I 
shall  be  as  excited  about  it  as  my 
good  aunt  herself  before  it's  all 
over.  Gently,  Bay — that  child  may 
be  a  voter's — so  there's  my  first 
piece  of  bribery,"  he  said,  as  he 
threw  a  coin  to  a  small  child  that 
had  apparently  taken  care  to  wait 
before  crossing  the  street  until  its 
passage  lay  directly  under  the 
horses'  heels.  "  And  now,  here 
we  are." 

They  had  turned  into  Market 
Street,  and,  to  Mark's  surprise,  had 
stopped  at  the  very  bootmaker's 
shop  to  which  he  himself  had  been 
bound  when  he  was  overtaken  by 
Lester.  Surely  it  was  not  likely 
that  Miss  Raymond  of  New  Court 
should  buy  her  shoes  in  Denethorp, 
much  less  in  Market  Street.  He 
devoutly  hoped  that  none  of  the 
Lefort  family  might  be  looking  out 
of  the  window,  for  he  naturally 
wished  to  make  his  own  visit  in  his 
own  way. 

Lester  sent  his  groom  with  a 
message  for  Miss  Raymond  that  he 
was  at  the  door;  and  presently 
down  came  Ernest  to  say  that  she 
would  be  ready  immediately. 

Now  Ernest  was  rather  a  sharp 
child,  and  something  of  a. terrible 
one  also,  as  sharp  boys  of  his  age 
are  apt  to  be  ;  nor  had  Cambridge 
turned  Mark  quite  so  much  into  a 
silk  purse  as  to  have  rendered  him 
unrecognisable.  And  so  the  mes- 
senger, without  having  delivered 
his  message,  and  without  any  awe 
of  Hugh,  made  a  charge  at  the  side 
of  the  trap  at  which  his  old  acquaint- 
ance was  sitting. 

"  Why,  Ernest !  "  said  the  latter, 
with  forced  geniality,  "where  do 
you  drop  from  1  and  how  are  they 
all  1 " 

"  Oh,  all  right.  Oh,  I  was  to  say 
the  lady  will  be  down  directly." 


168 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  1 V. 


[Feb. 


"  And  who  are  you,  my  man  1 " 
asked  Lester. 

"  Oh,  I'm  Ernest." 

"  And  who's  Ernest  1 " 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  Ernest 
Lefort." 

"  You  know  the  Leforts,  War- 
den * " 

**  Yes — that  is — oh  yes,  I  know 
them.  Wait  a  minute,  Ernest.  I'll 
just  run  up  for  a  second,  Lester,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"  All  right.  By  the  way,  would 
they  mind  my  going  up  too1?  It 
would  be  rather  a  joke — I'll  tell 
you  why  afterwards.  I  know  one 
of  them  myself." 

Now  it  would  be  doing  Mark 
Warden  supreme  injustice  to  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  he  was  in  the 
least  really  ashamed  of  his  humble 
friends  in  the  presence  of  his  grand 
acquaintance.  His  real  desire  to 
make  his  visit  alone  was  of  course 
founded  on  other  reasons.  But 
still  to  guide  the  heir  of  Earl's 
Dene  to  the  bootmaker's  second 
floor  was  rather  a  downfall,  after 
having  been  paraded  in  the  streets 
of  Denethorp  as  his  familiar  com- 
panion, and  he  felt  it  a  little. 

Monsieur  Lefort  had  gone  out  to 
give  his  lessons,  so  that  when  the 
two  entered,  preceded  by  Ernest, 
they  found  only  the  three  girls  and 
Fleurette,  who  was  amusing  herself 
upon  Miss  Raymond's  knee. 

The  circumstances  were  not  fa- 
vourable to  a  lover-like  meeting 
between  the  husband  and  wife ; 
and  now  that  matters  had  so  turned 
out,  Mark  was  not  altogether  sorry 
that  he  and  Marie  were  forced  to 
meet  as  though  they  had  been  no- 
thing more  to  each  other  than  old 
acquaintance.  But  he  read  in  her 
eyes,  and  in  the  warm  rush  of  light 
and  colour  to  her  face  when  she 
saw  him,  that  she,  however  much 
she  had  changed — and  changed  for 
the  better — in  person  during  these 
three  years,  was  unchanged  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned ;  that  her  heart 
was  still  as  much  his  as  if  the  three 
years  had  been  but  three  hours. 
And  for  this  too,  so  mingled  were 


his  feelings,  he  could  not  find  it  in 
his  own  heart  to  be  sorry.  Who 
can  be  really  disappointed  or  dis- 
pleased at  finding  that  a  woman 
has  remained  more  true  to  him 
than  he  has  remained  to  her  1  For 
an  instant  she  was  once  more  to 
him  the  Marie  of  old  times,  and  he 
fully  answered  the  speech  of  her 
eyes  with  his  own. 

On  their  entrance  Miss  Raymond 
rose  and  put  down  Fleurette.  The 
business  of  introduction  seemed 
likely  to  be  complicated,  for  there 
was  no  one  in  the  room  who  was 
acquainted  with  everybody  in  it, 
and,  except  Hugh,  everybody  was 
surprised  to  see  everybody  else. 

"  Miss  Lefort,"  said  Hugh,  to  cut 
the  matter  short,  "  I  am  exceed- 
ingly sorry  to  break  up  so  pleasant 
a  party ;  but  as  my  friend  Warden 
would  have  done  so  in  any  case,  I 
yielded  to  the  temptation.  Miss 
Raymond,  this  is  Mr  Warden  of 
St  Margaret's,  who  is  going  to  help 
us  in  our  battles." 

She  looked  at  Warden  with  her 
honest  eyes,  and  made  him  a  cold 
and  formal  curtsy,  which,  had  he 
observed  it,  and  had  he  been  given 
to  speculate  about  such  things, 
would  have  puzzled  Hugh  con- 
siderably. Then,  turning  to  Marie, 
and  seeing  her  embarrassment  at 
the  unexpected  visit, — 

"  Now,  Miss  Lefort,  I  really  must 
go.  Angelique,  this  is  Mr  Lester, 
Miss  Clare's  nephew." 

Now  Angelique,  in  spite  of  Miss 
Raymond's  kindness  to  her,  always 
made  a  point  of  remembering  and 
keeping  what  she  considered  her 
place  as  a  dependant ;  and  so  for 
these  few  minutes  she  had  retired 
into  the  background.  Now,  how- 
ever, she  emerged  from  her  dark 
corner,  and  Lester  saw  her — sud- 
denly. 

The  ascent  into  that  poor  and 
shabby  lodging  had  been  worth 
making,  with  a  vengeance  !  Hugh 
felt  as  a  traveller  in  the  desert 
would  feel  who  should  all  of  a  sud- 
den light  upon  a  rose-bush  in  full 
blossom  springing  from  the  dry 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


1G9 


stones.  By  the  side  of  Alice  Ray- 
mond she  was  like  a  southern  night 
beside  a  pale  northern  morning; 
by  that  of  Marie,  like  the  full  moon 
with  its  faint  attendant  star.  He 
was  certainly  no  poet,  nor  did  con- 
scious images  enter  his  mind  ;  but 
somehow  the  chairs  and  sofas  did 
idealise  themselves  almost  as  ab- 
surdly as  if  he  too  had  thought  of 
Arabia  Petrsea  in  connection  with 
them.  Not  that  the  comparison  is 
so  very  absurd  either,  for  they  were 
certainly  hard  enough. 

Angelique  must  have  been  ex- 
ceedingly stupid  indeed  if  she 
had  been  blind  to  the  effect  that 
she  produced  upon  the  prince  of  her 
cousin's  fairy  tale,  and  miraculously 
freo  from  vanity  had  she  not  been 
gratified  by  it.  Truly  if  it  is  the 
early  bird  that  picks  up  the  worm, 
it  is  not  necessarily  for  its  own 
eating. 

No  one  else,  however,  noticed 
anything.  Miss  Raymond  was  busy 
with  her  shawl,  Marie  with  Miss 
Raymond,  and  Mark,  as  usual,  with 
himself — perhaps  also  a  little  with 
Marie.  Still  Hugh  fancied,  after 
a  moment,  that  he  must  have  be- 
trayed himself,  although,  in  fact,  he 
only  appeared  to  be  a  little  awk- 
ward, as  men  for  the  most  part  are 
under  any  circumstances  when  they 
have  just  undergone  the  misery  of 
a  sudden  introduction. 

Lester. — "Are  you  living  in — 
in  Denethorp,  Miss  Lef Made- 
moiselle?" ("Damn  it!  what  an 
ass  she  must  think  me  !  ") 

Angelique,  not  showing  that  she 
thought  so  at  all  events,  and  in  her 
sweetest  voice. — "  I  am  only  on  a 
visit.  Miss  Raymond  was  kind 
enough  to  let  me  come  here  while 
she  is  at  Earl's  Dene.  This  is  my 
home,  however — at  least  when  I 
am  not  with  her." 

fester.  —  "  Oh  yes  —  I  forgot ; 
Miss  Lef ort  is  your  sister  1 " 

Angelique. — "  My  cousin." 

Lester. — "  I  suppose  you  heard 
of  our  interview  this  morning  ] " 

Angelique. — "  Oh,  she  gave  us 
quite  a  grand  account  of  it.;' 


Lester,  recovering  himself  a  little. 
— "  And  abused  me,  no  doubt  1 " 

Angelique. — "  On  the  contrary,  I 
can  assure  you/' 

Marie. — "  Oh,  Mr  Lester,  what 
must  you  think  of  me  ?  I  have  not 
thanked  you  and  Miss  Clare " 

Lester. — "  You  will  do  so  by  com- 
ing. And  "  (to  Angelique,  or,  more 
accurately,  at  her)  "  you  also — if — 
that  is " 

Angelique. — "I  am  no  artist,  I 
am  ashamed  to  say." 

Miss  Raymond. — "  Don't  believe 
her,  Hugh.  She  does  everything." 

Angelique,  to  herself. — "  I  won- 
der why  she  calls  him  Hugh  1  But 
I  should  have  known  if  there  was 
anything."  Aloud—"  Badly,*Miss 
Raymond  was  going  to  add." 

Miss  Raymond. — "  Indeed  I  was 
not,  though.  If  Mr  Lester  were 
not  in  a  hurry  to  get  away,  I  would 
punish  you  by  condemning  you  to 
the  harpsichord  on  the  spot." 

A  ngelique. — "  Oh,  pray,  Miss  Ray- 
mond  " 

Lester,  forgetting  all  about  War- 
den, White,  and  everything  that 
he  ought  to  have  remembered. — 
"  Would  you  ?  Might  I  ask  ?  " 

Angelique,  throwing  him  a  look 
of  private  and  special  complaisance. 
— "  I  would  much  rather  you  would 
excuse  me,  indeed.  I  am  really 
not " 

Lester. — "  But  I  am  sure  that — 
will  you  try  1 " 

Angelique,  with  a  look  of  the 
same  kind  as  before,  but  tempered 
by  a  half-smile. — "  But  perhaps  you 
do  not  care  about  music  ? " 

Lester.  — "  But  I  do  indeed. 
There  is  nothing  that  I  care  for  so 
much." 

'  Miss  Raymond,  opening  the  harp- 
sichord.— -"  Oh,  Hugh,  that's  just 
what  you  said  last  night  about 
hunting  !  There,  Angelique — you 
see  you  will  have  to  do  it." 

Angelique. — "  I  wish  you  had 
not  raised  Mr  Lester's  expectations. 
However,  I  will  do  what  I  can  to 
dissipate  them.  Ah,  you  have  no 
doubt  heard  Miss  Raymond  her- 
self?" 


170 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


Miss  Raymond,  laughing. — "If 
lie  had,  do  you  think  I  should  give 
him  the  chance  of  hearing  you  1 
I  am  not  quite  so  careless  of  my 
reputation/' 

And  so  Angelique,  having  dis- 
played the  proper  amount  of  un- 
willingness, sat  down  and  sang. 

What  she  chose  to  sing  is  of  no 
consequence,  nor  how  she  sang  it. 
Lester  knew  nothing  about  music. 


Englishmen  in  those  days  knew  as 
little  about  it  as  they  do  now,  and 
cared  about  it  even  less.  But 
nevertheless  he  was  soon  lost  in 
a  heaven  in  which  he  forgot  every 
man  in  the  world  and  every  woman 
but  one — in  which  he  became  so 
lost  indeed  as  to  forget  even  his 
horses,  which  were  impatiently  paw- 
ing the  stones  before  the  door. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


At  last,  however,  when  the  one 
song  had  grown  into  many,  the 
visit  came  to  an  end.  Lester  had, 
when  in  his  ignorance  of  what  was 
to  come  and  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  he  proposed  to  amuse 
himself  by  following  up  his  adven- 
ture of  the  morning,  intended  that 
it  should  last  about  two  minutes  ; 
and  to  him,  indeed,  it  seemed  to 
have  lasted  not  a  second  longer. 
In  truth,  however,  the  church  clock, 
unheard  by  him,  had  twice  chimed 
the  hour.  Miss  Raymond  had  been 
in  no  hurry  to  run  away,  for  she 
enjoyed  the  slightly  Bohemian 
character  of  the  whole  thing,  and 
was  easily  amused ;  and  Mark, 
though  he  was  not  enjoying  him- 
self at  all,  could  not  under  the  cir- 
cumstances betray  his  desire  to  cut 
the  visit  short. 

When  the  three  visitors  departed, 
Lester  carrying  away  with  him  a 
look,  sharp  as  a  sword  but  soft  as 
velvet,  thrown  to  him  from  the 
dark  eyes  of  Angelique,  which  had 
the  effect  of  rilling  his  whole  heart 
and  of  raising  his  spirits  to  a  de- 
lightful point  of  mild  fever,  then 
said  that  young  lady  herself  to  her 
cousin, — 

"  Eli  bien,  ckere  enfant !  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  that  worm  of 
yours  ! " 

"  What— Mr  Lester  ?  " 

"  Who  but  Mr  Lester,  of  course  ? 
He  is  really  a  very  good-looking 
boy.  And  so  that  is  the  heir  of 
Earl's  Dene  1 " 

"I  really  do  not  know.     He  is 


Miss  Clare's  nephew.     Yes,  I  sup- 
pose he  is." 

"  And  has  she  any  other  nephews, 
or  any  people  of  that  sort  1 " 

"I  believe  not." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  my 
Miss  Alice?" 

"  Of  Miss  Raymond  1  Oh,  she  is 
quite  charming,  and  so  kind  !  " 

"  Yes,  she  is,  no  doubt.  Suppose 
there  should  be  a  match  between 
them  1 " 

"  I  am  sure  they  would  suit  each 
other  admirably." 

"  My  dear  Marie,  what  a  child 
you  are  ! " 

"Why?" 

"Why?  because  you  are.  And 
now,  what  has  your  old  friend 
Mark  Warden  had  to  say  for  him- 
self 1  Why,  how  you  colour  !  " 

"  Do  I  ?  I'm  sure  I  didn't  know 
it.  I  am  very  glad  he  is  back 
again." 

"  He  has  certainly  improved — 
he  looks  like  a  man ;  much  more 
of  a  man  than  young  Lester.  He 
was  a  very  disagreeable  boy, 
though." 

"  Angelique ! " 

"Now,  dearest,  please  don't 
scold  me,  or  look  at  me  through 
your  eyebrows  like  that.  I  have 
no  doubt  he  is  perfection  now.  Do 
you  know,  I  feel  quite  in  high 
spirits.  Do  you  think  of  going  to 
Earl's  Dene  to-morrow  morning  ]  " 

"  To  -  morrow  ?  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  one  had  better  not  to- 
morrow. I  wish  Mr  Lester  had 
not  made  such  a  point  of  my  going." 


1870.] 


Ear? s  Dene.— Part  IV. 


171 


"  Ob,  Marie,  what  an  old  prude 
you  are ! " 

"  I  think  it  might  be  better  not, 
perhaps.  It  was  altogether  rather 
a  fuss  about  nothing." 

"Very  likely,  dear.  But  then 
one  thing  comes  of  another ;  and 
nothing  doesn't  come  from  nothing 
always.  Now  I  am  sure  we  have 
had  a  very  pleasant  morning  party, 
and  that  would  never  have  been 
but  for  your  going  to  the  park. 
And  then  it  would  seem  so  un- 
grateful of  you  not  to  go  now." 

"  I  hope  not.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing that  the  whole  thing  has 
gone  far  enough.  As  you  say,  we 
have  had  a  very  pleasant  morning 
party " 

"  Well  1 " 

"And  let  that  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  Why,  do  you  take  Mr  Lester 
for  a  wolf,  and  us  for  two  innocent 
lambs  1  I  am  not  a  lamb,  I  assure 
you,  and  don't  mean  to  be ;  and  he 
seems  to  me  to  be  very  harmless. 
And  Miss  Raymond  here  too  !  " 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right.     But 

still Come,  now  we  are  alone, 

tell  me  something  about  your  let- 
ter from  Felix." 

"  There — you  may  read  it  if  you 
like." 

"What— all]" 

"Why  not]  There  are  no  se- 
crets." ' 

And  so  Marie  took  the  letter, 
and  read  as  follows,  while  Ange- 
li^ue  returned  to  her  favourite 
window,  and  amused  herself  with 
the  first  two  cantos  of  '  Don  Juan,' 
which  she  had  brought  down  with 
her  :— 

LONDON, th. 

"  DEAREST, — I  am  in  England — 
in  your  land  !  In  mine  too,  for 
since  you  left  Paris,  France  has 
been  my  land  of  exile — England 
my  true  home.  Are  you  surprised  ] 
Bat  you  cannot  be  surprised  that 
my  body  should  have  followed  my 
soul.  Do  not  be  surprised  if  it 
follows  you  more  closely  still,  for 
your  absence  has  cheated  me  of  the 
reward  of  seeing  you.  Shall  you 

VOL.  CVIT. — NO.  DCL1I. 


be  long  gone  ]  When  shall  you  be 
back  ]  If  Paris  became  a  desert 
to  me  when  you  left  it,  what  must 
this  London  be  ]  I  am  angry  with 
the  sun  for  shining  where  my  own 
sun  is  not ;  I  can  only  hope  that 
it  is  the  herald  of  your  return.  Is 
it  so] 

"  The  first  thing  I  did  on  arriv- 
ing, before  doing  or  thinking  about 
anything,  was  to  call  in  the  Square 
of  Portman.  What  a  gloomy  house  ! 
That  also  seemed  to  feel  its  desola- 
tion. There,  after  much  difficulty 
— for  the  words  *  I  love  you  '  help 
me  not  much,  and  of  your  tongue 
I  know  no  more — I  learned  where 
you  now  are,  and  that  you  are  so 
many  leagues  away.  Then  I  carried 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  friend 
of  M.  Prosper,  who,  as  you  know, 
has  friends  everywhere.  I  found 
him  at  the  theatre,  where  he  is 
director  of  the  music.  He  received 
me  well,  and  thinks  I  did  not 
wrong  to  come  here  as  an  artist. 
There  is  room  enough  for  foreign 
musicians,  he  tells  me,  since  the 
peace,  and  he  will  be  able  to  get 
me  an  engagement  either  at  his  own 
house  or  at  some  other  before  my 
purse  is  empty.  You  will  say,  per- 
haps, this  does  not  sound  very 
grand.  But  what  would  you  ] 
Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,  and 
I  am  not  afraid  were  London  ten 
times  as  large.  Do  I  not  love 
you]  and  is  not  that  enough  to 
become  great — is  it  not  more  than 
enough ] 

"  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  yon, 
or  rather  I  want  to  hear  you  say 
so  much  to  me  !  For  indeed  I  have 
but  little  to  say  but  that  I  love 
you  more  than  ever,  were  that  pos- 
sible ;  but  love  makes  me  afraid, 
makes  me  doubt,  though  I  know 
your  truth  so  well :  I  want  to  hear 
once  more  from  your  own  lips  that 
you  have  not  changed  since  the 
time  when  Paris  was  not  a  desert 
to  me." 

"  Am  I  to  go  on  ]"  asked  Marie. 
"  If  you   are   not  ennuyee"  an- 
swered her  cousin,  calmly. 

"  I  tremble  so  much  when  T  think 
X 


172 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  1 F. 


[Feb. 


-what  kind  of  life  is  yours — not 
solitary  like  mine.  If  I  knew  not 
your  soul  so  well  I  should  often 
despair,  even  now,  when  I  think 
how  much  you  are  above  me.  For 
that  alone  I  will  become  great,  and 
that  soon.  And  music  to  me  is  so 
entirely  filled  with  you  that  how 
can  I  help  being  inspired  ? 

"  Of  course  as  yet  I  know  no  one 
here,  nor  do  I  care  to  know  any- 
body or  see  anybody  but  one,  and 
she  is  invisible.  Pray  send  me  a 
line  to  say  when  I  may  hope  for 
my  winter  to  be  over,  and  for  my 
summer  to  come.  If  it  is  long 
first — but  do  not  let  it  be  long  ! 

"  Longing  for  you,  for  anything 
from  you,  dearest  Angelique,  your 
wholly  devoted  FELIX." 

"  Is  it  not  nonsense  ? "  asked 
Angelique,  as  she  took  back  the 
letter. 

But  Marie  did  not  think  it  non- 
sense by  any  means,  and  she  an- 
swered by  an  embrace. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  Angelique  con- 
tinued. "  Yes,  he  is  very  good, 
but  then  he  sometimes  is  very  tire- 
some." 

Marie  stared. 

It  did  not,  however,  strike  An- 
ge"lique  herself  that  she  had  said 
anything  very  surprising,  so  she 
did  not  observe  the  effect  of  her 
speech.  "  You  see,"  she  went  on, 
"he  is  very  amiable  and  very 
clever,  at  least  as  a  musician,  and 
I  like  him  very  much — better  than 
any  one  I  know,  except  you — and 
when  I  come  out  he  would  do  ad- 
mirably for  a  husband,  if  I  am  to 
fall  into  that  line  ;  and  he  is  quite 
good-looking  enough,  and  he  is  a 
gentleman,  although  he  is  only  a 
fiddler " 

"  Angelique  !  "  This  seemed  to 
be  Marie's  limit  of  reproach. 

"  Marie  !  "  replied  Angelique, 
imitating  her  tone.  "  You  don't 
expect  me  to  find  perfection,  do 
you?  And,  after  all,  if  it  comes 
to  that,  I  don't  consider  myself 
hopelessly  engaged." 

"  Not  engaged  ?  " 


"  Of  course  we  are,  after  a  fash- 
ion. But  then  there  are  so  many 
ways " 

"  My  dear  Angelique  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid  ;  I 
do  not  mean  to  break  his  heart.  I 
shall  marry  him,  no  doubt,  if  he 
ever  makes  enough  to  keep  us  both 
from  starving.  You  would  not 
have  me  be  a  clog  upon  him,  would 
you  ?  And  if  it  is  not  to  be,  why, 
it  won't  be,  that's  all." 

It  will  be  gathered  from  this  con- 
versation that  Angelique  was  the 
elder  of  the  two,  not  only  in  years, 
but  in  some  other  things  besides. 
But  then  she  had  seen  a  great  deal 
more  of  the  world. 

/'  Oh,  Marie,"  she  said,  "  I  do 
wish  I  were  a  man  ! " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  I  could  marry  you." 

But  Marie  did  not  smile.  She 
said,  crossly  for  her,  though  not  for 
any  one  else,  "  I  know  you  do  not 
mean  a  single  word  you  have  been 
saying." 

"  Of  course  not — who  ever  does? 
But  I  really  should  like  to  have 
you  for  my  wife,  Marie.  But  men 
are  such  simpletons.  Come- — don't 
let  us  quarrel  any  more.  I  feel  in- 
clined for  a  walk." 

And  so  for  a  walk  they  prepared 
themselves — Ange"lique  in  the  very 
best  of  spirits,  Marie  rather  sadly. 
At  all  events  her  cousin  had  puzzled 
her  considerably. 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  such  sad- 
ness as  she  felt  arose  wholly  from 
what  seemed  to  her  her  cousin's 
unnatural  way  of  speaking  of  her 
lover.  That,  she  simply  did  not 
understand ;  and  although  it  jarred 
upon  her,  she  never  dreamed  that 
somehow  it  was  not  all  right  in 
reality.  It  was  that,  without  know- 
ing it,  she  had  been  disappointed 
in  Mark  Warden — if,  indeed,  "  dis- 
appointed "  is  not  too  strong  a 
word. 

Not  that  she  realised  any  such 
feeling.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
proud  of  his  success,  proud  of  his 
apparent  friendship  with  Lester ; 
for  the  people  of  Earl's  Dene  were 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  IV. 


173 


the  aristocracy,  almost  the  royalty, 
of  her  limited  world,  and,  paradox- 
ical as  it  may  sound,  it  is  just  those 
who  know  least  of  the  world  who 
are  most  impressed  by  rank  and 
wealth.  She  was  proud,  also,  of 
his  improved  appearance  and  bear- 
ing, and  she  was  proud  that  her 
old  belief  in  him  had  been  justified. 
But  behind  all  this  not  unreason- 
able pride  there  lurked  a  feeling  of 
the  existence  of  a  want  or  loss  of 
sympathy  —  that  most  intangible 
ard  indescribable  of  feelings  which 
is  always  most  strong  when  it  is 
most  intangible  and  indescribable. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  seemed  cold 
ard  undemonstrative.  He  was 
cold  and  undemonstrative  by  na- 
ture, and  perhaps  in  this  lay  no  small 
part  of  his  influence  over  her ;  for 
reserve,  inasmuch  as  it  implies 
strength,  is  the  great  secret  by 
wliich  anything  like  real  influence 
over  a  woman  is  both  gained  and 
secured.  Besides,  there  had  as  yet 
been  no  opportunity  for  any  dis- 
play of  warmth,  seeing  that  the 
two  had  met  not  only  before  others, 
but  before  strangers.  But  still  she 
had  found  his  manner  towards  her 
not  such  as  it  might  have  been  in 
the  presence  of  a  hundred  strangers, 
although  she  could  not  have  speci- 
fied a  single  instance  in  which  he 
could  have  spoken  or  acted  differ- 
ently. The  fact  is,  that  he  could 
not  under  any  circumstances  have 
spoken  or  acted  differently;  and 
had  he  been  in  reality  altogether 
unchanged,  no  want  or  loss  would 
have  suggested  itself.  But  as  the 
want  did  exist,  it  would  have  equal- 
ly made  itself  felt  in  any  case. 

It  is  really  impossible  to  put  in 
words,  which  are  always,  even  at 
best,  terribly  gross  and  hard,  the 
faint  suggestion  of  another  uncon- 
scious feeling  that  found  its  way 
into  the  heart  of  Marie  ;  for  while 
words  are  strong  in  proportion  to 
their  direct  strength  and  plainness, 
feelings  are  strong  in  proportion  to 
their  obscurity.  To  attempt  to  ex- 
press their  shadowy  nuances,  even 
in  poetry,  is  to  risk  trespassing  on 


the  province  of  another  art;  for 
though  Art,  in  a  very  high  sense,  is 
doubtless  one  and  indivisible,  still, 
practically,  its  branches  have  very 
fixed  and  definite  limits,  which 
ought  to  be,  and  indeed  to  some 
extent  must  be,  observed.  Now, 
unfortunately,  that  form  of  art 
which  works  with  words,  while  it 
is  not  less  noble  than  other  forms, 
and  while  it  can,  in  many  respects, 
soar  far  higher  than  the  others,  is 
in  this  respect  the  most  limited  of 
all.  It  cannot  affect  the  heart  but 
through  the  logic  of  the  mind — a 
terrible  drawback  when  it  is  neces- 
sary that  the  heart  should  speak  to 
the  heart  without  the  intervention 
of  any  logical  process  or  logical 
symbols.  Musicians  and  painters 
are  far  better  off  in  this  matter  ; 
they  may  reach  the  soul  through 
the  senses  alone.  The  eye  and  the 
ear  have  no  need  of  reason  in  order 
to  understand;  they  need  but  to  see 
and  hear.  But  what  can  a  word 
do,  after  all,  with  its  fixed  and  in- 
flexible definiteness,  speaking  to  no 
sense,  and  only  suggesting  in  the 
first  instance  a  cold,  gross  sort  of 
accuracy,  which  is  absolutely  hostile 
to  the  expression  of  emotion  1 

The  application  of  all  this  is, 
that  were  one  to  say  that  tfe  per- 
usal of  her  cousin's  letter  produced 
a  sensation  of  jealousy  in  the  heart 
of  Marie,  a  word  would  be  employ- 
ed that  would  be  as  inappropriate 
as  possible  ;  and  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  any  other  known  word  would 
be  more  inappropriate  still.  Jeal- 
ousy is  a  feeling  of  which,  accurate- 
ly speaking,  she  was  utterly  incap- 
able ;  and  had  she  been  capable  of 
It,  it  would  never  have  been  where 
Ang61ique,  her  heroine  of  heroines, 
was  concerned.  But  is  it  just  pos- 
sible to  conceive  of  a  sort  of  jeal- 
ousy— there  is  no  help  for  it,  the 
word  must  be  used — which  conveys 
no  suggestion  or  taint  of  anything 
hateful  or  degrading,  even  although 
its  cause  is  fanciful  and  even  ab- 
surd 1,  In  the  infinite  series  of 
emotions  there  must  be  some  such 
feeling,  though  the  note  that  repre- 


174 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


sents  it  may  have  no  place  in  any 
recognised  scale.  Indeed  some 
such  thing  must  exist,  for  Marie 
experienced  it.  The  letter  had  sup- 
plied her  with  a  material  founda- 
tion upon  which  to  fix  her  floating 
half-thoughts  about  her  husband. 
She  was  able  to  make  an  uncon- 
scious contrast.  And  yet,  some- 


how or  other,  he  gained  something 
by  the  contrast  too.  And  so,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  her  heart 
was  really  troubled,  and  she  did 
net  know  why. 

But  it  was,  in  truth,  all  plain 
enough.  She,  like  her  husband, 
had  not  exactly  been  standing  still 
all  these  years. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


But  Angelique,  though  excited, 
was  certainly  not  troubled  in  any 
disagreeable  sense.  Not  that  her 
thoughts  and  dreams  were  always 
of  the  most  agreeable  kind;  for, 
thanks  to  her  friends  the  Ray- 
monds, she  had  seen  something  of 
the  world,  and  was  very  naturally 
dissatisfied  with  her  position  in  it. 
She  could  not  avoid  holding  the 
doctrine  that  things  in  general  were 
not  quite  as  they  ought  to  be.  No 
one  likes  to  own  that  he  or  she  does 
not  belong,  by  right  of  nature,  to 
an  aristocracy  of  some  kind  or  other, 
and  every  one  believes  that  his  or 
her  own  kind  is  the  best  and  truest. 
Miss  Clare  would  not  have  agreed 
with  her ;  but  there  is  something, 
at  least,  to  be  said  in  favour  of  the 
idea  favoured  by  Mademoiselle 
Angelique,  that  beauty  and  talent 
are  not  in  their  right  places  when 
they  serve  only  to  attract  penniless 
fiddlers,  and  to  waste  themselves 
upon  one  who,  being,  socially  speak- 
ing, nobody,  was  unable  to  outshine 
by  their  means  the  plainest  and 
stupidest  of  the  class  to  which  Miss 
Clare  and  Miss  Raymond  belonged. 
She  could  not  admire  a  condition 
of  things  in  which  the  maid  had 
to  outshine  the  mistress  in  vain;  in 
which  the  New  Courts  and  other 
good  things  of  life  belonged  to  the 
less  clever ;  and  in  which  Fortune, 
unlike  the  shepherd  of  Ida,  threw 
the  golden  fruit  to  the  less  beau- 
tiful. 

She  was  quite  sufficiently  quick 
to  judge  of  the  motives  of  the 
people  about  her;  and  she  did 
not  suppose  that  Miss  Raymond 


had  been  invited  to  be  a  guest 
at  Earl's  Dene  for  nothing.  In- 
deed, had  she  herself  not  been 
given  to  draw  conclusions  from 
what  she  saw,  the  never-ceasing 
gossip  of  the  town,  always  busy 
with  the  affairs  of  everybody,  would 
have  drawn  them  for  her.  Miss 
Clare  had  not  entertained  a  visitor, 
save  on  matters  of  business,  for 
years ;  and  now,  just  when  her 
heir  had  come  of  age,  and  was  at 
home,  she  was  entertaining  one 
who  was  young,  beautiful,  and  rich. 
Within  the  last  few  hours  Earl's 
Dene  and  New  Court  had  been 
married  many  times  over  by  many 
tongues.  A  great  many  things 
passed  through  tbe  brain  of  Angel- 
ique while  Hugh  Lester  was  stand- 
ing over  her  at  the  harpsichord, 
and  set  her  wits  wandering  in  the 
country  of  infinite  possibilities — a 
process  with  which  coquetry  had 
in  reality  but  very  little  to  do. 
Marie  would  have  stared,  indeed, 
had  she  been  able  to  read  the  last 
thought  that  passed  through  her 
cousin's  mind  before  she  fell  asleep, 
for  it  was  nothing  short  of  this  : — 

"And  suppose  ....  and  sup- 
pose that  I  were  Mrs  Lester  of 
Earl's  Dene  ....  Lady  Lester  of 
Earl's  Dene  ....  Angelique, 
Countess  of  Denethorp  .  .  .  ." 

And  where  she  would  have  ar- 
rived in  her  dreams  heaven  knows, 
were  it  not  that  waking  thoughts 
and  dreams  seldom  have  much  in 
common.  Perhaps  she  experienced 
in  them  the  fate  of  Alnaschar;  per- 
haps they  were  with  Fe"lix. 

But  enough   for  the  present  of 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


175 


girls  and  their  dreams  and  fancies. 
The  war  between  Whigs  and  Tories, 
between  Earl's  Dene  and  the  cloth- 
mills,  had  begun.  Before,  however, 
entering  upon  a  subject  of  such  im- 
portance, yet  one  word  more  must 
bo  bestowed  upon  Angelique,  for 
her  letter  from  Felix  required  an 
answer.  In  the  following  copy  of 
it,  the  words  placed  in  brackets 
appeared  only  in  the  rough  draft, 
and  were  in  her  fair  copy  altered 
to  those  that  immediately  follow 
them.  It  will  be  seen  that  there 
are  not  many  such  alterations  ;  for 
she  was  an  excellent  secretary,  as 
well  for  herself  as  for  Miss  Bay- 
IE  ond  : — 

< '  23  MARKET  STREET, 
DENETHORP,  — th. 

"  MY  DEAE  FELIX, — I  own  I  was 
surprised  to  learn  from  your  letter 
that  you  were  [so  near  me]  in  Lon- 
don. Is  it  quite  prudent  of  you  to 
have  taken  such  a  sudden  step  1 
But  I  suppose  you  considered  it 
well,  and  acted  under  good  advice. 
It  would  be  most  painful  to  me  to 
think  you  had  acted  [thus  on  my 
account]  otherwise.  Did  you  con- 
sult M.  Prosper  first  ?  If  you  did, 
you  have  not  told  me  what  he  said. 
I  am  very  much  afraid  [as  you  say 
it  will  be  a  disappointment  to  you] 
that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  return 
to  town  immediately,  or  even  soon. 
Miss  Raymond  has  not  yet  said  any- 
thing about  coming  back,  and  of 
course  my  movements  depend  en- 
ti  rely  upon  hers.  She  has  been  good 
enough  to  do  without  me  while  she 
is  here,  and  I  am  staying  with  my 
uncle  and  cousins  [and  am  enjoying 
my  visit  to  them  very  much].  Of 
course  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you. 
But  do  riot  think  of  coming  to 
see  me  here ;  it  would  never  do. 
This  I  mean  really.  You  must  stay 
in  London  and  work  for  your  own 
sake,  and  show  a  little  patience  for 
mine.  I  should  be  very  [angry] 
vexed,  indeed,  if  you  were  to  come 
here ;  and  so  you  will  not,  I  am 
sure.  Indeed  I  do  not  see  how  you 
could,  as  you  are  looking  for  an  en- 


gagement ;  and  you  ought  to  get 
one  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  not 
lose  your  chances  for  a  mere  caprice. 
If  you  have  made  a  useful  friend 
in  this  person  to  whom  M.  Prosper 
has  introduced  you,  you  must  not 
lose  him,  if  you  really  mean  to  be 
as  successful  as  I  am  sure  you  may 
be  if  you  like. — With  all  best  wish- 
es, believe  me  your  affectionate 
friend,  ANGELIQUE  LEFORT." 

Never  was  colder  letter  kissed. 
But  then  wisdom  always  seems 
cold,  and  Angelique  was  rapidly 
growing  wise.  It  is  one  thing  for 
a  young  girl,  with  her  character 
scarcely  formed,  to  indulge  her 
first  fancies  by  falling  in  love,  or 
by  imagining  that  she  falls  in  love, 
with  a  kind  of  romance  hero,  espe- 
cially if  she  had  been  touched  by 
the  mania  JByronica ;  but  it  is  a 
very  different  thing  for  the  same 
girl,  when  months  of  youth,  which 
correspond  to  years  of  later  life, 
have  defined  her  feelings  and  made 
her  capable  of  forming  something 
like  a  real  purpose,  to  keep  faithful 
to  mere  romance.  It  is  not  at  all 
wonderful  that,  in  the  day  of  the 
Medoras,  the  Gulnares,  and  their 
tribe,  a  very  little  mystery  should 
have  been  able  to  go  a  long  way  in 
attracting  her  fancy.  Even  now, 
when  Laras  and  Conrads  are  gone 
out  of  fashion,  mystery  is  noto- 
riously by  no  means  a  bad  line  for 
a  man  to  take  if  he  wishes  to  be 
thought  of  with  interest  by  a  very 
young  girl  whose  dreaming  days 
are  not  yet  over.  When,  therefore, 
Mademoiselle  Ange"lique  was  really 
young,  the  young  artist,  who  chose 
to  wear  his  hair  long,  who  talked 
In  the  language  of  romance,  and 
yet  of  sincerity,  about  love,  art,  and 
so  forth  ;  who  came  from  a  land  of 
hills  and  forests,  and  who,  for  any- 
thing that  he  knew  about  his  birth 
and  parentage,  might  have  been 
the  heir  of  the  Bourbons  them- 
selves ;  who  preferred,  as  a  matter 
of  taste,  to  make  love  to  her 
secretly,  and  who  shared  in  that 
absurd  but  not  unamiable  kind  of 


176 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


hypocrisy  which  leads  very  young 
men  to  like  to  make  themselves 
out  to  be  very  much  worse  morally 
than  they  really  are, — had  quite 
enough  points  in  his  favour  to 
touch  her  fancy  if  not  her  heart. 
She  would  have  preferred,  no 
doubt,  that  they  had  been  respec- 
tively sultana  and  pirate,  instead  of 
only  being  dame  de  compagnie  and 
fiddler ;  but  still  imagination  will 
do  a  great  deal  in  such  cases — a 
great  deal  more  than  change  a 
fiddler  into  a  pirate  and  a  dame  de 
compagnie  into  a  sultana  of  sul- 
tanas. The  unromantic  Marie 
would  have  been  safe,  in  all  proba- 
bility, from  the  influence  of  a  real 
and  genuine  Lara;  but  the  vio- 
linist was  unconventional  enough 
in  his  ways,  singular  enough  in  his 
appearance,  and  mysterious  enough 
in  his  origin,  to  pass  in  her  cousin's 
eyes  for  a  sufficiently  good  imita- 
tion of  the  real  thing — as  a  peg  on 
which  she  might  hang  up  her  fan- 
cies to  dry.  For  she  had  thought 
a  great  deal  about  love  in  those 
days— as  much  as  she  was  getting 
to  think  about  marriage  now. 

There  are  one  or  two  proverbs 
that  contain  more  truth  than  false- 
hood ;  and  one  of  them,  unhappily, 
is,  that  familiarity  breeds  contempt. 
Though  mystery  is  a  good  key,  it 
is  a  very  bad  lock;  it  does  very 
well  to  open  the  door  of  a  heart, 
but  it  is  by  no  means  well  adapted 
to  keep  it  safe  and  secure.  This 
must  be  done  by  sheer  strength  ; 
and  of  sheer  strength,  overmuch 
talk  about  love  and  art,  and  the 
youthful  affectations  of  long  locks 
and  mild  wickedness,  are  in  nowise 
symptoms — at  least  not  of  the  sort 
of  strength  that  is  required  to  hold 
for  ever  a  woman  who  had  opened 
her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  good 
things  of  the  real  world  are  by  no 
means  to  be  despised. 

But,  once  more,  it  is  the  eve  of 
battle  ;  and  yet   do   we   linger  in 
ladies'  bowers  1    Nay,  rather 
"  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ;" 

and  in  fact  the  clarion — from  Red- 


chester,  at  eighteenpence  a-day  and 
as  much  beer  as  he  can  swallow — 
is  sounding  to  the  fray;  nor  are 
local  drums  and  fifes  wanting  to 
beat  and  whistle  with  a  heroic  dis- 
regard of  light  and  shade,  of  time 
and  tune.  Words,  as  hard  as  bul- 
lets, and  almost  as  telling,  are 
hurled  about  the  place  incessantly, 
and  every  now  and  then  missiles 
that  are  harder  still ;  standards  are 
displayed,  union-jack  against  union- 
jack,  and  motto  against  motto; 
rosettes  begin  to  enliven  frieze  and 
broadcloth,  on  this  side  with  hue 
of  heaven— on  that,  with  the  colour 
of  flowery  fields:  and  the  armies 
rush  together  in  a  shower  of  gold 
and  silver,  as  though  Denethorp 
were  Danae,  wooed  by  rival  Joves. 
In  a  word,  it  is  a  contested  election 
of  the  good  old  days,  when  men 
hit  at  least  as  hard  as  they  do  now, 
and  far  more  openly. 

He  who  has  seen,  he  who  has 
heard,  may  picture  to  himself  the 
outward  phenomena  of  the  long 
exciting  weeks  that  preceded  the 
nomination  of  a  burgess  to  repre- 
sent in  Parliament  the  borough  of 
Denethorp.  Mr  Prescot  came  down 
from  London,  open-handed,  to 
represent  the  cause  for  which, 
according  to  the  orators  who  held 
forth  at  the  Chequers,  "  Hampden 
died  on  the  field  and  Sydney  on 
the  scaffold."  He  made  an  admir- 
able candidate — far  better,  it  must 
be  confessed,  than  Hugh.  He  was, 
though  not  an  old  man,  an  old  hand 
at  such  things ;  and  if  he  was  not 
actually  much  more  wealthy  than 
Madam  Clare,  and  if  he  did  not 
spend  more  freely — that  was  impos- 
sible— his  resources  were  much 
more  readily  available,  and  he  spent 
with  greater  ostentation  and  eclat. 
He,  moreover,  had  no  local  prestige 
to  lose.  If  he  won,  it  did  not  mat- 
ter how  he  won ;  and  if  he  lost, 
he  lost  no  more  than  that  one  par- 
ticular contest.  And  then  he  was 
the  popular  candidate,  and  had  the 
noise  on  his  side — and  that,  in  an 
old-fashioned  contest,  was  always 
a  great  point  in  a  man's  favour. 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  IV. 


177 


In  a  state  of  things  in  which  the 
sanest  of  men  becomes  part  of  an 
insane  crowd,  noise  creates  sym- 
pathy. The  ordinary  man  always 
likes  to  add  his  voice  to  the  loudest 
chorus ;  and  so  "  Prescot  for  ever  ! " 
was  shouted  forth  much  more  often 
and  much  more  loudly  than  the 
^similar  cry  that  was  given  for 
Lester.  But,  above  all,  while  the 
latter  was  an  untried  boy,  the 
banker  from  London  was  a  man 
of  mark  and  weight,  with  whose 
name  newspaper  politicians  were 
familiar;  and  while  Lester  spoke 
only  like  a  gentleman,  and  that 
badly,  he  spoke  like  an  orator — like 
a  mob-orator  it  may  be,  but  still 
]ike  an  orator.  Altogether  he  was 
the  very  type  of  a  popular  candi- 
date ;  and  his  party  in  Deriethorp 
could  not  have  brought  down  a 
better  man. 

Still  Hugh  had  his  advantages. 
A  feeling  of  duty  is  in  itself  a 
Bource  of  strength,  even  in  an  elec- 
tion; and  he  honestly  believed 
himself  to  be  the  champion  of  the 
light.  Besides,  he  was,  after  all, 
fighting  a  stranger  upon  his  own 
ground — always  an  immense  ad- 
vantage in  every  sort  of  war ;  for 
in  this  respect  the  truest  of  pro- 
verbs shows  its  weak  side,  and 
i'amiliarity  breeds  not  contempt 
but  confidence.  He  was  popular 
also,  and  his  manner  of  canvass 
was  such  as  to  draw  upon  him  no 
personal  ill-will,  even  from  his 
opponents.  That  was  all  reserved 
ior  Madam  Clare,  who  drew  upon 
herself  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  not 
without  real  cause.  She  made  no 
pretence  of  concealing  her  cards, 
and  victory  would  be  of  little  worth 
to  her  unless  it  was  carried  by  a 
high  hand. 

She  was,  however,  wise  enough 
not  to  trust  entirely  to  herself  and 
her  prestige.  It  was  not  without 
good  reason  that  she  placed  great 
reliance  upon  Mr  George  White, 
her  Denethorp  solicitor,  who, 
though  unused  to  election  contests, 
was  not  unequal  to  them,  as  Mr 
l^rescot's  more  practised  agent  very 


soon  discovered.  And  in  no  way 
did  Miss  Clare's  lieutenant-general 
prove  his  wisdom  and  discretion 
better  than  in  first  getting  hold  of 
Mark  Warden,  and  in  afterwards 
gradually  promoting  him  to  be  his 
own  first  lieutenant.  Mr  White 
was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  but 
this  is  the  opinion  of  Mark  that  he, 
after  a  week  or  two  of  work,  ex- 
pressed to  Mr  Brown  : — 

"If  we  were  fighting  for  that 
fellow  Warden  instead  of  young 
Lester,  by  the  Lord  !  I'd  just  go  to 
bed  at  once,  and  order  myself  not 
to  be  called  till  after  the  poll." 

The  practical  man,  young  as  he 
was,  and  new  to  the  work,  found 
his  labour  congenial — far  more  con- 
genial than  he  had  found  Sophocles 
and  Newton.  He  was  the  only 
man  on  the  blue  side  who  could 
fight  the  invader  with  his  own 
peculiar  weapons  on  equal  terms. 
He  canvassed  indefatigably,  and 
not  in  too  scrupulous  a  manner  : 
he  spoke  often  and  well ;  and 
though,  as  an  orator,  he  was  rather 
apt  to  talk  over  the  heads  of  his 
audience,  he  thereby  gained  no 
little  reputation  for  himself.  A 
mob  is  always  rather  flattered  by 
having  addressed  to  it  what  it  does 
not  quite  understand.  And  then, 
too,  he  had  the  advantage  over 
Prescot  of  being  well  up  in  all 
local  allusions ;  and  he  had  the 
prestige  of  having  not  only  been 
born  and  bred  in  the  place,  but 
of  having  become  an  honour  to  it 
besides — a  prestige  that  he  and 
White  worked  to  the  uttermost. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  cry  of  "  Les- 
ter for  ever ! "  was  only  less  loud 
because  for  the  name  of  "  Lester  " 
'was  so  often  substituted  that  of 
"  Warden." 

Madam  Clare  was  not  slow  to 
see  how  things  were  going,  and  she 
became  not  a  little  jealous.  But 
she  made  him  a  welcome  visitor  at 
Earl's  Dene  whenever  he  had  occa- 
sion to  call  there,  and  treated  him 
as  his  merits  and  services  deserved. 
Miss  Raymond  too,  who  had 
caught  the  election  fever  in  its 


178 


Earl's  Dene.— PartlV. 


[Feb. 


most  intense  form — so  much  so  as 
to  become  sometimes  quite  angry 
with  her  candidate  for  not  coming 
out  so  strongly  as  he  ought — came 
to  treat  Warden  as  the  hero  of  the 
hour  ;  indeed  she  heard  his  praises 
sung  by  all  around  her  so  often 
and  so  loudly  that,  being  a  very 
different  sort  of  young  lady  from 
what  Miss  Clare  had  been,  she 
quite  got  rid  of  the  impression  that 
he  had  somehow  made  upon  her 
at  their  first  meeting.  It  was  true 
that  he  could  not  ride  across 
country ;  but  then  he  could  talk : 
and  even  with  more  enthusiastic 
amazons  than  Alice  Raymond  the 
tongue  of  silver  outweighs  the  best 
hand  that  ever  lay  on  bridle,  when 
its  owner  knows  how  to  use  it  dis- 
creetly. As  for  Marie,  she  grew 
ten  times  more  proud  of  him  than 
ever,  and  took  such  warm  though 
ignorant  interest  in  all  he  did,  that 
he  would  have  been  more  than  man 
had  he  not  felt  the  old  chain  renew 
itself  in  spite  of  everything. 

And  then,  too,  in  those  exciting, 
harassing  weeks  he  needed  rest 
sometimes,  more  especially  as  the 
life  he  was  now  leading  was  not 
well  calculated  to  restore  his  nerv- 
ous tone.  And  where  should  he 
find  rest  1  At  home  1  His  father 
now  talked  nothing  but  politics, 
and  Mr  Brown,  of  whom  he  had  to 
see  quite  enough  during  the  day, 
had  now  become  a  more  frequent 
evening  visitor  than  ever.  At 
Earl's  Dene?  Nothing  but  poli- 
tics there  also  ;  and  besides,  when 
he  went  there  he  had  to  exert  him- 
self, and  to  sustain  his  reputation. 
Where,  in  fact,  should  he  find  rest 
but  where  he  ought  to  find  it — that 
is  to  say,  with  Marie  1 

Nor  was  he  the  only  visitor  at 
Monsieur  Lefort's.  He  generally 
confined  himself  to  calling  there 
in  the  evening ;  but  when  he  did 
chance  to  go  there  in  the  daytime, 


he  more  than  once  found  Hugh 
Lester  neglecting  his  interests  for 
a  while  to  hear  Mademoiselle  Ange- 
lique  sing. 

This  sounds  but  a  slight  matter, 
nor  did  any  one  concerned  see  any 
harm  in  it.  To  Marie  it  would 
have  seemed  the  most  natural  thing 
possible  had  all  the  county  crowded 
into  the  little  room  to  hear  the 
music  that  she  held  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  world ;  and,  girl 
as  she  was,  she  was  not  one  of 
those  who  cannot  see  two  people 
together  without  at  once  leaping 
to  extreme  conclusions.  Monsieur 
Lefort  did  not  trouble  his  head 
about  it — he  had  other  things  to 
think  about  than  such  nonsense. 
Warden  could  not  have  seen  any 
danger  in  it,  or  he  would  not  rather 
have  encouraged  these  visits  of 
Lester's  than  otherwise,  with  a 
view  to  getting  his  candidate  out  of 
the  way  while  he  worked  to  better 
purpose  without  him.  Lester,  one 
may  assume,  did  not ;  nor  Ange- 
lique,  one  may  hope,  when  one  re- 
members the  existence  of  Felix. 
What  Madam  Clare  would  have 
thought  about  it  is  another  thing  ; 
but,  fortunately  for  her  repose  of 
mind,  her  nephew  did  not  include 
his  visits  to  No.  23  in  his  daily 
journal  of  the  progress  of  his  can- 
vass. He  always  had  plenty  to 
tell  her  without  alluding  to  such 
a  trifle. 

But  the  result  of  it  was,  that 
more  and  more  he  left  Warden  to 
bear  the  burden  and  heat  of  the 
day  alone,  and  that  the  latter  daily 
advanced  in  the  trust  and  confi- 
dence of  Earl's  Dene.  Miss  Clare 
did  not  like  him  overmuch ;  but 
she  trusted  him  and  was  grateful 
to  him,  and  that,  with  her,  meant 
something  better  than  liking.  At 
all  events,  if  he  was  setting  sail 
under  false  colours,  it  was  with  a 
fair  and  favourable  wind. 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  tlie  Suez  Canal.— Part  IT. 


179 


THE   OPENING  OF  THE   SUEZ   CANAL  : 

AS   COMMUNICATED  TO   BULLION  BALES,   ESQ.    OF  MANCHESTER, 
BY   HIS  FRIEND  MR  SCAMPER. 


PART  II. 


MY  DEAR  BALES, — You  have 
stuck  so  closely  to  your  household 
gods  and  your  iron  safe  that  it  would 
be  idle  to  ask  you  whether  or  not 
you  believe  the  proverb,  "  Ccelum 
non  animum  mutant  qui  trans  mare 
currunt."  For  my  part,  wanderer 
as  I  have  been,  I  believed  it  thor- 
oughly— the  few  instances  where  it 
did  not  apply  in  my  experience 
being  but  brief  ecstasies  of  hot 
youth,  exceptions  to  prove  the  rule. 
Whether  I  sojourned  beneath  a  ver- 
tical sun  or  in  a  frozen  climate, 
w  hether  my  pace  was  fast  or  slow, 
if  I  gave  myself  up  to  sloth,  or  if  I 
took  the  wings  of  the  morning  and 
fled  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
sea,  still  black  care  was  behind  me. 
The  inevitable  Ego  moving  as  I 
moved,  halting  where  I  halted, 
would  never  let  me  escape.  I  could 
flee  from  zone  to  zone,  but  my  con- 
sciousness, my  trouble,  my  burden, 
they  travelled  as  fast  as  I :  heat 
could  not  quell  a  fault  of  disposi- 
tion, nor  ice  remove  a  pain.  Van- 
ity and  vexation,  I  said.  It  is  but 
lost  labour.  I  cannot  gain  a  stride 
on  myself.  The  heavens,  the  earth, 
the  shores,  the  woods,  are  different, 
but  I  am  I.  Then  one  day  I  passed 
into  a  region  where  the  sun's  rays 
seemed  to  come  to  us  through  an 
amethyst,  they  were  so  warm  and 
purple— where  every  inch  of  the  soil 
had  power  to  compel  the  mind,  it 
was  so  rich  in  tales  and  relics — 
where  the  figures  as  they  walked 
to  and  fro  were  as  though  they  be- 
longed to  some  phantasma,  some 
other  life  where  dreams  became 
material  and  realities  fled  away  into 
dreamland.  Every  faculty  of  the 
mind  was  attracted  by  outward 
tilings,  and  flew  toward  them  as 
the  nails  from  the  Calendar's  ship 


sprang  to  the  rock  of  adamant ;  not 
one  could  spare  a  glance  inward  to 
observe  how  it  was  being  wrought 
upon.  There  was  food  enough  for 
thought,  but  it  was  food  that  temp- 
ted across  the  gulf  of  centuries,  and 
among  ruins  and  in  riddles.  I 
walked  and  enjoyed  without  stint 
or  fear.  I  knew  it  not,  but  I  was 
I  no  longer ;  my  identity  was  gone ; 
I  was  transported  out  of  myself — 
not  the  sky  only,  but  the  mind  was 
changed.  This  transformation, 
Bales,  was  wrought  in  Egypt,  where, 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now, 
and,  I  suppose,  ever  will  be,  magic 
pervades  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky 
— where  a  mysterious  veil  comes 
down  between  you  and  the  outside 
former  world,  and  you  are  lapped 
in  scenes  and  thoughts  of  another 
existence.  I  found  that  I  recovered 
the  power  of  enjoying  almost  like 
a  child — that  memories,  cares,  and 
pains  were  softened  down,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  one  rainbow.  So 
I  lived  and  dreamed.  One  only 
link  remained  to  bind  me  to  the 
world  which  I  had  left — one  which 
resisted  sorcery,  yea,  and  will  resist. 
I  have  never  ceased  to  yearn  toward 
a  hearth  far  away  in  England,  nor 
to  think  of  the  faces  gathered  round 
it  in  the  dark  cold  evenings,  where, 
haply,  they  talk  of  me  the  wanderer, 
jand  reckon  how  long  it  may  be  till 
I  rejoin  the  circle.  This  link  at 
least  is  perfect  and  unweakened ; 
sorcery  would  attempt  in  vain. 
The  magicians  did  so  with  their 
enchantments,  but  they  could  not. 

As  I  read  over  this  beginning  of 
my  letter,  I  think  the  internal  evi- 
dence will  pretty  well  prove  what 
I  have  said  about  my  mental  con- 
dition. One  that  tries  to  pass  for 
a  staid  commercial  man,  too!  I 


180 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


[Feb. 


think  I  see  your  elongated  face  and 
arched  eyebrows  as  you  read. 
"Poor  fellow!"  you  have  been  say- 
ing for  the  last  five  minutes ;  "  poor 
fellow !  I  knew  that  he  was  a  little 
flighty,  but  this — this  is  really  very 
sad  indeed.  Restlessness  is  always 
indicative  of  something,  you  know 
— something  very  unsettled ! "  Your 
forefinger  may  have  unconsciously 
sought  your  forehead  as  you  said 
so  ;  but  fear  not  any  serious  aber- 
ration for  the  present,  Bales.  To 
prove  to  you  that  I  have  not  quite 
lost  control  of  my  pen,  I  will  de- 
liver myself  immediately  like  a 
man  of  this  world.  And  now  let 
me  think — what  was  I  going  to  tell 
you  1  I  announced  in  my  former 
iny  arrival  at  Ismai'lia  and  the 
doings  there.  Now  perpend  as  I 
go  on  with  my  adventures. 

After  the  Viceroy's  ball  there 
was  not  much  to  interest  one  in 
the  newly-risen  town.  I  saw  two 
or  three  Egyptian  regiments — one 
lancers,  the  rest  infantry — moving. 
On  the  whole,  their  appearance  was 
good,  the  men  looking  for  the  most 
part  sinewy  and  smart,  and  step- 
ping well.  The  cavalry  horses  were 
certainly  not  to  be  admired.  They 
were  small,  and  though  showing 
good  necks  and  chests,  invariably 
fell  away  in  the  hind  quarters. 
They  were  over -caparisoned,  too. 
Very  gorgeous  housings  are  toler- 
able on  only  remarkably  fine  ani- 
mals. 

Some  of  my  companions  went  to 
see  the  performance  of  dancing  der- 
vishes, which  appears  to  have  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  a  spinning  course 
in  which  the  devotees  went  round 
one  after  the  other  until  exhausted. 
Then  there  were  wonderful  wag- 
gings  of  the  heads,  and  unintelli- 
gible shoutings  and  groanings,  the 
whole  having  probably  a  religious 
meaning  that  is  hid  from  aliens 
like  us.  Later  on  I  saw  some  der- 
vishes myself,  but  could  make  no- 
thing of  their  doings. 

On  the  19th  the  Empress  entered 
the  southern  portion  of  the  Canal, 
and  all  of  us  should  have  recom- 


menced our  voyage,  but  a  want  of 
clear  instructions  brought  about 
considerable  delay.  We  received 
some  silly  order  to  shift  our  berth, 
and  got  up  steam  for  the  purpose 
of  obeying  it,  which,  when  other 
ships  saw,  they  assumed  that  we 
were  going  to  forestall  them  in  the 
passage,  so  they  too  got  up  steam, 
and  there  was  an  ugly  competition. 
During  the  scramble,  a  Russian 
ship  that  ought  to  have  followed 
us  attempted  to  run  across  our 
bows  so  as  to  reach  the  Canal  be- 
fore us.  It  was  a  manoeuvre  ad- 
mitted on  all  sides  to  be  unwar- 
rantable, and  our  Russian  friend 
made  rather  a  bad  thing  of  it,  for 
he  produced  a  collision  of  which  he 
did  not  get  the  best.  He  hauled 
off  from  us  ranting  and  swearing 
vehemently,  and  with  one  of  the 
planks  on  his  port  quarter  uncom- 
fortably smashed.  The  effect  of 
the  disorder  was,  that  further  pas- 
sage on  that  day  was  prohibited,  so 
that  we  had  to  wait  another  night 
in  Lake  Timseh.  On  the  morning 
of  the  20th,  however,  we  got  once 
more  into  the  Canal,  and  sped  along 
for  some  time  freely.  After  break- 
fast we  were  alarmed  by  a  stoppage ; 
and  the  Canal  making  a  bend  to 
the  right  about  half  or  three-quar- 
ters of  a  mile  in  front  of  us,  we 
were  enabled  to  see  what  was  going 
on  for  some  way  toward  Suez. 
Right  before  us  and  up  to  the  bend 
all  the  ships  were  stationary.  Be- 
yond the  bend,  at  the  very  limit  of 
our  ken,  were  ships,  diminished  to 
the  size  of  boats,  and  their  masts 
to  fine  lines,  calmly  advancing ;  but 
running  the  eye  along  them  back- 
wards towards  ourselves,  with  sharp 
scrutiny  we  soon  came  upon  the 
masts  and  funnel  of  one  which  did 
not  advance,  and  which  was  evi- 
dently blocking  the  rest.  This  was 
the  Peluse,  a  ship  drawing  some  19 
or  20  feet.  Her  hull  was  screened 
by  the  bank  of  the  Canal,  but  we 
saw  her  masts  and  flags,  and  the 
smoke  rising  from  her  funnel,  by 
which  last  sign  we  knew  that  she 
was  doing  what  she  could  to  get 


1870.] 


The  Opening  oftJie  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


181 


cff,  and  did  not  consider  her  case 
j  ast  praying  for.  That  occupation 
of  watching  a  distant  object  is  not 
at  all  pleasant,  especially  when  it 
has  to  be  long  continued,  as  it  had 
i:.i  this  instance,  for  we  looked  and 
looked,  but  could  not  be  satisfied 
that  the  masts  moved  a  tittle.  At 
first  we  kept  flattering  ourselves 
that  the  ship  was  slowly  advancing, 
but  every  idea  of  the  kind  proved 
erroneous  ;  and  after  a  while  we 
got  the  mainmast  in  line  with  a 
rock  and  a  bush  from  a  particular 
spot  on  our  own  forecastle,  and  by 
this  method  soon  ascertained  be- 
yond a  doubt  that  she  was  fast. 
When  the  stoppage  had  lasted 
about  an  hour  and  a  half,  I  confess 
to  you  that  it  began  to  look  serious. 
There  was  not.  however,  a  very  fine 
opportunity  afforded  to  them  of 
little  faith  for  prophecy  or  denun- 
ciation, because,  firstly,  there  was 
reason  to  hope  that  the  leading 
ships  were  already  close  to,  if  not 
in,  the  waters  of  Suez ;  and,  second- 
ly, because,  if  our  ship  could  not 
get  on  in  reasonable  time,  the  fresh- 
water canal  and  the  new  railway 
— both  tolerably  near — presented 
means  of  sending  on  passengers 
and  baggage.  It  could  be  only  a 
partial  failure  at  the  best,  and  so 
the  whining  had  to  be  done  gently. 
A  small  tug-boat  now  passed  us, 
bound,  as  we  soon  saw,  for  the 
scene  of  the  accident,  for  her  smoke 
was  shortly  seen  close  to  the  smoke 
of  the  Peluse.  We  at  length  gave 
up  our  watch,  and  dispersed  accord- 
ing to  our  fancies  —  some  to  lie 
down,  some  to  smoke,  and  some  to 
pack  their  clothes,  which  now  they 
were  assured  they  must  send  on 
shore.  I  went  below  to  write  a 
letter  for  the  post  at  Suez,  and  I 
wrote  for  some  half-hour  or  more, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  would 
go  up  and  see  how  the  Peluse  was 
faring  before  lunch.  I  had  picked 
oat  exactly  the  right  minute  for  my 
examination,  for,  on  taking  my 
station  in  line  with  the  rock  and 
the  bush,  our  landmarks,  and  di- 
recting my  glass  on  the  mainmast, 


I  saw  plainly  that  either  the  Peluse 
or  we  had  moved  a  little — she  had 
moved  some  yards,  or  we  had  swung 
or  drifted  a  few  inches.  The  change 
sufficed,  however,  to  revive  the  in- 
terest of  watching,  and  I  soon  had 
the  satisfaction  of  observing  that 
the  Peluse  was,  beyond  a  doubt, 
once  more  under  way — a  piece  of 
intelligence  which  I  was  not  long 
in  communicating  to  my  fellow- 
voyagers.  As  this  was  the  great- 
est so  it  was  the  last  hindrance 
that  happened  throughout  our  pas- 
sage of  the  Canal.  The  Peluse  must 
have  stuck  between  the  stations  of 
Tussoum  and  Serapium.  Presently 
after  starting  again  we  came  up  to 
the  former  station.  The  capitano 
whom  I  mentioned  in  my  last  letter 
had  been  along  the  whole  line  of 
the  Canal  before;  so  he,  taking  his 
cigar  from  his  mouth  as  the  station 
opened  to  view,  said,  for  general 
information,  "  This  is  Tussoum." 

"  Too  soon  !  "  answered  a  staid, 
matter-of-fact  passenger,  who  was 
very  angry  with  the  Peluse,  and 
much  dreaded  that  she  had  lost 
him  a  week  in  the  transmission  of 
an  important  despatch  to  Europe. 
"  Too  soon  !  I  should  like  to  know 
how  :  anything  but  that." 

"Yes,  of  course,  it  is  Tussoum. 
I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  capitano. 

"That  may  be  your  view,  but 
you'll  find  very  few  to  agree  with 
you.  I  don't  call  it  too  soon." 

The  rapid  capitano  began  to  dis- 
cern; he  turned  to  me  and  with- 
drew his  cigar  once  more.  "  No,  it 
is  not  too  soon,  because  it  is  too 
late;  but  it  is  Tussoum  all  the 
same.  He  is  droll;"  and  he 
sucked  at  the  cigar  again.  The 
'staid  passenger  threw  him  a  look 
of  compassionate  imbecility  and  re- 
sumed his  walk,  fuming.  It  was 
exactly  like  the  blunder  of  a  farce. 

We  were  getting  now  into  view 
of  some  tolerably  high  ground  to 
the  right  of  the  Canal.  Chains  of 
hills,  trending  from  the  direction 
of  Cairo  upon  Suez,  broke  the 
monotony  of  the  desert.  They 
showed  some  strata  of  hard  rock. 


182 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


[Feb. 


These  were  the  ranges  of  Gene"ffe, 
Awerat,  and  Attaka.  About  there 
the  Canal  is  cut  through  some  com- 
paratively high  ground ;  and  here, 
perhaps,  more  than  at  any  other 
point  of  the  work,  the  fall  of  drift- 
sand  into  the  channel  is  to  be 
dreaded.  That  some  obstruction, 
entailing  a  running  charge,  will  be 
continually  caused  by  the  sand 
along  most  of  the  cuttings,  there 
is  every  reason  to  expect;  but 
this  apprehension,  so  plausible 
when  propounded  in  general  terms, 
dwarfs  rapidly  when  estimated  by 
rule  and  expressed  in  figures.  It 
is  calculated  that  some  ,£20,000  per 
annum — no  very  great  sum  in  re- 
spect of  the  magnitude  of  the  work 
and  certain  large  expenses  of  main- 
taining it — will  pay  for  the  removal 
of  all  drift-sand  from  the  bed  of 
the  Canal,  and  of  that  which  may 
be  washed  in  from  the  banks  or 
with  the  sea-water.  And  it  must 
be  remembered  that  between  Is- 
mai'lia  and  Suez,  where  the  fresh- 
water and  maritime  canals  run  in 
parallel  directions,  the  former  will 
have  a  very  favourable  influence  as 
regards  the  moving  sand,  by  its 
power  of  producing  a  broad  strip  of 
vegetation  on  either  side  of  it,  and 
of  thereby  lessening,  to  an  extent 
which  we  cannot  yet  exactly  esti- 
mate, the  quantity  of  loose  sand  in 
the  vicinity. 

After  passing  Serapium  we  were 
soon  in  view  of  the  Bitter  Lakes, 
which,  on  this  20th  November, 
stretched  out  a  broad  fine  expanse 
of  water,  particularly  refreshing  to 
eyes  that  had  been  so  long  watching 
the  monotonous  features  of  a  sandy 
wilderness.  The  large  area  of  water, 
and  the  apparent  depth  of  it,  greatly 


astonished  me,  for  I  remembered — 
and  you  will  remember  when  I 
allude  to  the  circumstance — that  it 
was  only  in  autumn  last  that  the 
waters  of  the  Red  Sea  were  led  into 
these  basins ;  and,  to  judge  from  the 
time  that  Lake  Timseh  took  to  fill, 
the  Bitter  Lakes,  eight  or  ten 
times  as  large,  would  have  required 
a  year  at  least.  But  there  is  this 
to  be  considered,  that  the  salt- 
water from  Lake  Timseh  had  been 
allowed  to  pass  through  the  Canal 
into  the  basin  for  some  time  pre- 
vious to  the  severance  of  the  bar- 
riers which  kept  out  the  Red  Sea ; 
that  Lake  Timseh  was  filled  from 
the  Mediterranean  alone,  while  the 
Bitter  Lakes  drew  from  both  seas  ; 
and  that  the  section  of  the  Canal, 
when  it  began  to  feed  Lake  Tim- 
seh, was  a  very  much  smaller  figure 
than  it  is  now.  In  making  com- 
parisons at  a  distance  one  is  apt  to 
overlook  these  little  circumstances 
which  so  materially  affect  results,  an 
observation  which  might  have  been 
suggested  by  the  result  of  almost 
every  operation  related  to  the 
Canal.  I  entreat  you  to  bear  it  in 
mind  when  you  read  the  predic- 
tions which  are  still  being  reck- 
lessly published  as  to  the  Canal's 
future.  Stubborn  facts,  which  it 
was  beyond  the  power  of  pen  and 
ink  to  extenuate  or  contradict,  have 
all  along  proved  that  De  Lesseps, 
Voisin,  Lavallay,  and  the  other 
bold  minds,  knew  very  well  what 
they  were  about  when  they  pro- 
claimed to  the  world  what  they  in- 
tended to  do.  It  is  not  they,  but 
their  supercilious  ignorant  revilers 
that  have  throughout  the  history 
of  the  work  been  found  in  the 
wrong.*  Choose  then,  Bales,  whe- 


*  On  the  llth  June  1859,  the  correspondent  of  the  '  Morning  Post '  wrote  from 
Alexandria  as  follows  : — 

"  M.  de  Lesseps  formally  proceeded  to  inaugurate  the  commencement  of  the 
works  by  making  a  speech  to  the  audience  he  had  collected  round  him,  consist- 
ing of  the  commissioners,  a  few  dozen  Maltese  and  French  labourers  hired  for  the 
occasion  at  Alexandria,  and  the  Arab  guides  and  camel-drivers  who  guided  them 
to  the  place.  He  then  turned  up  the  first,  and  probably  the  last,  sod,  or  rather 
shovelful  of  the  sand  on  the  site  of  the  entrance  of  the  future  Suez  Canal  into  the 
Mediterranean,  and  desiring  the  assistants  to  do  the  same,  proclaimed  the  grand 


1870.] 


TJie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


183 


ther  you  will  follow  blind  guides 
who  have  misunderstood  and  mis- 
represented almost  every  step  in 
this  great  work,  and  have  done  and 
are  doing  their  best  to  verify  their 
own  predictions,  or  whether  you 
will  trust  those  who  have  estab- 
lished the  highest  claim  to  your 
confidence  by  working  out,  in  spite 
of  physical  and  moral  difficulties 
attending  the  execution,  and  in 
spite  of  detraction,  these  immense 
designs ! 

Whether  the  Bitter  Lakes  are  full 
or  not,  it  is  certain  that  there  is  suf- 
ficient water  in  them  to  allow  large 
steamers  to  scour  along  regardless 
of  the  exact  line  of  the  Canal.  As 
you  work  out  of  the  long  narrow 
passage  and  float  into  the  broad  in- 
land sea  there  is  a  disposition  to  frisk 
and  deviate,  to  try  the  pinions,  as  it 
wore,  and  feel  that  the  good  ship  can 
slant  and  double,  and  turn  on  her 
centre,  and  shake  the  water  from  her 
tail  whenever  she  has  room  to  dis- 
port herself.  In  our  case,  however, 
the  energy  called  up  by  the  expanse 
was  not  wasted  in  gambols.  We 
breathed  our  barky  and  did  a  bit  of 


business  at  the  same  time.  For  it 
so  happened  that  a  rival,  a  ship 
belonging  to  a  company  which  had 
had  the  impudence  to  proclaim  our 
company  a  delusion  and  a  snare, 
and  to  say  that  our  boats  were 
miserable  creeping  barges,  scarcely 
able  to  drag  their  slow  lengths  six 
miles  an  hour,  was  before  us.  But 
our  enemies,  though  they  had  writ- 
ten a  book,  and  proved  their  superi- 
ority to  demonstration  in  ink,  had 
carefully  avoided  the  minor  test  of 
a  trial  in  salt  water.  Our  skipper 
had  said  nothing  as  the  last  few 
furlongs  of  the  Canal  were  passed ; 
but  it  is  probable  that  mighty 
thoughts  were  seething  in  his  breast, 
for  ho  sooner  did  we  see  ourselves 
in  the  open  lake  than  he  signified 
his  intention  of  bringing  the  enemy 
to  action.  He  was  a  mild  Italian, 
with  a  musical  voice,  and  did  not 
use  very  terrible  words;  but  his 
sentiments,  taken  out  of  the  bocca 
Romana  and  put  into  a  bocca  Sas- 
sonese,  would  read  thus  :  "  By  jingo ! 
here's  this  backbiting  lubber  right 
ahead ;  he  can't  haul  oft7,  and  must 
show  what  he's  made  of.  Clap  on 


work  to  have  begun.  This  solemn  farce  being  over,  they  returned  to  Alexandria," 
&c.  &c. 

The  'Times'  of  December  27,  1860,  has  the  following  : — "  Will  our  friends  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Strait  forgive  us  if  we  remind  them  of  a  subject  on  which 
they  were  talking  with  considerable  vehemence  a  few  months  ago  ?  Pray,  how  is 
the  Isthmus  of  Suez  getting  on  ?  We  are  impatient  for  the  performance  of  those 
nmgnificent  promises.  We  are  waiting  anxiously  to  sail  through  that  bit  of  desert 
which  cuts  us  off  from  the  East,  and  sends  us  down  across  the  equator,  and  round 
the  stormy  Cape." 

From  the  '  Saturday  Review '  of  31st  December  1859  we  extract  the  subjoined : 
• — ' '  Let  us  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  M.  de  Lesseps  was  as  great  an 
en  gineer  as  he  is  an  enthusiast — that,  owing  to  the  pious  intercessions  of  the  480 
Reman  Catholic  priests  who  have  signified  their  adhesion  to  his  plan,  it  was  no 
longer  the  nature  of  sand  to  drift,  or  of  mud  banks  to  accumulate ;  let  us  imagine 
that  genius,  blessed  by  Cardinal  Antonelli,  had  achieved  miracles,  and  that  the 
French  Canal  was  a,  fait  accompli.  .  .  . 

"  Unfortunately  for  M.  de  Lesseps,  and  perhaps  for  Europe,  a  canal  such  as 
lie  has  projected  is  absolutely  impossible.  The  greatest  European  engineers, 
in i 'lading  the  late  Mr  R.  Stephenson,  are  unanimous  in  representing  the  mechani- 
cal obstacles  to  its  construction  as  insurmountable.  Supposing  even  that  they 
could  be  overcome,  further  difficulties  remain  which  would  prevent  it  from  ever 
becoming  a  great  European  route.  .  .  . 

"The  First  Napoleon — who,  like  other  great  men,  had  great  dreams — re- 
garded the  possession  of  the  Nile  as  a  step  to  the  possession  of  the  Indus. 
The  canal  which  M.  de  Lesseps  is  now  projecting  is  but  a  rechanffti,  with  some 
sli  ght  alterations,  of  a  design  first  planned  during  the  campaign  in  Egypt.  Un- 
happily the  smaller  mind  which  has  borrowed  a  great  man's  ideas  lias  not  the 
geaius  which  told  their  author  that  they  were  impracticable,"  &c.  &c. 


184 


The  Opening  of  tlie  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


[Feb. 


then,  my  lads,  and  we'll  bring  him 
to  his  bearings  before  he  can  say 
Jack  Robinson.  Confound  him  !  " 
We  began  to  gain  upon  him,  seeing 
which,  and  instinctively  divining 
our  purpose,  the  enemy  spread  a 
lot  of  canvas,  hoisted  up  his  boats, 
which  he  had  been  towing,  and 
made  all  taut  for  a  race.  After  this 
it  was  soon  apparent  that  we  did 
not  gain  upon  him  as  at  first :  it 
was  certain  that  we  could  not  pass 
him  immediately  ;  it  was  doubtful 
whether  we  could  pass  him  at  all. 
Faint  cheers  from  the  enemy's 
decks ;  he  is  taking  heart ;  the 
betting  not  at  all  in  favour  of  our 
own  ship  ;  reactionary  feeling  ; 
hah  !  why  the  devil  did  you  try 
it  1  Skipper  probably  did  not 
know  that  he  was  valiant  and  so 
cunning  of  fence,  or  he  had  seen 
him  damned  ere  he  had  challenged 
him.  Skipper  does  not  give  in, 
though.  Fas  est  et  ab  hoste  doceri. 
He  does  not,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  incline  to  carrying  much 
canvas,  but  he,  too,  is  towing  his 
boats — up  with  them  !  Boats  are 
got  in  and  cradled ;  barky  seems 
to  feel  some  relief;  she  is  certainly 
stepping  out  better  ;  does  she  gain 
at  all  now  ?  betting  very  dull ; 
enemy  seems  to  hold  his  own  ; 
he  will  enter  the  Canal  at  the 
end  of  the  lakes  before  us  again. 
Skipper  excited ;  everybody  ex- 
cited ;  it  will  be  a  neck-and-neck 
thing  at  the  worst.  No,  by  Jove  ! 
no.  We  are  gaining,  though  but 
slightly.  Enemy  sees  it,  and  ceases 
to  cheer  ;  puts  on  all  his  steam  ; 
so  do  we ;  advantage  slightly  on 
our  side.  In  the  mid-lake  the  two 
boats  are  nearly  abreast ;  cheering 
from  our  decks  ;  enemy  disheart- 
ened ;  enough  of  the  lake  left  for 
us  to  get  a  full  length  ahead  at  this 
pace.  We  do  more ;  we  beat  him 
out  and  out,  and  show  him  the 
name  on  our  stern  as  we  go  first 
into  the  Canal.  Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
The  passengers  in  both  ships  are  as 
keen  about  the  race  as  if  they  had 
a  personal  interest  in  their  respec- 


tive ships — carried  away  by  the 
spirit  of  rivalry,  like  Dr  Johnson  at 
Plymouth,  when  he  said,  "  Sir,  I 
hate  a  Docker." 

The  race  has  taken  us  through 
the  lakes,  and  as  the  shades  of 
evening  fall  we  are  in  the  last 
stage  of  our  transit — namely,  the 
Chalouf  cutting  and  the  excavated 
channel  between  that  and  the  Red 
Sea.  It  is  amusing  to  find  how 
the  bugbears  that  were  so  elabor- 
ately dressed  up  to  look  specious 
and  frighten  people  from  the 
thought  of  the  Canal  have  had 
their  stuffing  shaken  out  of  them. 
It  cannot  be  forgotten  how  evapora- 
tion was  to  dry  up  the  Bitter  Lakes 
much  faster  than  the  Canal  could 
feed  them  with  water,  and  how  the 
salt  deposited  by  the  evaporation 
was  to  fill  up  the  basin  in  half  no 
time.  Well,  the  salt  water  has  run 
very  steadily  in,  and  is  undoubted- 
ly, in  fact,  able  to  supply  the  lakes 
much  faster  than  evaporation  can 
diminish  them;  and  as  for  the  salt, 
it  seems  to  have  altogether  slipped 
out  of  notice.  Even  theoretically 
the  terrors  will  not  bear  handling. 
Taking  the  probable  amount  of 
evaporation  over  the  whole  surface 
of  the  Bitter  Lakes,  it  may  amount, 
Mr  Hawkshaw  calculates,  to  from  9 
to  10  feet  in  depth  in  a  year,  but 
the  tides  from  Suez  will  send  in 
twice  as  much  water  as  would  thus 
be  withdrawn.  The  deposit  of  salt, 
even  if  it  were  not  disturbed  by 
currents  or  winds,  and  were  allowed 
to  settle  quietly  down,  which  it  will 
not  be,  would  not  amount  to  three 
inches  in  a  year  ! 

While  in  the  Chalouf  cutting  we 
were  ordered  to  drop  our  anchor  for 
the  night,  that  we  might  enter  the 
harbour  of  Suez  by  daylight.  There 
was  such  a  general  impression  now 
that  we  were  to  get  through  that 
nobody  took  the  trouble  to  misre- 
present the  meaning  of  this  order, 
or  to  make  it  a  text  for  lamenta- 
tions. Far  otherwise  ;  it  was  the 
last  night  that  the  same  party 
would  all  spend  together  on  board, 


1870.1 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  IT. 


185 


and  we  resolved  that  this  dinner 
should  be  the  most  cheery  of  a  very 
cheery  series.  To  this  end  we  went 
to  work  with  a  will,  and  there  being 
on  board  every  requisite  for  getting 
up  the  moral  steam,  we  were  a  mar- 
vellous short  time  in  becoming 
kindly  affectioned  one  to  another, 
and  in  finding  out  that  everybody 
was  the  best  fellow  that  everybody 
else  had  ever  known.  We  drank 
cordially  to  the  health  of  our  kind 
host  and  hostess,  who  had  brought 
us  under  such  pleasant  circum- 
stances to  see  these  great  sights, 
and  then  we  flung  about  toasts 
ratr  er  wildly  and  irrelevantly,  fight- 
ing off,  as  it  were,  what  we  knew 
was  coming,  and  was  to  be  the 
health  of  the  evening.  Our  skipper 
had  earned  the  goodwill  of  every 
one  on  board.  He  was  only  an 
Italian,  and  could  not  therefore  be 
expected  to  know  the  deportment 
which  we  Northmen  consider  essen- 
tial to  the  dignity  of  the  quarter- 
deck. Accordingly,  when  asked  a 
question,  the  poor  fellow  had  always 
given  a  civil  answer ;  if  he  saw  a 
landsman  perplexed,  or  heard  him 
blundering  about  marine  affairs, 
he  kindly  explained  matters ;  and 
whenever  he  found  the  rules  of  the 
ship  giving  real  inconvenience  to 
any  of  the  party,  he  relaxed  them 
as  much  as  possible.  At  anxious 
times  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
questioned,  and  had  always  a  com- 
forting response;  and  when,  after 
being  warned  and  entreated,  we 
persisted  in  getting,  one  after  an- 
other, between  him  and  his  helms- 
man, he  displayed  the  long-suffering 
of  Job.  It  had  been  decided  that 
we  should  not  leave  the  ship  with- 
out arrangements  for  presenting 
him  with  a  souvenir  of  our  pleasant 
and  most  interesting  voyage  ;  and 
our  request  that  he  would  accept 
the  c  >ffering  was  to  be  preferred  in 
proposing  his  health  this  night. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  who  ought 
to  be  our  spokesman  on  the  occa- 
sion, as  there  was  a  person  on  board 
whose  rank  and  office  marked  him 


for  the  lead  ;  but  this  person  could 
not  speak  Italian — at  least  he  could 
speak  only  a  peculiar  dialect  of  it 
(I  have  heard  him  say,  "  Avete  up- 
settoilmio  groggo?"},  and  the  skip- 
per did  not  know  a  word  of  English. 
Here  was  a  difficulty,  but  it  was 
speedily  met  by  the  proposal  that 
my  friend  the  ever-ready  capitano 
should  interpret  after  the  speaker. 
Accordingly  the  toast  was  proposed, 
clause  by  clause,  like  the  general 
confession,  which  method  proved 
to  be  anything  but  a  detriment ; 
for  the  proposer  experienced  a  dif- 
ficulty which  had  occurred  to  Moses 
in  the  same  part  of  the  world  some 
years  before,  —  he  was  "  slow  of 
speech  and  of  a  slow  tongue." 
Moreover,  he  put  the  offer  of  the 
present  a  little  bluntly,  so  as  to 
have  hurt  the  skipper's  sensibility, 
perhaps,  if  the  original  had  been 
understood  by  him.  But  any  de- 
fect was  immediately  cured,  and 
more  than  cured,  by  the  ability  and 
tact  of  the  capitano.  The  senti- 
ments were  everything  that  could 
be  wished ;  it  was  the  language 
only  that  wanted  smoothing,  and 
this  was  transmitted  to  the  skip- 
per's ear  like  "  gold  from  the  fur- 
nage,"  as  Mrs  Gamp  has  it.  It 
went  to  the  capitano  somewhat 
halting  and  not  over-choice  Anglo- 
Saxon,  and  it  reappeared  from  his 
mouth  flowing  and  impressive  Ital- 
ian, all  the  edges  rounded  off, 
all  the  gaps  bridged  over,  and  the 
circumlocutions  made  straight.  The 
thing  was  delightful.  The  skipper's 
facial  muscles  were  a  study  as  the 
accents  fell  upon  his  ear,  arid  all 
who  saw  that  he  was  a  little  bit 
moved  could  not  help  feeling 
slightly  too.  And  I  assure  you 
that  the  pressure  of  the  steam  was 
very  high  when  we  came  to  the 
cheering,  and  any  stray  Ghouls  or 
Afrits  that  may  have  been  about 
the  desert  that  night  must  have 
started  not  a  little.  The  waes-heal 
of  the  Vikings  was  storming  their 
solitudes ,  the  West  was  upon  the 
East  once  more ;  the  spirits  thought, 


186 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


[Feb. 


perhaps,  of  the  last  sounds  that 
they  heard  in  that  fashion — lt  Iliero- 
solyma  est  perdita,  hurrah  /  "  *  I 
like  drinking  healths  in  proper 
measure  and  at  proper  times.  That 
it  is  a  custom  more  honoured  in 
the  breach  than  the  observance 
was  very  well  for  a  moon-struck 
moralist  like  Hamlet  to  say.  As 
he  never  did  anything  but  talk,  and 
never  meant  to  do  anything,  and 
never  could  do  anything  worth  the 
naming,  he  naturally  looked  at  the 
dark  side  of  the  practice  and  con- 
demned it  as  sottish  and  debasing. 
But  fellows  who  have  any  go  in 
them  know  the  value  of  ripening 
opinions  and  bringing  resolutions 
to  a  head  by  a  well-conceived  toast. 
They  know  how  mind  takes  fire 
from  mind,  how  enthusiasm  passes 
like  an  electric  current  when  con- 
ditions are  favourable,  how  men 
pledge  themselves  to  noble  acts 
when  in  open-hearted  fellowship. 
And  they  are  something  of  old 
FalstafFs  way  of  thinking  in  regard 
to  "your  excellent  sherris"  as  a 
means  of  freshening  the  mind  for 
the  conception  of  generous  ideas. 
Depend  on  it,  the  people  who  drink 
healths  are  people  who  admire  great 
deeds  and  mean  to  emulate  them  ; 
who  make  public  profession  of  their 


faith  in  effort ;  who  will  hold  to- 
gether to  the  last  thread.  Fill  up, 
then,  to  those  that  are  worthy; 
there  is  nothing  to  blush  for  in  the 
generous  draught ;  it  didn't  much 
hurt  our  race  of  old,  why  should 
we  give  it  up  now  1  We  won't ;  no, 
we  won't !  Fill  up  there  !  hip,  hip, 
hip,  hurrah  !  again,  again,  again  ! 
hurrah !  hurrah !  one  cheer  more, 
hurrah  !  Hamlet  be  condemned  ! 

Lest  you  should  ask  me,  Bales,  as 
you  are  so  fond  of  doing,  whether 
seriously  and  literally  you  are  to 
understand  the  above  to  be  my 
fixed  opinions,  I  say  at  once  that, 
resuming  my  pen  at  half-past  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  am  not 
prepared  to  stand  by  every  jot  and 
tittle  of  this  writing.  Tempora 
mutantur  et  nos  mutamur  ab  illis. 
Just  now,  I  think  the  ideas  a  little 
strong  ;  but  there  are  times  when 
I  would  endorse  every  syllable  of 
them. 

Those  who  desired  to  see  the  sun 
rise  and  the  Chalouf  cutting — the 
stiffest  bit  of  work  in  the  whole 
Canal — rose  by  candle-light  at  four 
o'clock.  I  was  one  of  them.  There 
was  more  work  going  on  here  than 
at  any  point  that  I  had  seen.  The 
Egyptians,  after  their  fashion, 
seemed  really  to  be  working  hard. 


*  A  writer  in  '  Notes  and  Queries,'  No.  142,  says  : — 

"  '  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  ! ' — what  was  the  origin  of  this  Bacchanalian  exclamation, 
and  what  does  it  mean?  I  make  the  inquiry,  although  I  annex  an  attempt  to 
define  it,  which  was  cut  from  the  columns  of  the  Edinburgh  '  Scotsman '  news- 
paper some  years  ago  : — 

"It  is  said  that  'Hip,  hip,  hurrah!'  originated  in  the  Crusades,  it  being  a 
corruption  of  H.  E.  P.,  the  initials  of  l  Hierosolyma  est  perdita,' .( Jerusalem  is 
lost !)  the  motto  on  the  banner  of  Peter  the  Hermit,  whose  followers  hunted  the 
Jews  down  with  the  cry  of  '  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  ! '  " 

That  the  deserts  of  Egypt  echoed  to  the  war-cries  of  the  Crusaders  is  proved 
by  the  following  among  many  passages  that  might  be  quoted  from  historians  : — 
"  The  King  of  Jerusalem"  (Baldwin)  "having  no  longer  the  Turks  of  Bagdad  or 
the  Turks  established  in  Syria  to  contend  with,  turned  his  attention  towards 
Egypt,  whose  armies  he  had  so  frequently  dispersed.  He  collected  his  chosen 
warriors,  traversed  the  desert,  carried  the  terror  of  his  arms  to  the  banks  of  the 
Nile,  and  surprised  and  pillaged  the  city  of  Pharamia,  situated  three  days'  jour- 
ney from  Cairo." — Michaud's  '  History  of  the  Crusades.' 

Afterwards,  in  St  Louis's  Crusade  : — "  From  the  Canal  to  Mansourah,  and  from 
the  Nile  to  the  shore  whereon  the  Crusaders  had  just  landed,  the  country  pre- 
sented but  one  vast  field  of  battle,  where  fury  and  despair  by  turns  animated  the 
combatants,  where  torrents  of  blood  were  shed  on  both  sides,  without  allowing 
either  Christians  or  Mussulmans  to  claim  the  victory." — Ibid. 

The  Sultan  of  Cairo,  we  are  told,  promised  a  gold  byzant  for  every  Christian 
head  that  should  be  brought  into  his  camp. 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


187 


It  was  painful  to  hear  the  number 
of  coughs  that  proceeded  from  them. 
This  was  their  winter,  although  it 
felt  like  summer  to  us,  and  that 
fact  may  account  for  the  sounds 
of  catarrh.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
there  was  nothing  worse  than  a  cold 
there  :  consumption,  or  even  bron- 
chitis, would  be  inexcusable  in  a 
climate  like  that ! 

Fortunately   it  was   determined 
to  form  the  Canal  at  Chalouf  before 
letting  the  waters  of  the  Red  Sea 
into  the   Bitter   Lakes.       Had    a 
smaller  channel  been  first  formed 
to  fill  the  lakes,  as  was  done  in  the 
case  of  Lake  Timseh,  the  excava- 
tions at  this  point  would  have  been 
exceedingly  tedious  and  expensive  : 
for  the  workmen  came  down  upon 
rock  which  had  to  be  blasted ;  and 
blasting    rock    under   water,    and 
moving  and  landing  it  after  blast- 
ing,    are    formidable    operations. 
The  parties  which  we  saw  at  work 
as  we  passed  were  still,  I  fancy, 
clearing  rocks  from  the  sides  and 
taking  away  earth  to  form  the  re- 
quisite slopes.      As  many  as   ten 
thousand  men  were  working  here 
at  once  last  summer;  and  Chalouf, 
like  Port  Sai'd  and  Ismailia,  sprang 
to  its  first  stage  of  township  almost 
by  magic.     As  yet  there  are  only 
wooden  huts  there,  but  these  will 
soon  be  replaced  by  more  substan- 
tial erections  if  it  be  found  advis- 
able to  establish  a  town  there.     It 
was  in  this  cutting  that  we  were 
startled  by  some  marvellous  noises 
made  by  our  machinery  or  screw, 
and  by  the  steamer  heeling  over  on 
her  port  side  as  if  we  had  been  in 
a  rolling  sea.     Things  were   soon 
steady  again,  and  the  explanation 
given  to  us  was,  that  the  ship  being 
now  very  light  from  consumption 
of  coal,  the  screw  had  accidentally 
got  almost  uncovered  for  a  minute, 
when,   meeting    no    resistance,   it 
spun  round   uncontrolled  making 
the   astonishing  noise  and  fright- 
ing the   ship  from  her  propriety. 
And  this  quieted  us  at  the  time. 
What  had  really  happened  we  un- 
derstood better  when  we  made  our 

VOL.  CVH. — NO.  DCLII. 


return  -  voyage  along  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 

And  now,  somewhere  about  eight 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  21st, 
we   emerged   from    the    maritime 
Canal   into   the  harbour  of  Suez, 
having    safely    accomplished    the 
passage    from    Port    Sai'd.       That 
what   had  been  so  loudly  and  so 
constantly  proclaimed  an  impossi- 
bility had  been  actually  done,  and 
fairly   done,  we   could   no   longer 
question,   for    we   had   tested    its 
sufficiency  and  been  satisfied.      I 
did  not,  however,  just  now  indulge 
in  reflection  or  exultation   as  per- 
haps I  ought,  for  I  was  calculating 
rather    anxiously    the   chances   of 
being  able  to  reach  Cairo  in  time 
to  dress  and  attend  a  ball  at  the 
palace  of  Kasr  el  Nilo  to  which  I 
had  been  invited ;  and  the  chances 
appeared  to  be  considerably  against 
my  doing  so.     I  determined,  never- 
theless, to  make  a  push  for  it.     A 
few  minutes  after  we  dropped  our 
anchor,  one  boat  came  alongside  us 
bringing  some  official.      Thinking 
she  would  wait  for  him  I  was  on 
my  way  to  ask  if  he  would  take  me 
ashore   with  him   on   his    return, 
when  a  gentleman,  whose  compan- 
ion  I  had  been   on   most  of  our 
shore  excursions,  met  me  and  said 
— "  That  boat   is  going  to   shore 
again  immediately,  and  we  are  go- 
ing in   her,   as  we    prepared   for 
such   a  chance   long  ago  :   if  you 
had  only  had  your  things  ready  we 
might    have    all    gone    together." 
Now  I  flatter  myself,  Bales,  that  I 
can  be  a  little  smart  upon  occasion, 
notwithstanding  that  you  are  some- 
times pleased  to  animadvert  severely 
on  my  ways  of  doing  things.     My 
Mend  on  board   evidently  didn't 
form  a  lower  opinion  of  me  when, 
ton    d'apameibomenos,    I    declared 
that  I  was  in  all  respects  ready,  and 
required   only  to  have    my  traps 
brought  from  the  cabin.    "  Bravo ! " 
he  said,  "  then  we  go  together  and 
at   once."      Not  knowing  exactly 
the  time  of  daybreak  I  had  risen  a 
little  early,  and  had  then  improved 
the  occasion  by  getting  all  my  bag- 
o 


188 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  IT. 


[Feb. 


gage  ready  for  a  move,  regarding 
the  possibility  of  some  sudden  call. 
Nobody  but  we  three  (my  friend's 
"  we  "  included  a  young  lady)  was 
prepared  to  take  passage  in  the  first 
boat,  in  which  we  therefore  put 
off,  after  taking  leave  of  our  kind 
skipper  and  his  first  officer.  The 
rest  of  our  party  we  expected  to 
meet  before  long  on  shore. 

My  only  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing the  harbour  and  works  at  Suez 
was  while  the  ship  was  running  to 
her  anchorage,  and  while  I  pulled 
to  shore.  I  could  therefore  only 
ascertain  the  positions  of  the  seve- 
ral works  of  which  I  had  heard  or 
read  ;  I  could  make  no  inspection 
of  any.  As  regards  the  Canal  Com- 
pany, the  only  works  absolutely  re- 
quired from  them  after  carrying 
the  Canal  into  the  Gulf,  were  the 
formation  of  a  channel  through  the 
head  of  the  latter  to  deep  water, 
and  the  construction  of  a  mole  to 
protect  the  southern  entrance  of 
the  passage  against  high  tides  and 
strong  southerly  winds.  Both  of 
these  are  nearly  complete.  The 
stone  of  which  the  mole  is  con- 
structed was  quarried  at  Attaka, 
not  far  from  Suez.  I  was  glad  to 
hear  that,  in  dredging  the  channel 
to  deep  water,  rock  was  not  en- 
countered :  there  were  some  rea- 
sons to  apprehend  that  the  bottom 
might  be  found  to  be  rocky,  and, 
in  that  case,  the  operations  would 
have  been  less  simple,  and  the  ex- 
pense far  greater ;  but,  happily,  the 
difficulty  did  not  occur.  Besides 
the  two  indispensable  works  which 
I  have  mentioned,  the  Company 
have  set  about  the  reclamation  of 
land  from  the  sea,  using  for  their 
embankments  the  mud  which  they 
dredge  out  of  the  ship  channel. 
This  reclamation  is  an  adventure 
which,  it  is  thought,  will  repay 
them.  Although  these  are  the  only 
works  of  the  Company  at  Suez, 
they  are  not  the  only  works  in  pro- 
gress there.  A  basin  and  a  graving- 
dock  are  being  constructed  on  the 
west  side  of  the  harbour,  and  a 
branch  from  the  Suez  and  Cairo 


Railway  is  extended  to  them  over 
an  artificial  bank ;  but  these  last 
are  the  undertakings  of  the  Mes- 
sageries  Imperiales,  not  of  the  Ship 
Canal  Company. 

Coming  up  to  the  anchorage  at 
Suez,  we  steamed  past  a  ship  with 
a  piece  of  new  plank,  just  primed 
with  paint,  in  her  port  quarter.  It 
was  our  Russian  friend  that  had 
been  so  anxious  to  get  before  us  at 
Ismai'lia,  bearing  our  card.  It  is  to 
be  hoped  that  the  wood  will  be  a 
long  while  getting  dark,  and  that  it 
may  prove  a  wholesome  memento 
of  the  indiscretion  of  pushing  and 
elbowing. 

A  fresh  breeze  was  blowing  as 
we  and  our  baggage  were  carried 
to  the  landing  -  wharf  under  the 
guidance  of  three  Egyptians,  and 
lying  back  in  the  boat  was  a  rather 
luxurious  repose.  It  was  the  last 
scrap  or  shadow  of  repose  that  we 
were  destined  to  enjoy  that  day. 
Before  we  could  land,  a  hundred 
pushing  rascals  swooped  upon  our 
luggage,  and  the  packages  were  un- 
ceremoniously lifted  and  were  about 
to  be  carried  off,  it  was  impossible 
to  say  whither,  by  this  impudent 
horde.  There  was  one  only  hope 
or  chance  that  those  trunks  and 
bags  would  ever  again  form  a 
united  band,  and  that  chance  lay 
in  the  very  promptest  action  against 
the  marauders.  Accordingly  the 
heads  and  shins  of  the  most  active 
were  assaulted  (this  was  a  language 
which  they  understood)  just  as  they 
were  making  off  with  the  prey  ; 
and  they  being  discomfited,  the 
slower  villains  gave  in  and  dropped 
their  spoil.  With  great  difficulty 
and  a  thick  stick  the  stuff  was  col- 
lected on  the  wharf  under  charge 
of  the  boatmen,  who  had  not  been 
paid,  and  who  had  not  a  chance  of 
being  paid  until  they  should  be  re- 
lieved of  this  responsibility,  as  we 
made  them  understand,  notwith- 
standing their  cries  of  "  Baksheesh ! 
baksheesh  ! "  which  were  strange  to 
us  then,  but  with  which  we  were 
better  acquainted  before  we  were 
many  hours  older.  In  this  state  of 


1870.] 


Tlie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


189 


things  it  was  deemed  safe  for  my 
friend  to  proceed  to  the  railway 
terminus  to  inquire  concerning  our 
chance  of  being  conveyed  to  Cairo, 
while  I,  in  command  of  the  boat- 
men, kept  watch  over  the  lady 
and  the  property,  maintaining  with 
much  effort  a  clear  circle,  round 
which  were  clamouring  and  ges- 
ticulating, and  yearning  but  not 
daring  to  overstep  it,  as  rude  a 
crew  as  the  fiends  in  Freischiitz. 
The  sun  was  getting  high  by  this 
time,  and  it  was  hotter  on  the 
wharf  than  we  had  found  it  on  the 
water.  I  began  to  realise  how  tedi- 
ous service  in  the  lines  of  Torres 
Yedras  must  have  been.  Heat,  dul- 
ness,  and  inaction,  with  a  watchful 
enemy  outside.  Now  we  have  a 
little  diversion.  Two  friends  from 
the  ship,  Italians,  have  likewise 
found  their  way  to  the  wharf.  I 
send  out  a  detachment  to  assist  in 
rescuing  them  from  the  natives. 
They  are  rescued.  Their  goods  are 
brought  into  the  circle.  The  Ita- 
lians are  added  to  the  garrison. 
We  feel  safe,  but  we  are  uneasy  at 
the  long  tarrying  of  my  English 
friend.  He,  however,  comes  at  last, 
and  brings  the  cheering  informa- 
tion that  a  special  train  will  start 
before  long  to  take  on  the  Khedive's 
guests  who  have  landed  this  morn- 
Dig  from  the  Canal.  This  was  a  re- 
lief. We  now  cause  our  boatmen 
to  engage  a  sufficient  number,  and 
no  more,  of  porters  to  lift  our  traps, 
and  one  as  a  chief  to  be  responsi- 
ble for  the  rest,  and  to  arrange  the 
account.  When  this  was  done,  and 
not  till  then,  the  boatmen  were 
paid  for  their  boat  and  time,  and 
dismissed ;  and  we,  preceded  by  our 
band  of  porters,  trudged  off  to  the 
station.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
station — there  reigned  there  such 
a  hurly-burly,  such  a  Babel,  such  a 
blind  unintelligent  multitude,  such 
an  utter  absence  of  anything  like 
means  to  an  end,  such  a  worrying 
of  officials  by  the  crowd,  such  a  re- 
sisting of  the  crowd  by  officials, 
such  runaway  trunks  on  the  backs 
of  Arabs,  such  wind-broken  owners 


in  pursuit  of  their  trunks,  such 
frantic  endeavours  to  be  understood 
where  every  second  man  was  a 
stranger,  such  threatenings,  such 
wrath,  such  despair, — and  all  this 
supplemented  with  an  incessant 
chorus  of  "Baksheesh !  baksheesh !" 
As  I  write  about  it,  the  whole  in- 
fernal rout  comes  back  and  makes 
me  feel  half  mad  again.  But  we 
had  less  reason  to  be  mad  than 
most  other  sufferers.  It  was  bad 
at  the  best ;  but  we,  strong  in  our 
union,  and  with  something  of  a 
plan  of  operations,  had  little  to 
endure  except  a  brisk  shoving 
about,  and  an  uncertain  and  unac- 
countable delay.  At  last  a  train  of 
carriages  was  run  up  to  the  plat- 
form, and  as  there  now  appeared 
some  prospect  of  getting  away,  we 
began  to  examine  into  the  claims 
of  the  luggage-bearers,  and  to  put 
together  their  guerdon,  when  it 
appeared  that  the  boatmen  had  re- 
ceived the  greater  part  of  our  silver, 
and  the  broken  money  of  the  whole 
party  did  not  suffice  for  the  pay- 
ment of  our  debt.  This  seemed, 
however,  no  such  insuperable  diffi- 
culty at  a  railway  station  ;  and  it 
being  my  turn  now  to  explore  the 
interior,  my  friend  stood  by  the 
stuff,  and  by  the  more  precious 
charge  his  daughter,  while  I  worked 
my  way  through  men  of  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth,  and  every  spe- 
cies of  travelling  -  mail  that  was 
ever  invented,  to  the  station  office. 
There  I  saw  a  Turk  at  a  desk.  I 
took  out  a  napoleon  and  placed  it 
before  him ;  he  bowed,  shook  his 
head,  and  gave  me  the  napoleon 
back.  I  took  out  a  small  silver  coin 
to  show  that  I  wanted  the  napoleon 
changed  into  silver.  He  bowed 
again,  raised  his  palms,  and  shook 
his  head.  I  was  not  likely  to  get 
much  out  of  this  fellow  ;  but  I  saw 
through  an  open  door  another  Turk 
sitting  at  another  desk.  Him  I 
approached  and  did  obeisance,  and 
then  I  took  out  my  napoleon  again 
and  placed  it  upon  the  desk.  The  offi- 
cial laid  his  hand  upon  his  breast, 
smiled  sweetly  and  bowed.  He  was 


190 


Tlie  Opening  oftlie  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


[Feb. 


evidently  under  the  impression 
that  I  wished  to  bribe  him  into 
some  rascality,  and  afraid,  though 
not  indisposed,  to  take  the  bait.  I 
took  out  my  napoleon  and  my 
small  silver  coin  together,  making 
signs  that  I  wished  the  one  con- 
verted into  the  other,  when  the 
official  collapsed  and  his  counte- 
nance fell.  He  had  mistaken  my 
meaning  altogether,  and  the  shock 
of  finding  that  I  was  not  tampering 
with  him  was  too  much.  He  per- 
emptorily pushed  aside  my  money, 
and  waved  me  away.  But  I  was 
getting  desperate,  and  let  him  see 
that  I  was  determined  to  be  served, 
whereupon  he  opened  his  empty 
desk,  invited  me  to  inspect  the  in- 
terior, shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
smiled  once  more.  My  mission 
did  not  seem  promising,  and  I  was 
alarmed  lest  the  train  should  be 
moving,  or  my  friends  should  get 
into  a  carriage  and  I  be  unable  to 
find  them.  Suddenly  seized  with 
this  terror,  I  was  making  off,  when 
in  the  passage  I  encountered  a 
Mussulman  of  superior  mien  and 
dress — a  hadji  at  least,  I  thought 
he  must  be  from  his  appearance, 
and  he  looked  and  moved  as  one 
having  authority.  "Ha!"  thought 
I,  "  here  is  the  man  that  can  open 
the  till :  the  others  are  thieving 
understrappers,  whom  no  man  dares 
trust ;  this  excellent  man  will  give 
me  silver."  And  I  advanced  to  the 
hadji  and  addressed  him  in  the 
French  tongue  according  to  my 
ability,  which  is  not  remarkable  ; 
for  I  will  confess  to  you,  Bales, 
that  my  French,  though  passing 
current  in  Manchester  for  some- 
thing stunning,  is  in  truth  not  of 
the  very  first  water.  I  addressed  the 
hadji,  I  have  said,  in  French,  but 
he  replied  politely,  "  Nong  parley 
Fronksay"  I  had  another  re- 
source, my  Italian,  which  is  about 
as  pure  and  fluent  as  my  French. 
To  this  the  hadji  simply  said  again, 
"  Nong  parley"  I  pulled  out  my 
napoleon,  when,  to  my  infinite  dis- 
comfiture, the  hadji  shook  his  head 
as  the  understrapper  had  done, 


waved  his  open  hand  deprecatingly 
towards  me,  raised  his  shoulders, 
and  was  turning  away  with  a  stately 
bow.  I  was  beside  myself  with 
chagrin  :  I  could  not  contain  my 
vexation.  "G — d  d — n  it!"  I  said 
(and  you  know,  Bales,  how  per- 
plexed I  must  have  been  ere  such 
an  expression  could  escape  my  lips), 
"  I'll  get  change  from  some  of  you, 
or  know  the  reason  why."  And 
then  the  hadji  with  much  dignity 
answered  and  said,  "  Oh,  if  it's 
God-damning  you're  after,  I  can  do 
that  too."  Once  discover  a  man's 
specialite,  and  you  need  have  no 
difficulty  in  getting  on  with  him. 
"  Then,  by  that  honest  phrase,"  said 
I,  "  which  proves  that  we  have  both 
been  nurtured  in  a  Christian  land, 
I  conjure  you  to  change  this  napo- 
leon into  silver."  "  The  devil  a 
farthing  have  I  got,"  said  the  hadji, 
"and  you  are  not  likely  to  get 
any  here ;  this  is  only  a  goods 
station,  ordinarily,  and  all  the  pay- 
ing is  done  at  Suez  proper,  which 
is  farther  up :  they'll  give  you 
change  up  there."  Then  said  I, 
"  If  you  can't  give  me  change,  at 
least  come  and  aid  my  party,  if 
haply  they  still  survive  ;  there  is 
an  English  lady  among  them,  and 
it  would  be  a  charity  to  get  her 
safely  into  a  carriage."  This  draft 
the  venerable  hadji  was  ready  to 
honour.  Rolling  stock,  not  money- 
taking,  was  evidently  his  depart- 
ment. "  Come  along,  then,"  an- 
swered, he,  briskly ;  "  I'll  put  that 
straight."  My  friends  were  just 
where  I  had  left  them,  sore  beset. 
"  Well,  you  have  been  a  long  time 
getting  change;  we  thought  you 
were  lost,"  said  they.  "  I  have  not 
been  idle  for  all  that,"  I  answered, 
composedly.  "  I  have  brought  you 
a  gentleman  that  will  help  to  get 
us  off."  Whereupon  one  of  our 
Italian  friends,  using  his  native 
tongue,  addressed  the  hadji  at  about 
the  same  instant  when  the  young 
lady  said  to  me,  "  What  does  he 
speak  —  English  1 "  The  Saxon 
gutturals,  especially  when  gliding 
over  a  silver  tongue,  can  sometimes 


L870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal — Part  II. 


191 


effect  more  than  the  lingua  Toscana. 
The  hadji's  fez  was  off  in  a  second. 
"  This  way,  ma'am,  if  you  please," 
said  he ;  and,  unlocking  a  carriage, 
he  installed  the  lady  therein  with- 
out more  ado,  inviting  us  to  follow. 
But  the  change!  How  were  the 
porters  to  be  paid1?  Well,  they 
were  paid,  I  don't  know  how. 
Somebody,  I  think,  remembered 
seven  francs  and  a  half  in  his  tra- 
velling bag.  It  was  lucky  he  didn't 
think  of  them  before,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  dug  out  the  hadji  and  sworn 
him  to  our  service.  In  a  trice  we 
were  all  in  one  of  the  viceregal  car- 
riages, the  last  of  us  that  entered 
being  desired,  before  leaving  the 
platform,  to  point  out  our  luggage. 
"All  right,"  said  the  hadji;  "I'll 
Fee  that  properly  stowed ;  you'll 
iind  it  in  No.  3  van  when  you  get 
to  Cairo ;  and  now,  if  you  please, 
I'll  lock  you  up,  and  if  you  are 
wise  you'll  pull  up  all  the  blinds 
till  you  get  out  of  the  station,  or 
you  may  get  a  lot  of  foreigners  in 
with  you."  Having  said  which, 
the  benevolent  hadji  lifted  his  fez 
once  more,  and  turned  the  key  up- 
on us.  I  expected  that  when  our 
deliverance  was  complete  he  would 
turn  into  a  gnome,  or  a  genie,  or 
something  of  that  sort, but  he  didn't. 
I  saw  him  again  in  Cairo  in  a  car- 
riage behind  a  pair  of  horses,  when 
I  was  driving  the  other  way.  I 
caught  his  eye,  though,  and  waved 
rny  hand  to  him  :  he  waved  his  in 
return.  I'll  take  my — that  is,  I  am 
positive,  Bales,  that  he  recognised 
Eie. 

For  some  little  while  after  we 
were  locked  up  we  kept  our  blinds 
closed  as  we  had  been  directed,  and 
it  would  have  been  well  for  us  per- 
haps if  we  had  continued  to  do  so 
till  fairly  running  away  for  Cairo. 
But  somehow  we  never  find  precau- 
tions answer  without  persuading 
ourselves  that  the  results  would  be 
just  as  satisfactory  without  the  pre- 
cautions, and  so  impunity  leads  to 


foolhardiness.  If  Roderick  Dhu 
had  held  on  by  his  trusty  targe; 
if  Mrs  Lot  could  have  refrained 
from  examining  into  the  set  of 
her  panier ;  if  Baba  Abdallah* 
had  kept  the  ointment  off  his  right 
eye ;  if  the  royal  Calendar  had 
not  opened  the  golden  door ;  or 
if  mother  Eve  had  let  the  apple 
alone, — how  differently  would  a 
good  many  histories  be  written  ! 
To  compare  small  things  with  great, 
how  much  more  elbow-room  should 
we  have  preserved  if  we  had  kept 
our  carriage  closed  !  But  then,  who 
the  deuce  could?  The  hubbub 
from  which  we  were  withdrawn 
was  going  on  outside  us  just  as  be- 
fore. It  was  only  natural  that  we 
should  wish  to  see  how  it  fared 
with  those  on  the  platform,  and  to 
take  a  cautious  peep  at  them,  as  we 
suppose  the  spirits  of  the  just  to  do 
at  those  who  are  still  struggling, 
and  screaming,  and  blundering,  and 
failing  here  below.  First  we  open- 
ed the  merest  chinks,  then  we  made 
the  chinks  wider  ;  nobody  came  in, 
and  so  at  last  we  said,  "Oh,  it's 
all  right,  nobody  wants  to  come  in 
here,"  and  let  the  blinds  fairly 
down.  Mon  Dieu  /  wasn't  there 
a  rush  two  minutes  after  !  The 
foreigner  was  upon  us  as  the  hadji 
had  predicted,  and  he  not  only 
crowded  up  the  carriage,  but  he 
crammed  it  full  of  his  wonderful 
bags  and  bottles,  and  kept  every- 
body uncomfortable  while  he  was 
shelving  and  arranging  the  same. 
The  carriage  was  double,  or  triple 
for  aught  I  know,  and  by  the 
time  the  train  was  fairly  off,  many 
of  the  invaders  had  vanished, 
whether  into  air  or  into  other  com- 
-partments  I  know  not,  but  our 
carriage  was  comparatively  clear 
again.  And  now  we  saw  the  town 
of  Suez,  but  shot  by  it  full  speed. 
"  Bravo  ! "  we  said,  "  the  special 
train  does  not  stop  at  Suez,  why 
should  it?  And  now  we  are  all 
snug  and  comfortable  till  we  get  to 


*  See  the  story  of  "Baba  Abdallah,  the  Blind  Man,"  in  the 

One  Nights.' 


Thousand  and 


192 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  II. 


[Feb. 


Cairo."  Oh, how  miserably  deceived 
we  were  !  It  must  have  been  a  full 
mile  beyond  Suez  where  the  train 
stopped  ;  and  from  that  distance  it 
was  backed  with  deliberate  cruelty 
to  the  Suez  station,  where  a  scene 
of  confusion,  in  comparison  of  which 
the  scene  at  the  goods  station  below 
was  a  quiet,  orderly,  and  reasonable 
scene,  ensued.  Any  attempt  to  de- 
scribe the  tumult  would  fail.  Again 
the  foreigner  was  upon  us ;  again  it 
rained  trunks  and  carpet-bags,  and 
cloaks  and  wicker-cases ;  and  this 
time  the  carriages  were  so  full  that 
there  was  no  subsidence  or  disper- 
sion after  the  first  rush,  but  rather 
an  increased  pressure ;  for  the  cross 
passages  were  thronged  with  pas- 
sengers who  never  sat  down  except 
upon  a  bandbox  or  a  baby  or  any- 
thing they  found  lying  about,  and 
otherwise  passed  their  time  in  driv- 
ing in  and  pulling  out  leather  cases 
and  curiously-fashioned  boxes  be- 
low the  seats  and  over  our  heads, 
keeping  us  from  becoming  inatten- 
tive or  comatose.  It  was  past  noon 
before  we  escaped  from  the  Suez 
station  and  its  crush  and  clamour; 
but  we  did  then  start  in  earnest, 
and  there  was  nothing  there  worth 
waiting  for.  The  town  is  small  and 
insignificant,  with  houses  built  of 
mud  or  native  brick,  or  more  rarely 
of  European  brick.  To  the  right 
and  left  of  it  all  is  sand.  The  rail- 
way at  first  runs  just  behind  the 
Canal-banks,  but  it  leaves  this  direc- 
tion and  turns  westward. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  be  able  at  last 
to  close  the  eyes  and  collect  one's 
thoughts  again  after  all  this  tur- 
moil. Our  party  was  strong  enough 
to  occupy  the  entire  end  of  a  car- 
riage, so  that  the  trunk  and  bag 
movers  had  no  excuse  for  molesting 
us.  I  closed  my  eyes,  I  say,  and 
in  doing  so  thought  of  the  weary 
longings  of  excellent  old  Job  for 
only  a  moment's  ease,  and  the  very 
unusual  use  to  which  he  would  have 
put  that  moment.  Things  must 
have  changed  greatly  since  his  days. 
He  wished  for  peace  that  he  might 
swallow  down  his  spittle — a  privi- 


lege which  nobody  in  Egypt  seemed 
to  appreciate,  for  they  voided  their 
rheum  about  our  beds  and  about 
our  paths,  and  contaminated  all  our 
ways. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  be  able  to 
think  over  all  one  had  been  seeing 
so  rapidly  for  the  last  hundred 
hours,  and  the  various  opinions 
that  one  had  heard  uttered  in  regard 
thereto.  Of  this,  at  any  rate,  I 
think  we  may  feel  certain  —  the 
Canal  is  an  established  fact.  It 
will  disappear  no  more.  Centuries 
ago,  although  great  improvers  pos- 
sessed the  energy  and  ability  re- 
quired for  the  construction  of  aston- 
ishing works  of  this  kind,  it  might 
have  been  predicted  how  surely 
their  surpassing  labours  would  come 
to  nought.  The  concentrated  effort 
for  execution  could  be  made — it  was 
the  steady,  continuous  toil  of  main- 
tenance that  was  hopeless.  The 
moment  man's  vigilance  should  re- 
lax, nature,  who  never  slumbered 
nor  slept,  would  promptly  use  the 
occasion  to  fill  in  and  exhaust  and 
efface.  In  ages  when  a  canal  could 
be  turned  to  but  limited  account,  it 
was  impossible  that,  in  a  country 
like  Egypt,  it  could  be  made  to  pay 
the  expense  of  keeping  it  up — im- 
possible also  that  the  state  could  at 
all  times  command  the  resources  for 
that  purpose.  After  the  gigantic 
efforts  of  a  Sesostris  or  a  Neco, 
succeeded  probably  a  reactionary 
period,  wherein  ruin  advanced  be- 
yond hope  of  retrieval.  A  great 
man  could  pierce  the  desert  as  a 
strong  man  rent  the  oak,  but  for 
both  came  the  inevitable  rebound 
— the  proof  of  nature's  persistent 
strength.  To-day,  however,  the 
conditions  are  changed.  It  is  not 
a  single  nation  nor  a  contracted 
area  that  the  maritime  Canal  is 
to  benefit ;  the  East  and  the  West 
will  join  their  powers  to  keep  open 
the  valuable  strait.  It  would  be  pre- 
sumption to  say  that  our  science 
exceeds  the  science  of  the  glorious 
old  Egyptians.  We  don't  know 
how  much  they  knew,  and  we  have 
lately  come  down  a  peg  or  two  in 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


193 


our  pretensions  to  superiority;  but 
it  is  certain  that  the  number  of  per- 
sons who  feel  an  interest,  no  matter 
of  what  kind,  in  M.  de  Lesseps' 
C  mal,is  immensely  greater  than  the 
number  which  could  have  known  or 
cared  about  the  former  canals  which 
ware  constructed  with  so  much  tra- 
vail, only  to  perish,  or  to  leave  upon 
the  earth  traces  sufficient  to  remind 
posterity  of  great  failures.  No  man 
who  has  passed  through  the  new 
work  can  have  any  other  belief  than 
that  the  civilised  world  will  insist 
upon  maintaining  it,  whether  it  can 
be  made  remunerative  or  not. 

As  to  the  prospects  of  the  present 
Company,  appearances  are  such  as 
to  hold  an  unprejudiced  mind  in 
doubt.  It  is  clear  to  the  most  cur- 
sory observer  that  a  great  deal  more 
work  remains  to  be  done,  and  of 
this  the  greatest  part  will  be  dredg- 
ing. The  uniform  depth  of  26  feet 
has  not  been  attained,  and  it  must 
be  attained  before  the  Canal  can  be 
utilised  to  the  extent  possible.  We 
have  lately  seen  that  a  ship  draw- 
ing 17^  feet  of  water  went  through 
without  a  rub,  but  I  do  not  think 
such  a  passage  could  be  relied  on 
for  ships  drawing  over  15  feet; 
and  we  know  that  to  provide  a  sure 
passage  for  only  ships  of  15  feet 
draught  and  under  is  to  offer  no  ac- 
commodation to  the  largest  Indian 
traders,  or  to  the  Australian  ships, 
whose  tonnage  is  already  very  large, 
with  a  tendency  to  increase  :  it  is, 
consequently,  to  stop  short  at  the 
very  line  beyond  which  lies  the 
greatest  chance  of  remuneration 
and  profit.  It  may  be  taken  for 
granted  that  the  deepening  of  the 
CUnal,  wherever  required,  will  be 
at  once  proceeded  with.  Another 
labour  not  absolutely  imperative 
like  the  deepening,  but  neverthe- 
less very  desirable  indeed,  is  the 
provision  of  wide  basins  where 
ships  can  pass  each  other,  as  at 
Kantara.  These  will,  no  doubt, 
be  made ;  indeed  I  think  it  proba- 
ble that  the  breadth  of  the  whole 
Canal  will  some  day  be  doubled, 
or,  what  may  perhaps  be  better,  a 


second  parallel  canal  will  be  formed. 
These  two  services — viz.,  deepen- 
ing and  widening — are  those  which 
principally  affect  traffic,  and  which 
the  public  will  insist  upon  having 
done.  As  regards  other  operations, 
they  are  of  such  a  nature  as  to 
leave  the  Company  a  choice  between 
a  large  immediate  outlay  and  a  con- 
tinued drain  for  works  of  mainten- 
ance. I  allude  to  such  works  as  pav- 
ing the  side  slopes  to  resist  the 
wash  of  the  water,  erecting  barriers 
to  intercept  the  drifting  sand,  and 
making  branches  from  the  fresh- 
water canal  to  increase  vegetation 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

By  the  time  all  requirements  are 
provided  for,  an  expenditure  of 
£20,000,000  will  probably  have 
been  incurred.  And  we  next  en- 
counter the  question,  How  can  the 
traffic  through  the  Canal  be  made 
to  yield  an  adequate  return  for  an 
outlay  so  enormous  1  The  answer 
which  most  Englishmen  give  to 
this  question  is,  that  the  Canal  can- 
not possibly  pay  the  original  share- 
holders, and  that  the  attempt  to 
make  it  remunerative  by  levying 
heavy  tolls  will  have  an  effect 
directly  the  opposite  of  what  would 
be  intended — i.e.,  the  tolls  will  ren- 
der the  route  of  Suez  more  expen- 
sive than  the  long  sea-voyage  by  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Ten  francs 
per  ton,  they  say,  is  too  large  a 
charge ;  and  before  the  public  can 
benefit  by  the  Canal,  the  possession 
and  management  of  it  must  have 
passed  to  other  hands.  When 
the  tolls  can  be  reduced  to  five 
francs  the  ton,  then  the  route  by 
Suez  will  be  incontestably  the 
cheapest  between  England  and 
India.  But  the  present  share- 
holders cannot  afford  to  pass 
freights  at  five  francs  a-ton  ;  there- 
fore they  will  find  it  most  for  their 
interest  to  incur  at  once  the  inevit- 
able loss,  parting  with  their  pro- 
perty in  the  Canal  at  a  fraction  of 
its  value,  and  making  over  the  man- 
agement at  a  low  rate  to  a  new  set 
of  men  who  may  be  able  to  repay 
themselves  out  of  moderate  tolls. 


194 


Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


[Feb. 


I  cannot  adduce  one  word  of 
commercial  or  arithmetical  argu- 
ment to  oppose  to  the  foregoing.'"" 
I  say  that  to  those  who  walk 
wholly  by  sight  the  case  seems 
fairly  put  against  the  hopes  of  the 
promoters.  But  there  are  men 
who  walk  by  FAITH  ;  and  if  ever 
there  can  be  an  occasion  when  it 
may  be  pardonable,  nay,  almost  a 
duty,  to  hazard  something  on  the 
assurance  of  other  men,  this  is 
surely  the  opportunity.  Against 
hope,  against  prophecy,  against 
figures,  against  demonstration,  M. 
de  Lesseps  and  his  confreres  have 
kept  tryste  and  kept  time,  answer- 
ing objections  by  facts,  not  words. 
Men  who  have  so  frequently  proved 
themselves  to  be  in  the  right,  not- 
withstanding the  grave  and  specious 
objections  brought  against  them,  are 
surely  entitled  to  some  little  atten- 
tion when  they  persist  in  putting 
forward  a  decided  opinion  !  As 
far  as  I  can  ascertain,  they  have 
never  yet  receded  from  the  asser- 
tion that  the  Canal  will  speedily 
repay  its  original  promoters.  It 
should  be  remembered  that  lookers- 
on  may,  in  their  caution,  have  over- 
estimated the  expense  of  work  yet 
to  be  done,  and  that  they  may  take 
a  too  unfavourable  view  of  the  pre- 
sent capabilities  of  the  Canal.  It  is 
quite  right  to  be  cautious,  but  it  may 
not  be  quite  right  to  put  forward 
the  mere  suggestions  of  caution  as 
of  equal  weight  with  the  knowledge 
and  the  guarantees  of  men  who 
have  the  best  possible  means  of  in- 
formation, and  who  are  content  to 
stake  well  -  earned  reputations  on 
their  correctness  in  this  particular. 
I  will  say  once  more  to  you,  Bales, 
what  I  have  already  said  to  many, 
— "  I  cannot  prove  these  men  to  be 
right ;  but,  until  they  actually  are 
seen  to  fail,  I  will  not  believe  them 
to  be  wrong." 
"Holloa !  what's  the  matter1?  where 


are  we!"  "Well,  we  are  at  the 
dinner  station,  and  there  is  a  halt  of 
twenty  minutes — will  you  dine1?" 
Certainly  we  would  dine,  and  be 
very  glad  of  the  chance ;  after  we 
get  to  Cairo  we  shall  have  barely 
time  to  dress  for  the  ball,  if  we  have 
that.  Let  us  dine  here  by  all  means. 
And  we  did  dine.  How  we  fared  I 
do  not  exactly  remember,  but  I  be- 
lieve pretty  well.  What  I  do  re- 
member is,  that  we  paid  not  one 
sou  for  either  the  dinner  or  the  con- 
veyance to  Cairo. 

It  was  getting  time  now  to  leave 
off  musing  and  to  look  about,  for 
the  country  was  assuming  an  ap- 
pearance very  different  from  that 
which  hitherto  had  constantly  met 
us.  The  same  sandy  waste  had 
continued  many  stages  from  Suez. 
The  surface  of  the  ground,  it  is  true, 
began  to  be  irregular,  and  hills, 
showing  much  stratification,  were 
frequent ;  but  the  soil,  high  or  low, 
was  barren,  and  its  complexion 
pink  throughout.  The  atmosphere 
was  pink.  Stone,  sand,  and  clay 
could  be  seen,  but  no  vegetation. 
At  length  the  character  of  the  land- 
scape began  to  change  as  we  lessened 
our  distance  from  Cairo.  Muddy 
fields  first,  and  then  fields  with 
pools  of  water  lingering  about  in 
places,  attested  that  we  were  with- 
in the  limits  of  the  Nile's  inunda- 
tion. In  some  places  the  water  had 
been  retained  by  small  dams  when 
the  river  subsided,  but  in  most 
lands  there  was  just  the  slimy  sur- 
face which  the  river  left,  unbroken 
as  yet  by  spade  or  plough.  When 
we  were  fairly  in  the  Delta,  where, 
I  suppose,  the  fields  had  been 
thoroughly  and  speedily  saturated, 
and  where  there  could  be  no  in- 
ducement to  prolong  by  art  the  fer- 
tilising process,  ploughing  was  to 
be  seen,  and  green  crops.  Ahead  of 
us  appeared  suddenly  what  seemed 
a  long  continuous  fence  made  of  tall 


*  The  case  of  the  Canal  as  viewed  by  most  of  our  countrymen  was  ably  put  by 
Mr  Charles  Clarke,  president  of  the  Liverpool  Chamber  of  Commerce,  in  a  paper 
which  he  read  before  the  members  of  the  Chamber  and  their  friends,  on  the  14th 
December  1869. 


1370.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II. 


195 


b  amboos,  but  what  proved  to  be  the 
curved  masts  of  very  many  Egyptian 
boats,  bending  some  one  way  some 
the  other,  so  as  to  resemble  the 
crossed  poles  of  a  fence.  We  were 
passing  a  canal  or  a  natural  branch 
of  the  Nile.  And  after  this  we  were 
speedily  in  a  rich  green  country, 
covered  with  young  crops  of  maize, 
sugar,  wheat,  plantains,  cotton,  and, 
if  I  mistake  not,  potatoes.  Groves 
ol:  trees,  too,  refreshed  the  sight — 
cocoa-nuts,  golden  oranges,  and 
bunches  of  dates  hanging  plenti- 
fully among  them.  This  Delta  into 
which  we  were  now  entering  must 
bo  exceptionally  rich ;  there  is  an 
untold  depth  of  fat  alluvial  soil, 
and  a  certain  manuring  and  irriga- 
tion done  by  nature  in  the  most 
perfect  manner.  I  say  certain  ad- 
visedly, Bales,  not  at  all  forgetting 
the  seven  years  of  famine;  so  don't 
cavil.  I  believe  the  said  seven 
years  were  a  most  exceptional  judg- 
ment, and  that  since  the  days  of 
Joseph  there  has  not  been  a  total 
failure  of  the  inundation,  certainly 
not  failures  for  successive  years. 
Now  and  then  the  rise  of  the  river 
is  very  insufficient,  and  for  that 
year  in  which  the  insufficiency 
occurs  the  country  suffers  accord- 
ingly, but  the  succeeding  year  gen- 
erally yields  the  accustomed  fruits. 
The  soil  of  the  Delta  may,  I  think, 
be  compared  to  that  of  Guiana,  the 
husbandman  in  both  places  work- 
ing ground  that  great  rivers  have 
been  forming  for  countless  ages. 
Only,  in  the  former  there  is  a  tem- 
perate climate,  and,  by  the  provision 
of  nature,  only  one  harvest  in  the 
year ;  in  the  latter  there  is  a  tropi- 
cal sun  to  ripen  at  all  seasons,  copi- 
ous rains  with  only  short  intervals 
throughout  the  year,  and  opportu- 
nities of  taking  off  three  crops  in 
twelve  months. 

I  had  settled  myself  in  my  seat, 
and  become  lazy  and  pensive  when 
it  grew  dark.  I  took  no  note  of 
time.  The  intelligence  came  rather 
suddenly  upon  me  that  we  had 
reached  the  Cairo  Station,  and  I 
had  to  rouse  myself.  The  luggage 


was  got  out  with  some  trouble  and 
labour,  but  without  accident  or  loss 
— a  circumstance  most  creditable 
to  the  Railway,  after  such  a  scram- 
ble. We  inquired  for  a  carriage, 
but  were  told  there  was  no  such 
thing  to  be  had.  We  had,  how- 
ever, surmounted  too  many  diffi- 
culties that  day  to  be  easily  per- 
suaded of  impossibilities ;  and  after 
waiting  a  little,  we  got  a  carriage 
for  ourselves  and  a  truck  for  our 
luggage.  We  got  also  the  services 
of  a  paragon  of  a  true  believer,  who 
got  the  packages  on  to  the  trucks  as 
smartly  as  it  could  be  done,  poising 
heavy  trunks  on  his  shoulder  and 
running  with  them  as  if  they  were 
hat-boxes.  He  was  a  smart  man, 
too,  in  the  matter  of  baksheesh  ;  for, 
being  invited  to  come  to  our  hotel 
in  the  morning  to  be  paid,  in  order 
that  the  time  and  annoyance  of 
settling  with  him  in  the  dark  might 
be  saved,  and  that  we  might  have 
the  chance  of  engaging  his  valuable 
services  again  in  the  morning,  he 
plainly  expressed  his  doubt  of  ever 
getting  any  payment  if  he  should 
let  us  slip  now ;  said  he  was  a  poor 
man  and  couldn't  afford  to  work 
for  nothing,  and  insisted  upon  imme- 
diate liquidation.  Away,  at  length, 
go  carriage  and  truck,  and  we  are 
not  long  in  reaching  the  Oriental 
Hotel,  which  in  the  gas-light  looks 
a  very  handsome  building.  We 
found  the  lobby  in  confusion,  the 
manager  distracted,  the  servants 
rushing  hither  and  thither,  a  very 
Babel  of  swearing,  entreating,  pro- 
testing, and  repudiating,  prevalent. 
Luggage  was  coming  in  in  heaps, 
but  none  being  cleared  off.  Some 
fuss  about  rooms,  but  we  had  tele- 
graphed for  ours,  and  finally  found 
we  were  provided  for.  With  con- 
siderable importunity  the  despair- 
ing manager  is  induced  to  get  the 
lady's  luggage  carried  to  her  room. 
She  is  out  of  the  throng,  fortu- 
nately, and  the  rest  of  us  separate 
our  property  into  parcels,  and  wish 
that  it  may,  some  time  or  other,  be 
moved,  as  we  all  hope  that  we  shall 
go  some  day  to  heaven.  I  caught 


193 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  II. 


[Feb. 


sight  of  an  address-board,  and,  look- 
ing thereon,  perceived  an  imitation 
of  the  name  Scamper  against  91.  I 
assumed  an  official  air  and  tried  to 
overawe  the  manager ;  but  he  was 
past  the  stage  where  bullying  could 
avail.  Then  I  laid  hands  upon  a 
passing  Mussulman,  and  refused  to 
let  him  move  in  any  direction  ex- 
cept to  my  luggage.  He  protested : 
I  compelled  ;  I  threatened  personal 
chastisement.  He  saw  that  I  meant 
to  lay  on,  and  took  up  a  portman- 
teau ;  at  sight  of  which  a  brother 
fellah,  and  a  very  smart  fellah  too, 
mysteriously  appeared  to  his  aid, 
and  took  up  another  article,  as 
when,  after  a  first  vulture  has 
perched  upon  a  carcass,  a  second 
vulture  in  three  seconds  emerges 
from  the  depths  of  space  and 
perches  on  it  too.  They  ascend 
and  disappear.  I  guard  the  re- 
mainder of  my  property  till  they 
return.  I  and  the  last  packages 
go  up  together  to  91,  where  I  find 
water  and  light,  unpack  and  wash ; 
then  I  lock  the  door  and  descend. 
I  afterwards  found  that  lords, 
ladies,  baronets,  and  squires  had 
been  obliged  to  double  and  treble 
up,  and  that  the  hall,  writing-room, 
and  every  corner  of  the  house  were 
occupied  by  roomless  destitutes.  I 
thought  I  couldn't  be  such  an  utter 
muff  after  all !  At  ten  o'clock  we 
met  at  tea  in  the  salle  ;  at  half-past 
ten  we  went  off,  nothing  daunted 
by  our  trials,  in  all  of  which  we 
were  more  than  conquerors,  to  dress 
for  the  ball.  Five  napoleons  for 
a  carriage !  Well,  it  will  take 
more  than  that  to  stop  us  now. 
Soon  after  eleven  we  are  off  to 
the  palace,  having  passed  on  the 
stairs  as  we  descended  the  rest 
of  the  party  from  our  ship,  tired 
and  just  arrived,  having  all  their 
fight  about  rooms  and  luggage  yet 
to  come,  and  perceiving  that  for 
them  the  ball  was  a  perished 
hope. 

The  Kasr  el  Nilo,  the  palace 
where  the  ball  was  to  be  given, 
was  soon  reached.  It  was  magni- 


ficently illuminated,  and  at  the  first 
step  within  its  gates  one  was  con- 
vinced that  better  order  and  a  more 
refined  style  reigned  here  than  at 
the  ball  in  Ismailia.  Our  invita- 
tion-cards were  scrutinised  at  the 
door,  and  when  these  were  found 
satisfactory  we  were  introduced 
with  much  ceremony.  The  Vice- 
roy had,  however,  left  the  station 
in  which  he  had  been  receiving  his 
guests,  just  before  we  arrived  ;  and 
glad  enough,  I  should  think,  the 
poor  man  must  have  been  to  go 
off  to  comparative  repose  with  the 
Emperor  and  the  Crown-Prince  in 
a  saloon  that  was  reserve.  There 
was  no  intolerable  crowd  here,  no 
tearing  away  of  ladies'  garments, 
no  licence  as  to  dress.  There  were 
all  the  observances  and  all  the 
magnificence  of  a  State  ball.  The 
dancing  -  room  was  spacious  and 
splendid  ;  ornamented  in  the  Sara- 
cenic style,  four-square  or  nearly 
so,  and  very  lofty.  The  refresh- 
ment-room was  large  and  well  ven- 
tilated, with  plenty  of  attendants, 
and  every  requirement  within  easy 
reach.  The  supper-room  was  sump- 
tuously provided,  and  admitted  of 
every  guest  being  seated ;  while  he 
might  regale  himself  to  his  heart's 
content,  as  I  did,  for  it  was  eight 
or  ten  hours  since  I  had  eaten  any- 
thing worthy  to  be  called  a  meal, 
and  then  I  had  eaten  in  haste,  with 
my  loins  girded,  of  not  the  most 
delicate  viands.  The  suite  of  draw- 
ing-rooms was  very  elegantly  fur- 
nished, and  all  the  rooms  were  well 
lighted.  The  beauty  of  the  ladies 
(none  of  whom,  of  course,  were 
Mohammedan)  was  not  remarkable; 
though,  to  do  them  justice,  many  of 
them  had  taken  infinite  pains  to 
appear  to  advantage,  and  by  no 
means  acquiesced  in  the  award  of 
nature.  Powder  had  been  profusely 
used,  and  certain  other  beautifiers 
laid  on  with  the  prodigality  of  a 
Rembrandt.  In  the  course  of  the 
evening  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing again  the  German  acquaint- 
ance in  whose  company,  as  I  told 


1870.] 


Tlie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  II. 


197 


you,*  I  crossed  the  Brenner.  He 
was  full  of  projects  for  sight-seeing, 
on  many  of  which  action  was  after- 
wards taken.  And  so,  with  one 
agreeable  diversion  after  another, 
I  managed  quite  to  forget  the  long 
tiresome  day  that  I  had  passed, 
and  to  be  really  indifferent  about 
going  to  bed.  The  morning  was 
somewhat  advanced  before  we 
thought  of  retiring,  but  we  had 
to  think  of  it  at  last.  As  we  were 
going  to  enter  our  carriage,  my 
German  friend  came  up  and  said 
thai:  there  remained  something 
which  we  had  omitted  to  see, 
and  that  we  must  give  five  more 
mir  utes — that  was  all  that  would 
be  required  to  avoid  a  life -long 
remorse.  Thus  urged  we  moved 
off  once  more,  not  into  the  palace, 
but  round  an  angle  of  it,  out  of  the 
glare  of  the  lamps,  and  were  sud- 
denly in  solitude  and  quiet.  In 
two  minutes  we  stood  on  a  terrace 
looking  over  a  balustrade  across  a 
placid  water.  That  water,  Bales, 
was  the  mighty  Nile  under  the 
light  of  the  full  moon.  Surely  it 
was  a  spell  of  Egypt ;  the  sudden 
sight,  the  rush  of  thoughts  en- 


tangled, many-figured,  overwhelm- 
ing, seized  on  the  mind,  and  stirred 
every  pulse.  This  awful  stream, 
knit  to  all  past  Time,  echoing  with 
a  thousand  great  names,  brimful  of 
fancies,  the  nurse  of  her  that  nursed 
all  human  knowledge  —  there  it 
rolled,  past  banks  that  had  felt  the 
tread  of  sages  and  conquerors,  pro- 
phets, magicians,  builders,  mighty 
men  that  were  of  old,  men  of  re- 
nown. And  I  was  standing  where 
once  Menes  stood  and  the  many 
Pharaohs,  where  Moses  wrought 
wonders,  where  Cleopatra  stepped 
from  her  gilded  galley.  As  I 
gazed,  every  ripple  reflected  the 
beams,  which  ran  in  quivering 
streaks  of  light  along  the  sacred 
waters;  the  rich  moonshine  gleamed 
on  masonry  and  shipping ;  the  sha- 
dows fell  so  dark  and  sharp  that 
they  seemed  substances ;  there  was 
not  a  wave  in  the  air,  not  a  vapour 
in  the  sky.  Bales,  my  boy,  it  was 

but  I  cannot  describe  what  I 

felt,  neither  can  I"  pass  now  from 
the  Nile  to  meaner  things  till  I 
sleep.  After  rest  I  will  tell  you 
more  of  Egypt.  Au  revoir. — Yours, 
SCAMPER. 


*  This  must  have  been  in  some  former  letter  which  Mr  Bales  has  not  sent  to  us. 


398 


John.— Part  1 V. 


[Feb. 


JOHN.  — PAKT     IV. 


CHAPTER    XI. 


THE  room  was  in  its  usual  par- 
tially lighted  state,  with  darkness  in 
all  the  corners,  half-seen  furniture, 
and  ghostly  pictures  on  the  walls.  A 
minute  ago  the  servants  had  been 
there  in  a  line  kneeling  at  prayers — 
dim  beings,  something  between  pic- 
tures and  ghosts.  And  now  they  had 
just  stolen  out  in  procession,  and 
Dr  Mitford  had  seated  himself  at 
the  table  for  the  regulation  ten 
minutes  which  he  spent  with  his 
family  before  retiring  for  the  night. 
Kate  had  drawn  a  low  chair  close 
to  the  table,  and  was  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  little  quiver  of  anxiety 
about  her  lips  and  eyes.  These 
two — the  old  man's  venerable  white 
head  throwing  reflections  from  it 
in  the  soft  lamp-light,  the  young 
girl  all  radiant  with  beauty  and 
feeling — were  the  only  ones  within 
the  circle  of  light.  Outside  of  it 
stood  two  darker  shadows,  John 
and  his  mother.  Mrs  Mitford  was 
in  a  black  gown,  and  the  bright 
tints  of  her  pleasant  face  were 
neutralised  by  the  failure  of  light. 
Two  in  the  brightness  and  two  in 
the  gloom — a  curious  symbolical 
arrangement.  And  behind  them 
all  was  the  great  open  window,  full 
of  darkness,  and  the  garden  with  all 
its  unseen  sweetness  outside. 

Dr  Mitford  was  the  only  uncon- 
scious member  of  this  curious  party. 
He  had  no  suspicion  and  no  alarm. 
He  stretched  his  legs,  which  were 
not  long,  out  comfortably  before 
him,  and  leant  back  composedly, 
now  on  the  elbows,  now  on  the 
back,  of  his  chair. 

"  Well,  Miss  Kate,  and  what  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself  all 
the  evening?"  he  said,  in  his  bliss- 
ful ignorance.  The  other  three 
gave  a  simultaneous  gasp;  What 
would  he  think  when  he  heard  ? 
This  thought,  however,  pressed 
hardest  upon  one.  John's  mind 


was  laden  with  a  secret  which  as 
yet  nobody  divined ;  and  even  Kate 
was  not  aware  what  a  struggle  was 
going  on  within  him.  He  was 
about  to  tear  himself  from  all  the 
superstitions  and  a  great  many  of 
the  affections  of  his  past  life.  The 
woman  for  whom  he  was  about  to 
do  this  did  not  understand  it.  But 
he  knew  and  realised  every  point  of 
the  struggle  he  had  to  go  through. 
Speech  almost  forsook  him  as  he 
stood  in  that  moment  of  suspense, 
with  such  a  crisis  before  him.  Neither 
Kate  nor  his  mother  could  see  how 
pale  he  grew,  and  even  if  there  had 
been  light  enough,  John  was  not  a 
handsome  pink -and -white  youth 
upon  whom  a  sudden  pallor  shows. 
He  might  have  shirked  it  even  now, 
or  left  it  to  his  mother,  or  chosen  a 
more  convenient  moment.  But  he 
was  uncompromising  in  his  sense  of 
necessities,  and  now  was  the  momen  t 
at  which  it  must  be  done.  He  went 
round  to  his  father's  right  hand  and 
stood  between  him  and  Kate. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  I  have  got 
something  to  tell  you.  I  have  done 
what  perhaps  was  not  prudent,  but 
I  trust  you  will  not  think  it  was 
not  honourable.  I  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Kate." 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  said  Dr 
Mitford,  instantly  abandoning  his 
comfortable  attitude,  and  sitting 
straight  up  in  his  bewilderment. 
He  was  so  startled  that  he  looked 
from  one  to  another,  and  finally 
turned  to  his  wife,  as  a  man  does 
who  has  referred  every  blunder  and 
surprise  of  a  lifetime  to  her  for 
explanation.  It  was  an  appealing 
half-reproachful  glance.  Here  was 
something  which  no  doubt  she  could 
have  prevented  or  staved  off  from 
him.  "  My  dear,  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  1"  he  said. 

"  It  is  I  who  must  tell  you  that," 
said  John,  firmly.  "  I  have  a  great 


1870.] 


John.— Part  1 V. 


199 


derl  to  tell  you — a  great  deal  to 
explain  to  my  mother  as  well  as 
you.  But  this  comes  first  of  all — 
I  love  Kate.  I  saved  her,  you 
know  ;  and  then  it  seemed  so  nat- 
ural that  she  should  be  mine.  How 
could  she  have  taken  any  one  else 
than  me  who  would  have  died  for 
her  1  And  see,  father,  she  has  con- 
sented," said  the  poor  fellow,  tak- 
ing Kate's  hand,  and  holding  it  in 
both  his.  His  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
face.  It  was  that  mingling  of 
pathos  and  of  triumph  which  marks 
passion  at  the  highest  strain. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  Dr 
Mifcford  again,  and  this  time  he 
rose  to  his  feet  in  his  amazement. 
"My  dear,  if  you  heard  this  was 
going  on,  why  did  not  you  tell  me1? 
Consented !  why,  she  is  a  mere  child, 
and  her  father  trusted  her  to  us. 
Miss  Kate,  you  must  perceive  he  is 
talking  nonsense — you  must  have 
turned  his  head.  This  can't  go 
an\'  further.  The  boy  must  be  mad 
to  think  of  such  a  thing." 

'•  Then  I  am  mad  too,"  said  Kate, 
softly.  "Oh,  please,  do  not  be 
an^ry  with  us — we  could  not  help 
it.  Oh,  Mrs  Mitford,  say  a  word 
for  John ! " 

And  then  there  came  a  strange 
pause.  The  mother  said  nothing. 
Sho  stood  in  the  shade  holding  back, 
insensible,  as  it  seemed,  to  this 
appeal ;  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table  were  the  young  pair,  hold- 
ing each  other  fast.  Kate  had  add- 
ed her  other  hand  to  the  one  John 
had  taken,  and  their  fingers  inter- 
twined and  clasped  each  other  with 
an  eloquence  which  was  beyond 
words.  As  for  Dr  Mitford,  he 
came  to  himself  slowly  while  this 
scene  passed  before  him.  A  ray 
of  intelligence  passed  over  his  face. 
He  was  a  sensible  man,  and  not 
ono  to  throw  away  the  good  the 
gods  provided.  Gradually  it  be- 
came apparent  to  him  that  there 
are  times  when  youthful  folly 
brings  about  results  such  as  mature 
wi.sdom  could  scarcely  have  con- 
ceived possible.  From  the  first 


stupefaction  his  look  brightened 
into  surprise,  then  into  interest 
and  half-disguised  approval.  The 
light  of  the  lamp  fell  full  upon 
Kate's  upturned  face,  which  was 
pleading,  yet  not  over-anxious,  and 
upon  the  clasped  hands,  and  the 
tall  shadow  which  bent  over  her. 
Dr  Mitford  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
when  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  was 
wonderfully  changed. 

"Then  you  must  be  more  to 
blame  than  he  is,  my  dear  young 
lady,  for  you  have  not  the  same 
temptation,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
flurry  and  excitement,  but  not  much 
apparent  displeasure.  And  then  he 
made  a  pause,  and  looked  at  them 
with  his  brow  contracted  as  if  they 
were  a  book.  "  I  don't  understand 
all  this.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
you  are  engaged,  and  it  is  not  three 
weeks  yet " 

"  It  did  not  want  three  weeks," 
said  John,"  nor  three  days.  Father, 
you  see  it  is  done  now ;  she  has 
consented,  and  she  ought  to  know 
best." 

"  I  am  utterly  bewildered,"  said 
Dr  Mitford,  but  his  tone  softened 
more  and  more.  "  My  dear,  have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  this  1  is  it  as 
unexpected  to  you  as  it  is  to  me  ] 
Miss  Kate,  you  understand  it  is  no 
reluctance  to  receive  you  that  over- 
whelms me,  but  the  surprise — 

and My  dear,  is  it  possible 

you  have  nothing  to  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  her  father  I  am  thinking 
of,"  said  Mrs  Mitford,  suddenly, 
with  a  sharp  jarring  sound  of  emo- 
tion in  her  voice.  And  so  it  was  j 
but  not  entirely  that.  She  seized 
upon  the  only  feasible  objection 
that  occurred  to  her  to  cover  her 
general  consternation  and  sense  of 
dismay. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dr  Mit- 
ford. "John,  I  wish  you  had 
spoken  to  Mr  Crediton  first.  I 
shall  explain  to  him  that  I  knew 
nothing  about  it — nothing  at  all 
till  the  last  moment.  I  fear  you 
have  taken  away  from  me  even  the 
power  of  pleading  your  cause  ; 
though,  Miss  Kate,"  he  said,  rising 


200 


John.— Part  1 V. 


[Feb. 


and  going  up  to  her  with  the  ur- 
banity which  was  so  becoming  to 
him,  "  if  you  had  no  fortune,  I 
should  take  the  liberty  to  kiss  you, 
and  tell  you  my  son  had  made  a 
charming  choice." 

"  Then  kiss  me  now,"  said  Kate, 
suddenly  detaching  herself  from 
John,  and  holding  out  her  hands 
to  his  father.  Dr  Mitford  gave  a 
little  irresolute  glance  behind  him 
to  see  what  his  wife  was  thinking ; 
and  then  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, melted  by  the  pretty  face 
lifted  to  him,  by  the  fortune  which 
he  had  thus  set  forward  as  a  draw- 
back to  her,  and  by  the  mingled 
sentiment,  false  and  true,  of  the  oc- 
casion, took  the  pretty  hands  and 
bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  fore- 
head. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  with  effu- 
sion, "  I  could  not  have  hoped  for 
so  sweet  a  daughter-in-law.  You 
would  be  as  welcome  to  me  as  the 
flowers  in  May."  And  then  Dr 
Mitford  paused,  and  the  puckers 
came  back  to  his  forehead,  and  he 
turned  round  on  his  heel  as  on  a 
pivot,  and  faced  his  son.  "  But 
don't  for  a  moment  suppose,  John, 
that  I  can  approve  of  you.  I  will 
not  adopt  your  cause  with  Mr 
Crediton.  Good  heavens !  he  might 
think  it  was  a  scheme.  He  might 
think " 

"  That  he  could  never  think," 
said  Mrs  Mitford,  not  able  to  re- 
strain her  impatience.  "  He  may 
be  angry,  and  blame  everybody, 
and  do  away  with  it — but  he  could 
not  think  that." 

"If  I  have  done  wrong,  let  it 
come  upon  me,"  said  John,  hoarsely. 
"  But,  Kate,  come !  you  have  had 
enough  to  bear."  He  was  thinking 
of  her  only,  not  of  what  any  one 
else  had  to  bear  ;  and  it  was  hard 
upon  Mrs  Mitford.  And  it  was 
hard  upon  her,  very  hard,  to  take  the 
interloper  into  her  arms  again,  and 
falter  forth  a  blessing  on  her.  "  He 
is  everything  in  the  world  to  me," 
she  whispered,  with  her  lips  on 
Kate's  cheek.  "  And  what  should 
his  wife  be  ?  But  my  heart  seems 


dead  to-night."  "Dear  mamma, 
don't  hate  me.  I  will  not  take 
him  away  from  you  ;  and  I  have 
no  mother,"  Kate  whispered  back. 
And  Mrs  Mitford  held  her  close 
for  a  moment,  and  cried,  and  was 
lightened  at  her  heart.  But  this 
little  interlude  was  unknown  to 
the  two  men  who  stood  looking 
on.  John  led  his  betrothed  away 
into  the  hall,  where  he  lingered  one 
moment  before  he  said  good-night. 
What  he  said  to  her,  or  she  to  him, is 
not  much  to  our  present  purpose. 
They  lingered  and  whispered,  and 
clung  to  each  other  as  most  of  us 
have  done  once  in  our  lives — and 
could  not  make  up  their  minds  to 
separate.  While  this  went  on,  Dr 
Mitford  made  a  little  turn  about 
the  table  in  his  excitement,  and 
thrust  up  the  shade  from  the  lamp, 
as  if  to  throw  more  light  upon  the 
matter.  He  was  in  a  fidget,  and 
a  little  alarmed  by  what  his  son 
had  done,  yet  prepared  to  feel  that 
all  was  for  the  best. 

"My  dear,  is  it  possible  you 
knew  of  this?"  he  said,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "What  a  very  odd 
thing  that  it  should  have  happened 
so  !  Bless  my  soul !  she  is  a  great 
heiress.  Why,  Mary,"  giving  a 
glance  round  him,  and  lowering  his 
voice  a  little,  "  who  could  have 
thought  that  lump  of  a  boy  would 
have  had  the  sense  to  do  so  well 
for  himself  r' 

"Oh,  Dr  Mitford,  for  heaven's 
sake  don't  speak  so  !  Whatever  he 
intends,  my  boy  never  thought  of 
that." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  did,"  said 
the  father,  still  softly  rubbing 
his  hands  ;  "  I  don't  suppose  he 
did — but  still,  all  the  same.  Why, 

bless  my  soul !  Mary To  be 

sure  it  may  be  unpleasant  with  Mr 
Crediton.  If  he  could  think  for 
one  moment  that  we  had  any  hand 
in  it " 

"He  cannot  think  that,"  said 
Mrs  Mitford.  A  sense  that  there 
was  something  more  to  be  told 
kept  her  breathless  and  incapable 
of  speech.  But  it  gave  her  a  little 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


201 


consolation  to  be  able  to  defy  Mr 
Crediton's  suspicions.  It  was  a 
sa.  ety-valve,  so  far  as  it  went. 

"  I  hope  not — I  sincerely  hope 
not.  I  should  tell  him  at  once  that 
it  is — well — yes — contrary  to  my 
wishes.  Of  course  it  would  be  a 
graat  thing  for  John.  He  is  not 
the  sort  of  boy  to  make  his  way  in 
the  world,  and  this  would  give  him 
such  a  start.  Unless  her  father  is 
very  adverse,  Mary,  I  should  be  in- 
clined to  think  that  everything  is 
for  the  best." 

"  You  are  so  ready  to  think  that, 
Dr  Mitford,"  said  his  wife,  sitting 
down  suddenly  in  her  excitement, 
feeling  that  her  limbs  could  no 
longer  support  her.  "  But  I  am 
afraid  I  am  not  so  submissive," 
she  added,  with  a  little  burst  of 
feeling,  putting  up  her  hand  to  her 
eyes. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
don't  see  the  advantages  of  it  1 "  said 
her  husband ;  "  or  is  it  the  girl  you 
object  to  1  She  seems  to  me  to  be 
a  very  nice  girl." 

"  Oh,  hush  ! "  said  Mrs  Mitford  ; 
"  do  not  let  him  hear  you.  Oh 
my  boy  !  my  boy  !  " 

John  came  in  with  his  face  just 
settling  out  of  the  melting  tender- 
ness of  his  good  -  night  into  the 
resolution  which  was  necessary  for 
what  was  now  before  him.  He  saw 
that  his  mother,  half  hidden  in  her 
chair,  had  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hand  ;  and  his  father  stood  by 
the  table,  as  if  he  had  been  argu- 
ing, or  reasoning,  or  explaining 
something.  It  was  not  an  attitude 
very  unusual  with  Dr  Mitford ;  but 
explaining  things  to  his  wife,  not- 
withstanding her  respect  for  him, 
was  not  an  effort  generally  attended 
with  much  success.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, the  subjects  he  selected  were 
not  within  her  range. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
as  John  approached,  with  the  air  of 
concluding  an  argument,  "  that  if 
Mr  Crediton  does  not  object,  I  shall 
think  John  has  made  an  excellent 
choice." 

"  Thank  you,  father,"  John  said, 


and  held  out  his  hand ;  while  the 
mother,  whose  anxieties  on  the  sub- 
ject went  so  much  deeper,  sat  still 
on  her  chair  and  covered  her  face, 
and  felt  a  sharp  pang  of  irritation 
strike  through  her.  She  had  trained 
the  boy  to  be  very  respectful,  very 
dutiful,  to  his  father  ;  but  Dr  Mit- 
ford spent  much  of  his  time  in  his 
study,  and  there  could  not  be  much 
sympathy  between  them  ;  yet  the 
two  stood  clasping  hands  while 
she  was  left  out.  It  was  the 
strangest  transposition  of  parts. 
She  could  not  understand  it,  and 
it  jarred  through  her  with  sudden 
pain.  Nor  did  John  seek  her  after 
that,  as  surely,  she  thought,  he 
must  do.  He  stood  between  them 
in  front  of  the  table,  and  kept  look- 
ing straight,  not  at  either  of  them, 
but  at  the  light. 

"  I  have  had  something  else  on 
my  mind  for  a  long  time,"  he  said, 
and  his  lips  were  parched  with  ex- 
citement. "  Father,  it  is  a  long 
affair:  will  you  sit  down  again  and 
listen  to  what  I  have  got  to  say  1 " 

"If  it  is  about  this  business," 
said  his  father,  "  I  have  told  you 
already,  John,  that  nothing  can  be 
done  without  her  father's  consent ; 
and  I  have  not  time,  you  know, 
to  waste  in  talk.  Tell  your  mother 
what  it  is  ;  I  shall  have  it  all  from 
her.  I  have  given  you  my  con- 
sent and  approbation  conditionally. 
Your  mother,  surely,  can  do  all  the 
rest." 

"  Wait,"  said  John ;  "  pray,  wait 
a  little.  It  is  not  about  this.  I 
want  to  tell  you  and  my  mother 
both  together.  I  should  not  have 
the  courage,"  he  added,  with  the 
excitement  of  self  -  defence,  "  to 
speak  to  you  separately.  It  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  this.  It  was  a  bur- 
den upon  my  mind  before  I  ever 
saw  Kate.  And  now  that  every- 
thing has  come  to  a  crisis,  I  must 
speak.  It  cannot  be  delayed  any 
longer.  Hear  me  for  this  once.'; 

Mrs  Mitford  gave  a  stifled  groan. 
It  was  very  low,  but  the  room  was 
very  silent,  and  the  sound  startled 
all  of  them  —  even  herself.  It 


202 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


sounded  somehow  as  if  it  had 
come  in  through  the  window  out 
of  the  dark.  She  raised  herself  up 
suddenly  and  opened  her  eyes,  and 
uncovered  her  face,  and  looked  at 
them  both,  lest  any  one  should  say 
it  was  she.  Yes,  she  had  foreseen 
it  all  the  time  ;  she  had  felt  it, 
since  ever  that  girl  came  to  the 
house — which  was  not,  it  must  be 
admitted,  entirely  just. 

"  You  have  brought  me  up  to  be 
a  clergyman,"  said  John,  still  more 
and  more  hurried,  "  and  there  was 
a  time  when  I  accepted  the  idea  as 
a  matter  of  course ;  but  since  I 
have  grown  older,  things  are  differ- 
ent. I  cannot  bear  to  disappoint 
you,  and  overturn  all  your  plans ; 
but,  father,  think !  Can  I  under- 
take to  say  from  the  altar  things  I 
cannot  believe?  Ought  I  to  do 
that  1  If  I  were  a  boy,  it  might  be 
different,  and  I  might  learn  better ; 
but  at  my  age " 

"  Age,"  said^  the  Doctor,  impa- 
tiently, "what* is  all  this  about? 
Age  ;  of  course  you  are  a  boy,  and 
nothing  else.  And  why  shouldn't 
you  believe  ?  Better  men  than 
you  have  gone  over  all  that  ground, 
and  settled  it  again  and  again." 

"  But,  father,  I  cannot  be  guided 
by  what  other  people  think.  I 
must  judge  for  myself.  I  cannot 
do  it !  I  have  tried  to  carry  out 
your  expectations  until  the  struggle 
has  been  almost  more  than  I  could 
bear,  and  I  cannot  do  it.  Forgive 
me :  it  has  come  to  be  a  question 
of  possibility " 

"  A  question  of  fiddlestick  ! " 
cried  the  Doctor,  angrily,  walking 
about  the  room.  "  I  tell  you,  bet- 
ter men  than  you  have  settled  all 
that.  Of  course  you  think  your 
doubts  are  quite  original,  and  never 
were  heard  of  before.  Nonsense  ! 
I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  they 
have  been  refuted  a  hundred  times 
over.  Stuff !  Mary,  is  it  to  be  ex- 
pected I  should  give  in  to  him  ? — 
just  when  it  was  a  comfort  to  think 
he  was  provided  for,  and  all  that. 
Are  you  such  a  fool  as  to  think 
you  can  meet  Mr  Crediton  with  this 


story  ]  Is  he  to  understand  at  once 
that  you  mean  to  live  on  your 
wife  1 "  ^ 

"  I  will  never  live  on  my  wife," 
said  John,  stung  in  the  tenderest 
point. 

"  Oh,  Dr  Mitford,  don't  speak  to 
him  so,"  said  his  mother,  rising  up 
and  thro  wing  herself  metaphorically 
between  the  combatants.  "  Do  you 
think  if  he  had  not  had  a  very 
strong  reason  he  would  have  said 
this  to  us,  knowing  how  it  would 
grieve  us  1  Oh,  let  him  tell  us  what 
he  means  ! " 

"  I  know  what  he  means,"  said 
Dr  Mitford,  "better than  he  does 
himself.  He  thinks  it  is  a  fine 
thing  to  be  a  sceptic.  His  father 
believes  what  he  can't  believe,  and 
that  makes  him  out  superior  to  his 
father.  And  then  here  is  Kate 
Crediton  with  all  her  money " 

"  Father!"  cried  John,  pale  with 
rage. 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush ! "  said  Mrs  Mit- 
ford ;  "  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  Oh,  don't  let  us  bring  her 
name  in  to  make  bitterness.  John, 
John,  do  not  say  anything  hasty ! 
We  had  so  set  our  hearts  upon  it. 
And,  dear,  your  papa  might  ex- 
plain things  to  you  if  you  would 
but  have  patience.  He  never  knew 
you  had  any  doubts  before." 

"  Mother,"  said  John,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  turning  to  her,  "  it  is 
like  you  to  take  my  part." 

"  But  he  must  have  a  very  strong 
reason,"  she  went  on,  without  heed- 
ing him,  addressing  her  husband, 
"  to  be  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  disappoint  us  so.  Don't  be 
hard  upon  our  poor  boy.  If  you 
were  to  argue  with  him,  and  ex- 
plain things — I  am  sure  my  John 
did  not  mean  any  harm.  Oh, 
consider,  John  !  —  Fanshawe,  that 
you  were  born  in — how  could  you 
bear  to  see  it  go  to  others  1  And 
the  poor  people  that  know  you  so 

well Dr  Mitford,  when  all  this 

is  over,  and — strangers  gone,  and 
we  are  quiet  again,  you  will  take 
the  boy  with  you,  and  go  over 
everything  and  explain " 


1370.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


203 


"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  Doctor, 
suddenly  going  to  the  side  table 
and  selecting  his  candle,  "  that  I 
Imve  no  time  to  waste  on  such  non- 
sense. You  can  have  what  books 
you  want  out  of  my  library,  and  I 
hope  your  own  sense  and  reflection 
will  carry  the  day.  Not  a  word 
more.  You  are  excited,  I  hope, 
and  that  is  the  cause  of  this  exhibi- 
tion. No;  of  course  I  don't  accept 
what  you  have  said.  Speak  to 
your  mother — that  is  the  best  thing 
you  can  do.  I  have  got  my  paper 
to  finish,  so  good-night." 

-John  stood  aghast,  and  watched 
his  father  go  out  at  the  door,  im- 
paoient  and  contemptuous  of  the 
explanation  it  had  cost  him  so 
much  to  make.  And  when  he 
turned  to  his  mother,  expecting 
her  sympathy,  she  was  standing 
by  him  transformed,  with  a  gleam 
of  fire  in  her  eyes  such  as  he  had 
never  seen  there;  a  flush  on  her 
face,  and  her  hand  held  up  with  in- 
dignant, almost  threatening,  vehe- 
mence. 

'•  How  could  you  do  it?"  she 
cried — "  how  could  you  have  the 
heart  to  do  it  1  To  us  that  have 
had  no  thought  but  for  you  !  Look 
what  sacrifices  we  have  made  all 
your  life  that  you  should  have 
everything.  Look  how  your  father 
has  worked  at  his  papers — and  all 
that  we  have  done  to  secure  your 
prosperity.  And  for  the  sake  of 
a  silly  girl  you  had  never  seen  a 
month  ago !  Oh,  God  forgive  me  ! 
what  shall  I  do  ]  " 

And  she  sank  down  on  her 
chair  and  covered  her  face,  and 
burst  into  angry  weeping.  It  was 
not  simple  sorrow,  but  mortifica- 
tion, rage,  disappointment — a  corn- 
bin;  ttion  of  feelings  which  it  was 
impossible  for  John  to  identify 
with  his  mother.  She  had  been 
defending  him  but  a  moment  be- 
fore. It  had  given  him  a  sense  of 
the  most  exquisite  relief  to  find  her 
on  liis  side.  He  had  turned  to  her 
without  doubt  or  fear,  expecting 
that  she  would  cry  a  little,  perhaps, 
and  lament  over  him,  and  be  wist- 

VOL.  cvn. — NO.  DCLII. 


fully  respectful  of  his  doubts,  and 
tender  of  his  sufferings.  And  to 
see  her  confronting  him,  flushed, 
indignant,  almost  menacing  !  His 
consternation  was  too  great  for 
words.  "  Mother,"  he  said,  falter- 
ing, "  you  are  mistaken — indeed 
you  are  mistaken  !  "  and  stopped 
short,  with  mingled  resentment  and 
humiliation.  Why  should  Kate 
be  supposed  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  it  1  And  yet  in  his  heart 
he  knew  that  she  had  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  it.  Her — but  not  her 
fortune,  as  his  father  thought. 
Curse  her  fortune !  John,  who 
had  always  been  so  gentle,  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  like  a  caged 
lion,  with  a  hundred  passions  in 
his  heart.  He  was  wild  with  mor- 
tification, and  with  that  sense  of 
the  intolerable  which  accompanies 
the  first  great  contrariety  of  a  life. 
Nothing  (to  speak  of)  had  ever 
gone  cross  with  him  before.  But 
now  his  mother  herself  had  turned 
against  him  —  could  such  a  thing 
be  possible  1 — and  the  solid  earth 
had  been  rent  away  from  under  his 
feet. 

Neither  of  them  knew  how  long 
it  was  before  anything  was  said. 
Mrs  Mitford  sobbed  out  her  passion, 
and  dried  her  tears,  and  remained 
silent ;  and  so  did  John,  till  the  air 
seemed  to  stir  round  him  with 
wings  and  rustlings  as  of  unseen 
spectators.  It  was  only  when  it 
had  become  unbearable  that  he 
broke  the  silence.  "  Mother,"  he 
said,  with  a  voice  which  even  to 
his  own  ears  sounded  harsh  and 
strange,  "  you  have  always  believed 
me  till  now.  When  I  tell  you 
that  this  has  been  in  my  heart  ever 
since  I  left  Oxford — and  while  I 
was  at  Oxford — and  that  I  have  al- 
ways refrained  from  telling  you, 
hoping  that  when  the  time  of  deci- 
sion came  I  might  feel  differently — 
will  you  refuse  to  believe  me 
now  ?  " 

Mrs  Mitford  was  incapable  of 
making  any  reply.  "  Oh,  John," 
she  said — "oh,  my  boy  !  "  shaking 
her  head  mournfully,  while  the 


204 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


tears  dropped  from  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  mean  to  imply  that  she 
would  not  believe  him.  Poor  soul ! 
she  did  not  very  well  know  what 
she  meant,  except  utter  confusion 
and  misery ;  but  that  was  the  mean- 
ing which  her  gesture  bore  to  him. 

"  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve 
this,"  he  said,  with  indignation. 
"  You  have  a  right  to  be  as  severe 
upon  me  as  you  like  for  disobeying 
your  wishes,  but  you  have  no  right 
to  disbelieve  your  son." 

"Oh,  John,  what  is  the  use  of 
speaking1?5'  said  Mrs  Mitford.  "Dis- 
believe you  !  why  should  I  dis- 
believe you?  The  best  thing  is  just 
to  say  nothing  more  about  it,  but 
let  me  break  my  heart  and  take  no 
notice.  What  am  I  that  I  should 
stand  in  your  way?  Your  father 
will  get  the  better  of  it,  for  he  has 
so  many  things  to  occupy  him  ; 
but  I  will  never  get  the  better  of 
it.  Don't  take  any  notice  of  me ; 
the  old  must  give  up,  whatever  hap- 
pens— I  know  that — and  the  young 
must  have  their  day." 

"  Yes ;  the  young  must  have  their 
day,"  said  John,  severely ;  and  then 
his  heart  smote  him,  and  he  came 
and  knelt  down  by  his  mother's 
side.  "  But  why  should  you  be  in 
such  despair?"  he  said.  "  Mother, 
I  am  not  going  away  from  you. 
Though  I  should  not  be  curate  of 
Fanshawe  Regis,  may  not  we  all  be 
very  happy  together  ? — as  happy  in 
a  different  way  ?  Mother,  dear,  I 
thought  you  were  the  one  to  stand 
by  me,  whoever  should  be  against 
me." 

"  And  so  I  will  stand  by  you," 
she  sobbed,  permitting  him  to  take 
her  hand  and  caress  it.  "  Nobody 
shall  say  I  do  not  stand  up  for  my 
own  boy.  You  shall  have  your 
mother  for  your  defender,  John,  if 
it  should  kill  me.  But  oh,  my 
heart  is  broke ! "  she  cried,  leaning 
her  head  against  his  shoulder. 
"  Now  and  then  even  a  boy's 
mother  must  think  of  herself.  All 
my  dreams  were  about  you,  John. 
I  have  not  been  so  happy,  not  so 
very  happy,  in  my  life.  Other 


women  have  been  happier  than 
me,  and  more  thought  of,  that 
perhaps  have  done  no  more  than  I 
have.  But  I  have  always  said  to 
myself,  I  have  my  John.  I  thought 
you  would  make  it  up  to  me  ;  I 
thought  my  happiness  had  all  been 
saving  up — all  waiting  till  I  was 
growing  old,  and  needed  it  most. 
Don't  cry,  my  dear.  I  would  not 
have  you  cry,  you  that  are  a  man, 
as  if  you  were  a  girl.  Oh,  if  I  had 
had  a  girl  of  my  own,  I  think  I  could 
have  borne  it  better.  But  she 
would  have  gone  off  and  married 
too.  There,  there  !  I  am  very  self- 
ish speaking  about  my  feelings.  I 
will  never  do  it  again.  What  does 
anything  matter  to  me  if  you  are 
happy  1  My  dear,  go  to  bed  now, 
and  don't  take  any  more  notice. 
It  was  the  shock,  you  know.  In 
the  morning  you  will  see  I  shall 
have  come  to  myself." 

"  But,  mother,  it  matters  most 
to  me  that  you  should  understand 
me/'  cried  John — "  you  who  have 
been  everything  to  me.  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  forget  who 
has  trained  me,  and  taught  me,  and 
guided  me  since  ever  I  remember  ? 
What  difference  will  this  make  be- 
tween you  and  me  ?  Does  giving 
up  the  Church  mean  giving  up  my 
mother  1  Never,  never  !  I  should 
give  up  even  my  own  conscience, 
whatever  it  cost  me,  could  I  think 
that." 

"  Oh,  John,  my  dear,  perhaps  if 

things  were  rightly  explained ? " 

she  faltered,  raising  her  voice  with 
a  little  spring  of  hope,  and  looking 
anxiously  in  his  face.  But  she  saw 
no  hope  there,  and  then  her  voice 
grew  tremulous  and  solemn.  ' '  Joh  n , 
do  you  think  it  will  bring  a  blessing 
on  you  to  turn  back  after  you  have 
put  your  hand  to  the  plough,  and 
forsake  God  for  the  world  1  Is  that 
the  way  to  get  His  grace  ? " 

"Will  God  be  better  pleased  with 
me  if  I  stand  up  at  the  altar  before 
Him  and  say  a  lie?"  said  John. 
"  Mother,  you  who  are  so  true  and 
just,  you  cannot  think  what  you 
say." 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


205 


"But  it  is  truth  you  have  to 
speak,  and  not  lies,"  said  the  un- 
used controversialist,  with  a  thou- 
sand wistful  pleas,  which  were  not 
arguments,  in  her  eyes ;  and  then 
she  threw  her  tender  arms  round 
her  son,  and  clasped  him  to  her. 
"  Oh,  my  boy,  what  can  I  say  ?  It 
is  because  of  the  shock  and  my  not 
expecting  it.  I  think  my  heart  is 
broken.  But  go  to  bed,  my  dear, 
and  think  no  more  of  me  for  to- 
night." 

•'  I  cannot  bear  you  saying  your 
heart  is  broken,"  cried  John.  "  Mo- 
ther, don't  be  so  hard  upon  me.  I 
must  act  according  to  my  conscience, 
whatever  I  may  have  to  bear." 

"  Oh,  John  !  God  knows  I  don't 
mean  to  be  hard  upon  you  !  "  cried 
Mrs  Mitford,  stung  with  the  re- 
proach. And  then  she  rose  up 
trembling,  her  pretty  grey  hair 
rufled  about  her  forehead,  her 
eyes  wet  and  shining  with  so  great 
a  .strain  of  emotion.  Thus  she 
stood  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him 
with  such  a  faint  effort  at  a  smile 
as  she  could  accomplish.  "  Per- 
haps things  will  look  different  in 
the  morning,"  she  said,  softly,  "  if 
we  say  our  prayers  with  all  our 
hearts  before  we  go  to  bed." 

And  with  that  she  drew  her  son 


to  her,  and  gave  him  his  good-night 
kiss,  and  went  away  quickly  with- 
out turning  round  again.  John  was 
left  master  of  the  field.  Neither 
father  nor  mother  had  any  effectual 
forces  to  bring  against  him — they 
had  both  retired  with  a  postpone- 
ment of  the  question,  which  weak- 
ened their  power  and  strengthened 
his.  And  he  had  attained  what 
seemed  to  him  the  greatest  happi- 
ness in  life — the  love  of  the  girl 
whom  he  loved.  And  yet  he  was 
not  happy.  He  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  the  deserted  room,  and  stood 
at  the  open  window,  and  breathed 
in  the  breath  of  the  lilies  and  the 
dew,  and  remembered  that  Kate 
was  his,  and  yet  was  not  happy. 
How  incredible  that  was,  and  yet 
true !  When  he  left  the  room  he 
caught  himself  moving  with  steal- 
thy footsteps,  as  if  something  lay 
dead  in  the  house.  And  something 
did  lie  dead.  The  hopes  that  had 
centred  in  him  had  got  their  death- 
blow. The  house  had  lost  what 
had  been  its  heart  and  strength. 
He  became  vaguely,  sadly  conscious 
of  this,  as  he  stole  away  in  the 
silence  to  his  own  room,  and  shut 
himself  up  there,  though  it  was 
still  so  early,  with  his  heart  as 
heavy  as  lead  within  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  xn. 


Next  morning  the  household 
met  at  breakfast  with  that  strange 
determination  to  look  just  as  usual, 
and  ignore  all  that  had  happened, 
whiih  is  so  common  in  life.  Kate, 
to  be  sure,  did  not  know  what  had 
happened.  She  was  aware  of  no- 
thing but  her  own  engagement 
which  could  have  disturbed  the 
fanrly  calm  ;  and  it  filled  her  with 
wonder,  and  even  irritation,  to  see 
how  pale  John  looked,  who  ought 
to  h  ive  been  at  the  height  of  hap- 
piness, and  how  little  exultation 
was  in  his  voice.  "  He  is  thinking 
of  what  he  is  to  say  to  papa,"  was 
the  thought  that  passed  through  her 
mind  j  and  this  thought  fortunately 


checked  her  momentary  displeasure. 
Mrs  Mitford  was  paler  still,  and  her 
eyes  looked  red,  as  if  she  had  been 
crying;  but  instead  of  being  sub- 
dued or  cross,  she  was  in  unusually 
gay  spirits,  it  seemed  to  Kate — talk- 
ing a  great  deal  more  than  usual, 
even  laughing,  and  attempting  little 
jokes  which  sat  very  strangely  upon 
her.  The  only  conclusion  Kate 
could  draw  from  the  general  aspect 
of  affairs  was,  that  they  were  all  ex- 
tremely nervous  about  the  meeting 
with  Mr  Crediton.  And,  on  the 
whole,  she  was  not  very  much  sur- 
prised at  this.  She  herself  was 
nervous  enough.  His  only  child, 
for  whom  he  might  have  hoped  the 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


most  splendid  of  marriages — who 
was  so  much  admired,  and  had  so 
little  excuse  for  throwing  herself 
away — that  she  should  engage  her- 
self thus,  like  any  school-girl,  to  a 
clergyman's  son,  with  no  prospects, 
nor  money,  nor  position,  nor  any- 
thing !  Kate  looked  at  John  across 
the  table,  and  saw  that  he  was  very 
far  from  handsome,  and  owned  to 
herself  that  it  was  next  to  incred- 
ible. Why  had  she  done  it  ?  Look- 
ing at  him  critically,  he  was  not 
even  the  least  good-looking,  nor 
distinguished,  nor  remarkable  in 
any  way.  One  might  say  he  had 
a  good  expression,  but  that  was  all 
that  could  be  said  for  him.  And 
Kate  felt  that  it  would  be  incred- 
ible to  her  father.  Dr  Mitford 
was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
was  like  himself ;  but  then  he 
was  an  old  man,  and  cold-blooded. 
Kate  recovered  her  complacency  by 
this  strain  of  reasoning.  And  but 
for  this  she  might  have  been  a 
little  annoyed  by  their  looks,  which 
were  not  looks  of  triumph. 

"  I  want  you  to  let  me  drive  the 
phaeton  over  to  the  station  to  meet 
papa,"  she  said.  "Please  do,  Dr 
Mitford.  Oh,  I  am  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  the  pony.  I  have  been 
making  friends  with  him,  and  giving 
him  lumps  of  sugar,  and  I  do  want 
to  be  the  first  to  see  papa." 

"My  dear  Miss  Kate,  I  ara  so 
sorry  the  phaeton  has  only  room 
for  two,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  If 
you  were  to  go  there  would  be  no 
seat  for  your  excellent  father ;  but 
it  is  only  half  an  hour's  drive — can- 
not you  wait  till  he  reaches  here  ]" 
"  But,  dear  Dr  Mitford,  I  always 
drive  him  from  the  station  at 
home,"  cried  Kate. 

"  You  are  not  at  home  now,  my 
dear  young  lady,"  said  the  Doctor, 
shaking  his  head.  "We  must  give 
you  back  safe  and  sound  into 
his  hands.  The  groom  will  go. 
No,  Miss  Kate,  no — we  must  not 
frighten  your  worthy  father.  You 
must  consider  what  had  so  nearly 
happened  a  month  ago.  No,  no  ; 
it  requires  a  man's  hand " 


"  But  the  pony  is  so  gentle," 
pleaded  Kate. 

"  I  know  the  pony  better  than 
you  do,"  Dr  Mitford  said,  shaking 
his  head,  "  and  he  wants  a  man's 
hand.  My  dear,  you  must  be 
content  to  wait  your  good  father 
here." 

The  Doctor  was  the  only  one 
who  appeared  unmoved.  He  had 
put  on  all  his  usual  decorous  solem- 
nity along  with  his  fresh  stiff  white 
tie,  and  highly -polished  creaking 
boots.  But  even  he  made  no  allu- 
sion to  the  changed  state  of  affairs. 
He  did  not  kiss  her  as  he  had  done 
on  the  previous  night,  nor  treat 
her  otherwise  than  with  his  usual 
old-fashioned  ceremonious  polite- 
ness. John's  voice  once  or  twice 
in  the  course  of  the  meal  calling 
her  Kate,  John's  eyes  now  and 
then  brightening  up  upon  her  out 
of  the  haze  of  anxiety  that  over- 
clouded them,  were  the  only  indica- 
tions that  anything  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary had  happened.  Kate  said  to 
herself,  with  a  sort  of  whimsical 
disappointment,  that  this  was  a 
very  strange  way  of  being  engaged. 
That  era  in  her  life  had  appeared 
to  her  before  it  came  as  if  it  must 
change  everything.  And  it  seemed 
to  have  changed  nothing,  not  even 
among  the  people  it  most  concerned. 
Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  she  must 
laugh,  sometimes  as  if  she  must 
cry,  sometimes  disposed  to  be 
angry,  sometimes  wounded.  She 
was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
table  to  the  garden,  where  John 
found  her — glad,  poor  fellow,  to 
escape  too.  And  then,  as  they 
wandered  among  the  rose-bushes 
arm-in-arm,  she  found  out  how  it 
was. 

"  But  they  have  no  right  to  be 
so  hard  on  you,"  cried  Kate,  im- 
petuously. "Suppose  you  had  never 
seen  me  or  thought  of  me — would 
it  be  right  to  be  a  clergyman,  just 
like  a  trade,  when  you  felt  you 

could  not  in  your  heart 

"  My  Kate  ! — you  understand  me 
at  least ;  that  is  what  I  said." 
"And  when  you  can  do  so  much 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


207 


better  for  yourself,"  said  Kate, 
with  emphasis.  "  Mrs  Mitford  and 
the  Doctor  should  think  of  that. 
One  way  you  never  could  have 
been  anything  but  a  clergyman; 
while  the  other  way — why, you  may 
be  anything,  John." 

He  shook  his  head  over  her,  half 
sadly,  half  pleased.  He  knew  his 
capacities  were  far  from  being  be- 
yond limit,  but  still  that  she  should 
think  so  was  pleasant.  And  then 
there  was  the  sense,  which  was 
•sweet,  that  he  and  she,  spending 
the  summer  morning  among  the 
1  lowers,  were  a  little  faction  in 
arms  against  the  world,  with  a 
mutual  grievance,  mutual  difficul- 
ties, a  cause  to  maintain  against 
everybody.  Solitude  cb  deux  is 
sweet,  and  selfishness  a  deux  has  a 
way  of  looking  half  sublime.  It 
was  the  first  time  either  of  them 
Lad  experienced  this  infinitely  se- 
ductive sentiment.  They  talked 
over  the  hardness  of  the  father  and 
mother,  with  a  kind  of  delight  in 
thus  feeling  all  the  world  to  be 
against  them.  "  They  cannot  blame 
ine,  for  you  were  thinking  of  that 
before  you  ever  saw  me,"  said  Kate. 
''Blame  you!  it  is  one  thing  the  more 
I  have  to  love  you  for,"  said  John. 
"  I  should  never  have  been  awaken- 
ed to  free  myself  but  for  you,  my 
darling.  I  should  have  gone  stu- 
pidly on  under  the  sway  of  cus- 
tom." And  for  the  moment  he 
believed  what  he  said.  Oh,  what  a 
difference  it  made  !  the  wide  world 
before  him  where  to  choose,  and 
this  creature,  whom  he  loved  more 
than  all  the  world,  leaning  on  him, 
putting  her  fate  in  his  hands ; 
instead  of  the  dull  routine  of 
parish  duties,  and  the  dull  home 
life,  and  the  stagnation  around, 
and  all  his  uneasy  restless  thoughts. 

It  was  about  twelve  o'clock  when 
K  ate  went  up-stairs  to  get  her  hat, 
with  the  intention  of  setting  out  on 
foot  to  waylay  her  father.  It  was 
absolutely  indispensable,  she  felt, 
that  she  should  be  the  first  to  see 
him ;  but  up  to  that  time  the  two 
lovers  had  wandered  about  together 


unmolested,  not  caring  who  saw 
them,  arm-in-arm.  This  was  the 
first  advantage  of  the  engagement. 
Dr  Mitford  saw  them  from  his  li- 
brary, and  Mrs  Mitford  looked  down 
upon  them  with  a  beating  heart 
from  her  chamber-window,  but  nei- 
ther interfered.  Twenty-four  hours 
before  Mrs  Mitford  would  have 
gone  out  herself  to  take  care  of 
them,  or  would  have  called  Kate 
to  her ;  but  now  that  they  were 
engaged,  such  precautions  were 
vain.  And  other  people  saw  them 
besides  the  father  and  mother.  Fred 
Huntley,  for  instance,  who  reined  in 
his  horse,  and  peered  over  the  gar- 
den-wall as  he  passed,  with  a  curi- 
osity he  found  it  difficult  to  account 
for,  saw  them  standing  by  the  lilies 
leaning  on  each  other,  and  said 
"  Oh  ! "  to  himself,  and  turned  back 
and  rode  home  again,  without  giv- 
ing the  message  he  had  been  charged 
with.  He  had  come  to  ask  the  Fan- 
shaweKegis  people  to  agarden-party 
— "  But  what  is  the  use  1 "  Fred  had 
said  to  himself;  and  had  turned,  not 
his  own  head,  but  his  horse's,  and 
gone  back  again.  Parsons,  too,  saw 
the  pair  from  Kate's  window,  where 
she  was  finishing  her  packing. 
"Master  will  soon  put  a  stop  to 
that,"  was  Parsons'  decision.  But 
everybody  perceived  at  once  that  a 
new  relationship  had  been  estab- 
lished between  the  two,  and  that 
everything  was  changed. 

When  Kate  ran  up-stairs  to  put 
on  her  hat,  it  was  after  two 
hours  of  this  consultation  and  mu- 
tual confidence.  It  was  true  she 
had  not  taken  much  advice  from 
him.  She  had  closed  his  lips  on 
that  subject,  telling  him  frankly 
that  she  knew  her  papa  a  great  deal 
better  than  he  did,  and  that  she 
should  take  her  own  way  ;  but  she 
had  given  a  great  deal  of  counsel, 
on  the  other  hand.  He  had  found 
it  impossible  to  do  more  than 
make  a  succession  of  little  fond 
replies,  so  full  had  she  been  of 
advice  and  wisdom.  "You  must 
be,  oh,  so  kind  and  gentle  and 
nice  to  her,"  Kate  had  said.  "I 


208 


John.— -Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


•will  never  forgive  you  if  you  are 
in  the  least  cross  or  disagreeable  to 
mamma.  Yes ;  I  like  to  say  mamma. 
I  never  had  any  mother  of  my  own, 
and  she  has  been  so  good  to  me, 
and  I  love  her  so — not  for  your 
sake,  sir,  but  for  her  own.  You 
must  never  be  vexed  by  anything 
she  says ;  you  must  be  as  patient 
and  gentle  and  sweet  to  her — but, 
remember,  you  must  be  firm  !  It 
will  be  kindest  to  all  of  us,  John. 
If  you  were  to  appear  to  give  in 
now,  it  would  all  have  to  be  done 
over  again ;  now  the  subject  has 
been  started,  it  will  be  much  kinder 
to  be  firm." 

"  You  need  not  fear  in  that  re- 
spect," John  replied.  "  I  think 
nothing  but  the  thought  of  you 
up-stairs,  and  the  feeling  that  you 
understood  me,  would  have  given 
me  courage  to  speak ;  but  the  mo- 
ment one  word  had  been  said,  all 
had  been  said.  Nothing  can  bring 
things  back  to  their  old  condition 
again." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Kate;  "  but, 
remember,  you  must  be  gentleness 
'itself  to  her.  If  you  were  rude  or 
undutiful  or  unkind,  I  should  nev- 
er more  look  at  you  again." 

"My  darling!"  said  John.  It 
was  so  sweet  of  her  thus  to  defend 
his  mother.  If  Mrs  Mitford  had 
heard  it,  her  soft  heart  would  have 
been  filled  full  of  disgust  and  bit- 
terness to  think  of  this  stranger 
taking  it  upon  herself  to  plead  for 
her,  his  mother,  with  her  own  son ! 
But  John  only  thought  how  sweet 
it  was  of  his  darling  to  be  so  anxi- 
ous for  his  mother,  and  felt  his 
heart  melt  over  her.  What  was  all 
his  mother  had  done  for  him  in 
comparison  with  Kate's  dominion, 
which  was  boundless,  and  of  divine 
right  1  Thus  they  discussed  their 
position,  the  very  difficulties  of 
which  were  delicious  because  they 
were  mutual,  and  felt  that  the 
other  persons  connected  with  them, 
parents  and  suchlike,  were  railed 
off  at  an  immense  distance,  and 
were  henceforward  to  be  struggled 
against  and  kept  in  subjection.  It 


was  with  this  resolution  full  in  her 
mind,  and  thrilling  with  a  new  im- 
pulse of  independence  and  activity, 
that  Kate  went  up-stairs.  Parsons 
had  gone  down  to  seek  that  sus- 
tenance of  failing  nature  which  the 
domestic  mind  finds  necessary  be- 
tween its  eight  o'clock  breakfast  and 
its  two  o'clock  dinner  ;  but  Lizzie, 
whom  Kate  had  seen  but  little  of 
lately,  inspired  on  her  side  by  a  re- 
solution scarcely  less  strong  than 
the  young  lady's,  was  at  her  bed- 
room door,  waylaying  her.  Lizzie 
rushed  in  officiously  to  find  the 
hat  and  the  gloves  and  the  parasol 
which  Miss  Crediton  wanted,  and 
then  she  added,  humbly,  "  Please, 
miss ! "  and  stood  gaping,  with  her 
wholesome  country  roses  growing 
crimson,  and  the  creamy  white  of 
her  round  neck  reddening  all  over, 
like  sunrise  upon  snow. 

"  Well,  Lizzie,  what  is  it  ?— but 
make  haste,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry," 
said  Kate.  She  was  a  young  lady 
who  was  very  good-natured  to  ser- 
vants, and,  as  they  said,  not  a  bit 
proud. 

"Ob,  please,  miss!  —  it's  as  I 
can't  a-bear  to  see  you  going  away." 

"Is  that  all?  I  am  sure  it  is 
very  kind  of  you,  Lizzie — every- 
body has  been  so  very  kind  to  me 
at  Fanshawe  Regis  that  I  can't 
bear  to  go  away,"  said  Kate ;  "  but 
I  daresay  I  shall  come  back  again 
— probably  very  often — so  you  see 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  cry." 

"  That's  not  the  reason,  miss," 
said  Lizzie ;  "I've  been  thinking 
this  long  and  long  if  I  could  better 
myself.  Mother's  but  poor,  miss, 
and  all  them  big  lads  to  think  of. 
And  you  as  has  so  many  servants, 

and  could  do  such  a  deal It  aint 

as  I'm  not  happy  with  missis  — 
but  service  is  service,  and  I  feel  as 
I  ought  to  better  myself ." 

"  Oh,  you  ungrateful  thing  ! " 
cried  Kate;  "after  Mrs  Mitford 
has  been  so  good  to  you.  I  would 
not  be  so  ungrateful  for  all  the 
world.  Better  yourself  indeed ! 
I  can  tell  you,  you  are  a  great  deal 
more  likely  to  injure  yourself.  Oh, 


1370.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


209 


lizzie,  I  should  not  have  thought 
it  of  you!  You  ought  to  be  so 
happy  here." 

"It  aint  as  I'm  not  happy," 
cied  Lizzie,  melting  into  tears. 
"Oh,  miss,  don't  you  go  and  be 
vexed.  It's  all  along  of  what  Miss 
I  arsons  says.  She  says  in  the  kit- 
chen as  how  she's  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, and  all  the  dresses  you  gives 
her,  and  all  the  presents,  and  takes 
her  about  wherever  you  go.  Oh, 
miss,  when  Miss  Parsons  is  married, 
won't  you  try  me  ?  I'll  serve  you 
night  and  day — I  will.  I  don't  mind 
sitting  up  nights — not  till  daylight 
— and  I'd  never  ask  for  holidays, 
nor  followers,  nor  nothing.  You'd 
have  a  faithful  servant,  though  I 
says  it  as  shouldn't,"  said  Lizzie, 
with  her  apron  at  her  eyes  ;  "  and 
mother's  prayers,  and  a  blessin' 
from  the  Lord — oh,  miss,  if  you'd 
try  me ! " 

"  Try  you  in  place  of  Parsons  ! " 
cried  Kate,  in  consternation.  "Why, 
Lizzie,  are  you  mad1?  Can  you 
make  dresses,  you  foolish  girl,  and 
dress  hair,  and  do  all  sorts  of  things, 
like  Parsons  ?  You  are  only  Mrs 
Mitford's  housemaid.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  you  can  do  all  that  too1?" 

"  I  could  try,  miss,"  said  Lizzie, 
somewhat  frightened,  drying  her 
eyes. 

1  "  Try  ! — to  make  me  a  dress  !  " 
cried  Kate,  her  eyes  dancing  with 
fun  and  comic  horror.  "  But,  Liz- 
zie, I  will  try  and  find  a  place  for 
you  as  housemaid,  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,  miss,"  said 
Lizzie,  disconsolately ;  "  what  I 
want  is  to  better  myself.  And  I 
know  I  could,  if  I  were  to  try. 
When  I've  tried  hard  at  anything, 
I've  allays  done  it.  And,  please,  I 
d  m'  know  what  Miss  Parsons  is,  as 
she  should  be  thought  that  much 
of — I  could  do  it  if  I  was  to  try." 

"Then  you  had  better  try,  I 
tl  link,"  said  Kate,  with  severe  polite- 
ness, "  and  let  me  know  when  you 
h  ive  succeeded ;  but  in  the  mean 
time  I  will  take  my  gloves,  which 
y  m  are  spoiling.  I  have  no  more 
time  to  talk  just  now." 


Poor  Lizzie  found  herself  left 
behind,  when  she  had  hoped  the 
argument  was  just  beginning.  Kate 
ran  down  with  her  gloves  in  her 
hand,  half  annoyed,  half  amused. 
The  girl  was  so  ready  to  transplant 
herself  anywhere — to  reach  out  her 
rash  hands  to  new  tools,  and  to 
take  upon  her  a  succession  of  un- 
known duties,  that  Kate  was  quite 
subdued  by  the  thought.  "How 
foolish  ! "  she  said  to  herself. 
"When  she  has  been  brought  up  to 
one  thing,  why  should  she  want  to 
try  another  ?  It  is  so  silly.  What 
stupids  servants  are  !  If  I  had  been 
brought  up  a  housemaid,  I  should 
have  remained  a  housemaid.  And 
to  be  willing  to  leave  her  good  mis- 
tress and  her  home  and  all  her  past 
life — for  what ?  "  said  Kate,  moral- 
ising. Had  she  but  known  what 
a  very  similar  strain  of  reasoning 
was  going  on  inMrsMitford's  mind ! 
"  Give  up  his  home,  and  all  his  as- 
sociations, and  his  prospects  in  life, 
and  the  work  God  had  provided  for 
him  —  for  what?"  John's  mother 
was  musing.  The  school,  and  the 
old  women  in  the  village,  and  all 
her  parish  work,  had  slid  out  of  her 
thoughts.  She  had  shut  herself  up 
in  her  own  room,  and  was  brooding 
over  it — working  the  sword  in  her 
wound,  and  now  and  then  crying 
out  with  the  pain.  And  Dr  Mitford 
in  his  study  paused  from  time  to 
time  in  the  midst  of  his  paper,  and 
wished  with  a  glum  countenance 
that  Mr  Crediton's  visit  was  well 
over,  and  made  up  little  speeches 
disowning  all  complicity  in  the 
business ;  and  John  had  gone  down 
to  the  river,  to  the  foot  of  those 
cliffs  close  to  the  river  where  Kate's 
horse  was  carrying  her  when  he 
saved  her,  and,  with  his  fishing- 
rod  idle  in  his  hand,  tried  also  to 
prepare  himself  for  that  awful  in- 
terview with  Kate's  father,  and  for 
the  final  argument  with  his  own 
which  must  follow.  He  was  in  the 
first  day  of  his  lover's  paradise,  and 
had  just  tasted  the  sweetness  of 
mutual  consultation  over  those  in- 
terests and  prospects  which  were 


210 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


now  hers  as  well  as  his".  And  he 
was  very  happy.  But  all  the  same 
he  was  wretched,  feeling  himself 
torn  asunder  from  his  life — feeling 
that  he  had  lost  all  independent 
standing,  and  had  alienated  the 
hearts  which  loved  him  most  in  the 
world.  All  this  followed  upon  the 
privilege  of  saving  Miss  Crediton's 
life,  arid  her  month's  residence  at 
Fanshawe  Regis.  Was  it  Kate's 
fault  1  Nobody  said  so  in  words, 
not  even  Mrs  Mitford ;  and  Kate 
went  to  meet  her  father  with  such 
a  sense  of  splendid  virtue  and  dis- 
interestedness as  never  before  had 
swelled  her  bosom.  She  was  full 
of  the  energy  and  exhilaration 
which  attends  the  doing  of  a  good 
action.  "  I  have  saved  him,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  as  he  saved  me. 
I  have  prevented  him  going  and 
making  a  sacrifice  of  himself.  He 
would  never  have  had  the  courage 
to  stand  up  for  himself  without 
me."  Moved  by  this  glow  of  de- 
lightful complacency,  she  set  out 
upon  the  road  to  the  station ; 
and  it  was  not  till  she  heard  the 
jingle  of  the  phaeton  in  the  dis- 
tance that  a  thrill  of  nervousness 
ran  over  Kate,  and  she  felt  the 
magnitude  and  importance  of  what 
she  was  about  to  do. 

Mr  Crediton  probably  was  think- 
ing of  quite  other  things — at  least, 
he  did  not  recognise  her,  though 
she  stood  against  the  green  hedge- 
row in  her  light  summer  dress, 
making  signs  with  her  parasol.  It 
was  only  when  the  groom  drew  up 
that  he  observed  the  pretty  figure 
by  the  roadside.  "  What,  Kate  !  " 
he  cried,  with  a  flush  of  pleasure, 
and  jumped  out  of  the  phaeton  to 
greet  her.  "  But  there  is  no  room 
for  another,"  he  said,  looking  com- 
ically at  the  respectable  vehicle, 
when  he  had  kissed  his  child,  and 
congratulated  her  on  her  improved 
looks — "  what  is  to  be  done  1 " 

"I  wanted  to  have  driven  the 
pony  to  the  station,"  said  Kate, 
"  but  Dr  Mitford  would  not  let  me. 
Now  you  must  walk  home  with 
me,  papa — it  is  not  a  mile.  James, 


you  may  drive  on  and  say  we  are 
coming.  Dr  Mitford  thought  the 
pony  would  be  too  much  for  me," 
she  added,  demurely.  "He  is 
so  funny,  and  so  precise  about 
everything."  Then  Kate  remem- 
bered suddenly  that  it  was  very 
contrary  to  her  interest  to  depre- 
ciate any  of  the  Mitford  family, 
and  changed  her  tone — "but  so 
nice — you  cannot  think,  papa,  how 
kind,  how  good  they  have  all 
been  to  me  :  they  have  made  me 
like  their  own  child." 

"  So  much  the  better,  my  dear,'* 
said  Mr  Crediton.  "I  am  very 
grateful  to  them.  I  am  sure  they 
are  very  good  sort  of  people.  But 
I  hope,  Kate,  you  are  not  sorry  to 
be  going  home?" 

"I  am  not  sorry  to  see  you, 
papa,"  cried  Kate,  clasping  his  arm 
with  both  her  hands.  And  then 
she  leaned  her  head  towards  him 
in  her  caressing  way.  "  Dear  papa  ! 
I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,"  she 
went  on,  faltering  in  spite  of  her- 
self. 

"  If  you  have  much  to  tell  me, 
you  must  have  used  your  time 
well,"  said  Mr  Crediton,  smiling 
upon  her  the  smile  of  fond  paternal 
indulgence.  "And  I  daresay  the 
items  are  not  very  important.  But 
you  have  got  back  your  roses  and 
your  bright  eyes,  my  pet,  and  that 
is  of  more  consequence  than  all  the 
news  in  the  world." 

"  Papa,"  said  Kate,  moved  to  a 
certain  solemnity,  "  you  would  not 
say  so  if  you  knew  what  I  am  going 
to  say.  Do  you  remember  what 
you  said  to  me  the  morning  you 
left  1  and  I  thought  it  was  such  non- 
sense ; — but,"  here  she  gave  his  arm 
a  tender  little  squeeze  between  her 
two  clinging  hands,  "I  suppose  it 
was  you  that  knew  best." 

"What  did  I  say  to  you  the 
morning  I  left  1 "  said  Mr  Crediton, 
quite  unsuspicious.  He  was  pleased 
she  should  remember,  pleased  she 
should  think  he  knew  best.  But 
he  could  scarcely  realise  his  saucy 
Kate  in  this  soft  adoring  creature, 
and  he  put  his  own  hand  caress- 


1370.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


211 


ingly  upon  the  two  little  hands. 
"  Mrs  Mitford  must  have  done  you 
a  great  deal  of  good,"  he  added, 
•with  a  soft  laugh ;  "  you  did  not 
use  to  be  quite  so  retentive  of  what 
I  said." 

"  Oh,  but  papa,  if  you  would  only 
remember  ! "  said  Kate.  "  Papa," 
she  resumed,  faltering,  and  droop- 
ing her  head,  "  it  came  true — all 
your  warning  about — John." 

Mr  Crediton  gave  a  start,  as  if 
he  had  been  shot.  "  About — John. 
What  does  this  mean?"  he  cried, 
becoming  alarmed.  "  What  is  it  ] 
I  remember  most  things  that  con- 
cern you,  but  I  don't  recollect  any- 
thing particular  I  said." 

"  Yes,  papa ;  you  warned  me  about 
— John.  But  it  has  not  quite  come 
true,"  she  added,  lowering  her 
voice,  and  leaning  on  him,  with  her 
head  against  his  arm  ;  "  or  rather,  it 
has  come  more  than  true.  Papa, 
don't  be  angry.  I  came  out  on 
purpose  to  tell  you.  They  are  in  a 
dreadful  state  about  it.  It  is  mak- 
ing poor  Mrs  Mitford  quite  ill. 
She  thinks  you  will  think  they  had 
some  hand  in  it,  but  indeed  they 
h  id  not.  Papa,  dear,  promise  me 
you  will  not  be  angry.  I — I  am — 
engaged — to  John." 

Mr  Crediton  was  a  very  decorous, 
respectable  man,  not  addicted  to 
outbursts  of  passion,  but  at  this 
wonderful  announcement  he  swore 
a  prodigious  oath,  and  drew  his 
arm  away  from  her,  giving  her  un- 
awares a  thrust  aside  which  made 
hor  reel.  Kate  was  so  bewildered, 
so  frightened,  so  dismayed  by  this 
personal  touch  that  she  blushed 
crimson  the  one  moment,  and  the 
next  began  to  cry.  She  stood  gaz- 
ing at  him,  with  the  big  tears  drop- 
ping, and  the  most  piteous  look  in 
her  eyes.  "  Ob,  papa,  don't  kill 
me  ! "  she  cried,  in  her  consterna- 
tion, sinking  into  the  very  hedge, 
in  horror  of  his  violence.  Mr  Cre- 
diton was  so  excited  that  he  paid 
no  attention  to  her  cry  of  terror. 
"  The  d— d  scoundrel !  "  he  cried. 
"  What !  come  in  like  this  behind 
my  back  and  rob  me — take  ad- 


vantage of  my  sense  of  obligation 
— curse  him  !  Curse  them  all ! 
That's  your  pious  people  !  "  And 
the  man  raved  and  blasphemed  for 
five  minutes  at  least,  as  if  he  had 
been  his  own  groom,  and  not  a 
respectable  gentleman  with  grey 
hairs  on  his  head,  and  the  cares  of 
half  the  county  in  his  hands. 

All  this  time  Kate  was  too 
frightened  to  speak,  but  she  was 
not  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  over- 
whelmed by  such  a  fit  of  passion. 
She  shrank  back  farther  into  the 
hedge,  and  grew  as  white  as  her 
dress,  and  trembled  a  good  deal, 
and  could  not  have  uttered  a  word. 
But  gradually  her  courage  returned 
to  her.  Her  heart  began  to  thump 
less  wildly  against  her  breast,  but 
rose  and  swelled  instead  with  a 
force  which  was  half  self-will  and 
half  a  generous  sense  of  injustice. 
When  Mr  Crediton  came  to  him- 
self— which  he  did  all  at  once  with 
some  very  big  words  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  hand  clenched  in  the  air, 
and  his  face  blazing  with  fury — he 
stopped  short  all  at  once,  and  cast 
an  alarmed  look  at  his  daughter. 
Good  heavens !  he,  a  respectable 
man,  to  utter  such  exclamations, 
and  in  Kate's  presence  !  He  came 
to  himself  all  in  a  moment,  and 
metaphorically  fell  prostrate  before 
her  with  confusion  and  shame. 

"  Well/'  he  said,  half  fiercely,  half 
humbly,  "  it  is  not  much  wonder  if 
a  man  should  forget  himself.  How 
you  dare  to  stand  there  and  face  me, 
and  put  such  a  thing  into  words  ! " 

"Papa,  I  am  very  much  sur- 
prised," said  Kate,  her  courage  ris- 
ing to  the  occasion.  "  I  could  not 
have  believed  it.  It  is  best  it 
should  be  me,  and  not  a  stranger; 
for  what  would  any  stranger  have 
thought  1  But  all  the  same,  I  am 
very  sorry  that  it  was  me.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  forget  that  I  saw 
you  look  like  that,  and  heard  you 

say Ah  ! "  said  Kate,  shutting 

her  eyes.  He  thought  she  was 
going  to  faint,  and  got  very  much 
frightened ;  but  nothing  could  be 
further  from  Kate's  mind  than  any 


212 


John.— Part  1 F. 


[Feb. 


intention  of  fainting.  She  sat  down, 
however,  on  the  grass,  and  leaned 
her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  And  the  un- 
happy father,  conscious  of  having 
so  horribly  committed  himself,  stood 
silent,  and  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

Then,  after  a  moment,  she  raised 
her  head  and  looked  him  in  the 
face.  "  Papa,"  she  said,  "  the  peo- 
ple you  have  been  abusing  are  wait- 
ing over  there  to  welcome  you  to 
their  house.  They  don't  like  your 
coming,  because  they  have  a  feeling 
what  will  happen  ;  and  they  are 
very  very  vexed  with  their  son  for 
falling  in  love  with  me ;  and,  poor 
fellow !  I  think  he  is  vexed  with 
himself,  though  he  can't  help  it. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?  Are 
you  going  to  swear  at  Dr  Mitford, 
whose  son  saved  your  only  child's 
life,  and  whose  wife  saved  it  over 
again,  because  they  love  me  now, 
as  well  1  Are  you  going  to  drive 
me  mad,  and  make  me  that  I 
don't  care  what  I  do  1  I  am  not 
so  good  as  John  is,"  she  said,  with 
a  half-sob  ;  "  if  you  cross  me  I  will 
not  be  humble.  I  will  go  wrong, 
and  make  him  go  wrong  too.  You 
cannot  change  my  mind  by  swearing 
at  me,  papa.  What  are  you  going 
to  do » " 

Yes,  that  was  the  question.  It 
was  very  easy  to  storm  and  swear, 
with  nobody  present  but  his  daugh- 
ter. But  Dr  Mitford  was  as  good 
a  man  as  Mr  Crediton,  and  as  well 
known  in  the  county,  though  he 
was  not  so  rich.  And  John  had 
saved  Kate's  life  at  the  risk  of  his 
own ;  and  she  had  been  taken  in, 
and  nursed,  and  brought  back  to 
perfect  health;  and  there  was  no 
single  house  in  the  world  to  which 
Mr  Crediton  lay  under  such  a 
weight  of  obligations.  Was  he  to 
turn  his  back  upon  the  house,  and 
ignore  all  gratitude?  Was  he  to 


go  and  insult  them,  or  what  was  he 
to  do  ?  He  was  very  angry,  furious 
with  Kate  and  her  bold  words,  yet 
cowed  by  her  in  a  way  most  won- 
derful to  behold.  "  We  had  better 
walk  back  to  the  station  ;  you  are 
able  enough  for  that,  or  at  least  you 
look  so,"  he  said. 

"  That  will  show  how  highly  you 
esteem  my  life,"  said  Kate,  "  which 
has  been  twice  saved  in  that  house; 
though  even  that  would  be  better 
than  insulting  them  to  their  face." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  said  Mr  Crediton, 
under  his  breath ;  and  he  took  a  few 
rapid  turns  up  and  down  the  road, 
with  a  perplexity  which  it  would 
be  impossible  to  describe.  At  last 
he  came  to  a  stop  opposite  Kate, 
who  was  watching  him  anxiously, 
without  appearing  to  take  any  no- 
tice ;  and  she  felt  that  the  fit  was 
over.  He  came  back  to  her  very 
sternly,  speaking  with  none  of  its 
usual  softness  in  his  voice. 

"  Kate,"  he  said,  "  you  have 
spoken  in  a  very  unpardonable, 
very  impertinent,  way  to  me,  but 
perhaps  I  have  been  wrong  too.  Of 
course  I  am  not  going  to  transgress 
the  laws  of  civility.  My  opinion  is 
not  changed,  but  I  hope  I  can  be 
civil  to  my  worst  enemy.  Get  up, 
and  let  us  go  to  the  Kectory ;  it  is 
the  only  thing  we  can  do." 

Kate  rose  without  a  word,  and 
put  her  hand  upon  her  father's  arm, 
and  the  two  stalked  into  Fanshawe 
Regis  like  two  mutes  following  a 
funeral.  They  neither  looked  at 
each  other,  nor  uttered  a  syllable  to 
each  other,  but  walked  on  side  by 
side,  feeling  as  if  mutual  hatred, 
and  not  love,  was  the  bond  between 
them.  But  yet  in  her  inmost 
heart  Kate  felt  that  nothing  was 
lost.  The  communication  had  been 
made,  and  the  worst  was  over — 
perhaps  even  something  had  been 
gained. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


It  was  perhaps  well,  on  the  whole, 
for  the  comfort  of  all  the  party,  that 


Mr  Crediton  had  behaved  so  very 
badly  on  the  first  announcement  of 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


213 


tliis  news.  His  self-betrayal  put 
him  on  his  guard.  It  recalled  him 
to  a  sense  of  needful  restraint,  and 
that  the  Mitfords  were  not,  after 
ail,  people  to  be  treated  with  con- 
tempt. He  was  very  serious  and 
somewhat  stiff  during  the  luncheon, 
which  was  sufficiently  trying  to  all 
the  party,  but  he  was  not  uncivil. 
Of  John  he  took  no  notice  at  all  af- 
ter the  first  formal  recognition,  but 
to  Mrs  Mitford  and  the  Doctor  he 
was  studiously  polite,  making  them 
little  speeches  of  formal  gratitude. 
"  I  find  my  child  perfectly  recov- 
ered, thanks  to  your  kind  care,"  he 
said.  "  I  can  never  sufficiently  ex- 
p  -ess  my  deep  sense  of  obligation 
to  you."  This  speech  called  up  an 
angry  flush  on  John's  cheek,  but 
not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  of 
the  party  to  imply  that  there  was 
any  stronger  bond  than  that  of 
kindness  between  Kate  and  the 
people  who  had  been  so  good  to  her. 
Th.e  two  young  people  were  made 
to  feel  that  they  were  secondary 
altogether.  The  thoughts  of  their 
elders  might,  indeed,  be  occupied 
about  them,  but  they  themselves 
ware  struck  out  of  the  front  of  the 
action,  and  relegated  to  their  nat- 
ural place.  Mr  Crediton  carried 
this  so  far  that,  when  luncheon  was 
over,  he  turned  to  Dr  Mitford  with 
a  request  for  some  conversation 
with  him,  altogether  ignoring  the 
existence  of  Dr  Mitford' s  son.  But 
J<  >hn  had  risen,  and  had  taken  up 
his  own  rdle  almost  in  the  same 
breath. 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  see  me  first, 
Mr  Crediton?"  he  said.  "There  are 
some  things  of  which  I  am  most 
anxious  to  speak  to  you  at  once." 

Mr  Crediton  rose  too,  and  made 
J(  hn  a  little  formal  bow.  "  I  am 
at  your  service,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
hope  you  will  not  want  me  long, 
fo>-  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
your  father,"  and  there  was  a  kind 
of  suppressed  mockery  about  his 
lips.  Dr  Mitford  stood  up,  looking 
somewhat  scared,  and  listened ;  no 
doubt  feeling  himself,  in  his  turn, 
thrust  aside. 


"  I  must  not  interfere,"  he  said, 
with  a  kind  of  ghastly  smile,  "  and 
I  take  no  responsibility  in  what  my 
son  is  going  to  say ;  but  if  you  will 
both  come  to  my  library " 

"  I  should  prefer  speaking  to  Mr 
Crediton  alone,"  said  John.  And 
then  it  seemed  that  his  father 
shrank  like  a  polite  ghost,  and 
gave  way  to  the  real  hero  of  the 
situation.  Mrs  Mitford  shrank 
too,  joining  in  her  husband's  invol- 
untary gesture ;  and  John  marched 
boldly  out,  leading  the  way,  while 
Mr  Crediton  followed,  and  the 
Doctor  went  after  them,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  with  a  faint  assump- 
tion of  indifference.  It  seemed  as  if 
some  magician  had  waved  a  wand, 
and  the  three  gentlemen  disappear- 
ed out  of  the  room,  leaving  Mrs 
Mitford  and  Kate  looking  at  each 
other.  And  there  they  sat  half 
stupefied,  with  their  hearts  beating, 
till  Jervis  came  in  to  clear  the  table, 
and  looked  at  them  as  a  good  ser- 
vant looks,  with  suspicious  watch- 
ful eyes,  as  if  to  say,  What  is  it  all 
about,  and  what  do  you  mean  by 
it,  sitting  there  after  your  meal  is 
over,  and  giving  yourselves  up  to 
untimely  agitations,  disturbing  Me  1 
Mrs  Mitford  obeyed  that  look  as  a 
well  -  brought  -  up  woman  always 
does.  She  said,  "  Come,  Kate  ! 
what  can  you  and  I  be  thinking 
of  1 "  and  led  the  way  into  the 
drawing-room.  She  did  this  with 
an  assumption  of  liveliness  and 
light-heartedness  which  was  over- 
doing her  part.  "We  need  not 
take  the  servants  into  our  confi- 
dence, at  least,"  she  said,  sitting 
down  by  her  work-table,  and  tak- 
ing out  her  knitting  as  usual.  But 
it  was  a  very  tremulous  business, 
and  soon  the  needles  dropped  upon 
her  knee.  Kate,  too,  attempted  to 
resume  the  piece  of  worsted  work 
she  had  been  doing,  and  to  look  as 
if  nothing  had  happened;  but  her 
attempt  was  even  more  futile. 
When  they  had  sat  in  this  way 
silent  for  some  five  minutes,  the 
girl's  agitation  got  the  better  of 
her.  She  threw  the  work  aside, 


214 


John.—  Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


and  ran  and  threw  herself  at  Mrs 
Mitford's  feet.  "  Oh,  mamma,  say 
something  to  me  !  "  she  cried;  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  not  breathe.  And 
I  never  had  any  mother  of  my  own." 

Then  John's  mother  lost  the  com- 
posure for  which  she  had  been 
struggling.  Her  heart  was  not 
softened  to  Kate  personally  at  that 
climax  of  all  the  trouble  which 
Kate  had  brought  upon  her,  but  she 
could  not  resist  such  an  appeal ;  and 
she  too  could  scarcely  breathe,  and 
wanted  companionship  in  her  trou- 
ble. It  was  hard  to  take  into  her 
heart  the  girl  who  was  the  occasion 
of  it  all ;  but  yet  Kate  was  suffer- 
ing too.  Mrs  Mitford  fell  a-crying, 
which  was  the  first  natural  expres- 
sion of  her  feelings,  and  then  she 
laid  her  hand  softly  on  Kate's  head, 
and  by  degrees  allowed  herself  to 
be  taken  possession  of.  They  were 
just  beginning  to  talk  to  each 
other,  to  open  their  hearts,  and 
enter  into  all  those  mutual  explan- 
ations which  women  love,  when 
Kate's  quick  youthful  eyes  caught 
sight  of  two  black  figures  in  the 
distance  among  the  trees  on  the 
other  side  of  the  blazing  summer 
lawn.  She  broke  off  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence,  and  gave  a  low  cry, 
and  clutched  at  Mrs  Mitford's  gown. 
"  They  are  there ! "  cried  Kate,  with 
a  gasp  of  indescribable  suspense. 
And  Mrs  Mitford,  when  she  saw 
them,  began  to  cry  softly  again. 

"  Oh,  what  is  he  saying  to  my 
boy  1 "  cried  the  agitated  woman, 
wringing  her  hands.  To  see  the  dis- 
cussion going  on  before  their  eyes 
gave  the  last  touch  of  the  intolerable 
to  their  anxiety.  As  for  Kate,  she 
gnashed  her  teeth  at  the  thought 
that  she  could  not  interpose,  nor 
bear  the  brunt,  but  must  leave 
John  to  undergo  all  her  father's 
reproaches  and  insults,  and  per- 
haps contempt.  The  thought  made 
her  wild.  She  could  not  cry  as 
Mrs  Mitford  did,  but  sat  erect  on 
the  floor  where  she  had  placed  her- 
self at  the  other's  feet,  her  whole 
frame  thrilling  with  the  loud  beats 
of  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  Kate,  I  am  a  bad  woman  !" 


cried  Mrs  Mitford ;  "I  could  hate 
you,  and  I  could  hate  your  father, 
for  bringing  all  this  trouble  on  my 
John." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  cried  Kate,  in 
her  passion ;  and  then  she  made  an 
effort  to  conquer  herself.  "  Papa 
cannot  eat  him,"  she  added,  with 
a  little  harsh  laugh  of  emotion. 
"  I  have  had  the  worst  of  it.  He 
will  never  say  to  John  what  he  said 
to  me." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  she  cried,  recol- 
lecting herself.  "  He  is  my  own 
papa  ;  he  has  a  right  to  say  what  he 
likes  to  me.  It  is  John  who  is  speak- 
ing now — that  is  a  good  sign.  And 
when  he  chooses,  and  takes  the 
trouble,  John  can  speak  so  well ; 
he  is  so  clever.  I  never  meant  to 
have  let  him  do  all  this,  and  give 
everybody  so  much  trouble  ;  but 
when  he  began  to  talk  like  that, 
what  was  I  to  do  1 " 

"  Oh,  Kate  !  "  cried  the  mother, 
with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  "  we  are 
so  selfish — we  never  thought  of  that ! 
How  were  you  to  resist  him  more 
than  the  rest  of  us  1  My  dear  boy 
— he  had  always  such  a  winning 
way ! " 

"John  is  speaking  still,"  said 
Kate.  "  Mamma,  I  think  things 
must  be  coming  round.  There — 
papa  has  put  his  hand  on  his  arm. 
When  he  does  that  he  is  beginning 
to  give  in.  Oh,  if  we  could  only 
hear  what  they  say  ! " 

"He  is  so  earnest  in  all  he 
does,"  said  Mrs  Mitford.  "  Kate  ! 
listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say  to 
you.  If  this  ever  comes  to  any- 
thing  " 

"  Of  course  it  will  come  to  some- 
thing," cried  Kate.  "  I  am  not  so 
good  as  John.  If  papa  were  to 
stand  out,  I  should  just  wait  till 
I  was  one-and-twenty ;  and  then,  if 

John  pleased Now  they  are 

turning  back  again.  Oh,  will  they 
never  be  done  ?  It  is  j ust  like  men, 
walking  and  talking,  walking  and 
talking  for  ever,  and  us  poor  women 
waiting  here." 

"  But,  Kate,  listen  to  me,"  said 
Mrs  Mitford,  solemnly;  "if  it  ever 


1870.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


215 


comes  to  anything,  you  must  be 
very  very  careful  with  my  John. 
Look  at  his  dear  face,  how  it  shines 
with  feeling !  He  loves  you  so — 
h-3  would  put  himself  under  your 
father's  feet.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
toll  you  the  very  words  he  is  say- 
ing. And  you — you  have  been 
brought  up  so  differently.  If  you 
•were  tempted  to  be  careless,  and 
forget  his  ways  of  thinking,  and 
prefer  society  and  the  world " 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Kate,  with 
a  mournful  cadence  in  her  voice — 
she  did  not  turn  her  head,  for  her 
eyes  were  still  intently  fixed  on  the 
distant  figures  out  of  doors ;  "  I  see 
how  it  is — you  don't  think  I  am  the 
right  girl  for  John." 

"  I  did  not  say  so,"  said  Mrs  Mit- 
ford,  humbly ;  "  how  can  I  tell  1  I 
can't  divine  what  is  in  my  own 
boy's  heart,  and  how  can  I  divine 
yours?  But  I  will  love  you  for  his 
s; ike.  Oh,  Kate !  if  you  are  good 
to  him " 

"  There !  they  are  going  in,"  cried 
Kate.  "  Oh,  don't  you  think  that 
must  mean  victory  1  I  am  sure  it 
means  victory !  And  you  don't 
look  half  glad  !  They  are  going  to 
the  library,  and  Dr  Mitford  is  there. 
I  can  see  very  well  you  don't 
think  I  am  the  right  girl  for  him, 
though  I  would  do  anything  to 
please  you.  You  will  love  me,  per- 
haps, for  his  sake  :  mamma,  I  must 
be  satisfied  with  that,  if  that  is  all 
you  will  give  me ;  but  once  I 
thought  you  did  love  me  a  little 
for  my  own/' 

"And  you  would  rather  have 
that?  "  cried  the  mother,  feeling  a 
sadden  wave  of  irritation  sweep 
over  her.  So  long  as  John  was 
suffering,  she  wanted  him  to  suc- 
ceed at  all  hazards  ;  but,  when  it 
appeared  as  if  he  had  succeeded, 
her  thoughts  took  another  turn. 
"  You  would  like  that  best — rather 
a  little  all  to  yourself  than  a  great 
deal  for  John?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kate,  stoutly,  and 
she  rose  from  her  knees  and  disen- 
gaged herself  from  Mrs  Mitford's 
arm,  which  had  a  very  languid  hold 
of  her.  Poor  Kate's  high  spirit 


still    made   shift  to    assert  itself, 
though  so  much  had  been  done  to 
break  it.     And  now  that  there  was 
no  longer  anything  to  watch,  she 
turned  her  back  upon  the  window, 
and  upon  her  lover's  mother,  who 
all  at  once  had  ceased  to  be  her 
friend.     "  You  think  it  hard  upon 
you,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  indig- 
nation, "  and  sometimes  I  think  it 
is  hard,  having  your  son  turned  out 
of  the  way  you  had  chosen  for  him, 
all  for  the  sake  of  a  poor  girl  you 
don't  care  for ;  but  you  might  see 
it  is  hard  on  me  as  well.      You 
look  at  me  as  if  I  had  done  him 
harm,  and  my  own  papa  nearly  casts 
me  off  for  him ;  and  even  when  you 
are  kind,  the  best  you  can  say  is,  that 
you  will  try  to  love  me  a  little  for 
John's  sake.      A  little  while  ago 
you  were  all  so  good  to  me.     Have 
I  become  your  enemy  because  John 
loves  me  ?  "  said  Kate,  with  natural 
vehemence ;  and  then  she  turned 
away,  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  near 
the  open  window,  and  cried.     No 
doubt  it  was  partly  excitement,  but 
partly,  too,  it  was  the  isolation  in 
which  she  felt  herself  at  a  moment 
when  she  wanted  sympathy.  John's 
love  was  not  all  to  her,  perhaps, 
that  her  love  was  to  him  ;  and  the 
petted,  spoiled  child,  whom  nobody 
all  her  life  had  been  able  to  make 
enough  of,  was  sorely  wounded  to 
feel   herself  thus   repulsed  on  all 
hands — not  welcomed  into  the  new 
family  of  which  she  was  to  be  a 
member,  and  yet  punished  by  her 
own  father  for  her  inclination  to 
enter  it.     Nobody  seemed  to  stand 
by  her — except  John;  and  John, 
she  would  have  admitted,  was  now 
the  chief  person  to  be  thought  of. 
But  already  his  love  had  become  to 
her  a  matter  of  course.      At  that 
moment,  when  he  and  her  father 
were  discussing  her  fate,  and  his 
mother  was  so  coldly  kind  to  her, 
she  felt  so  lonely,  so  miserable,  so 
set  on  edge,  that  the  whole  world 
grew  dark.     She  sat  down  and  hid 
her  face  and  cried,  with  a  sense  of 
forlorn  relief  like  a  child's.     It  was 
in   reality  the  kind  of   breakdown 
by  which  such  a  restless,  impatient 


216 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


spirit  touches  mother  earth,  and 
acquires  new  courage ;  but  it  looked 
like  the  depths  of  despair  to  the 
spectator  who  looked  on  with  won- 
dering eyes.  Mrs  Mitford,  however, 
was  fitted  with  armour  of  proof 
against  all  assaults  of  sympathy. 
She  sat  and  looked  at  the  sobbing 
girl  with  a  kind  of  wondering  curi- 
osity which  she  herself  could  not 
understand.  She  had  been  dis- 
posed to  be  very  proud  of  Kate  a 
little  while  ago.  She  had  been 
charmed  by  her  beauty  and  bright- 
ness, and  her  grace,  and  her  wealth. 
There  was  nothing  which  she  would 
not  have  done  for  her  young  pa- 
tient. Now  Kate  repelled  instead 
of  attracting  John's  mother.  Was 
it  really  —  was  it  only  —  because 
Kate  was  John's  choice  out  of  the 
world  ]  And  she  had  a  strange  re- 
luctance to  offer  her  those  signs  of 
affection  which,  when  they  cease  to 
be  real,  and  become  mere  matters 
of  habit,  are  always  so  irksome. 
When  she  was  fond  of  Kate,  be- 
fore the  girl  had  proved  herself 
such  a  revolutionary,  and  convulsed 
the  quiet  life  at  Fanshawe  Regis, 
Mrs  Mitford  had  got  into  a  tender 
way  of  kissing  her  young  visitor, 
as  is  the  habit  of  women.  And  had 
she  gone  to  her  now  to  comfort  her, 
she  must  have  kissed  her.  And  she 
could  not  do  it.  She  shrank  from 
treating  with  any  appearance  of 
love  the  girl  who  had  stolen  away 
her  boy's  heart,  and  overturned 
their  whole  system  of  existence. 
She  would  have  done  it  after  a 
while,  when  she  had  reasoned  her- 
self into  it ;  but  by  the  time  she 
had  made  up  her  mind,  Kate's 
passion  had  sobbed  itself  out,  and 
she  was  beginning  to  dry  her  eyes, 
to  regain  her  colour  and  her  nat- 
ural fire,  and  to  be  herself  again. 
The  moment  was  past,  and  not  to 
be  recalled.  And  Kate's  wilful 
little  heart,  which  a  kiss  and  a  soft 
word  would  have  caught  and  se- 
cured, recoiled,  and  commanded  it- 
self, and  did  without  the  maternal 
sympathy  for  which  it  had  been 
craving  above  anything  in  the 
world. 


Neither  of  the  two  ladies  could 
have  told  how  the  afternoon  passed. 
Every  sound  that  went  through  the 
house  seemed  to  them  significant. 
Sometimes  a  door  would  open  or 
shut,  and  paralyse  them  for  the  mo- 
ment. Sometimes  a  sound  as  of  a 
single  step  would  be  heard  in  one  of 
the  passages,  and  then  Mrs  Mitford 
and  Kate  would  rise  up  and  flush 
crimson,  and  listen  as  if  they  had  not 
been  listening  all  the  time.  "  Now 
they  are  coming  ! "  one  or  the  other 
would  say,  with  a  gasp,  for  the 
waiting  affected  their  very  breath- 
ing. Except  on  these  occasions,  they 
scarcely  exchanged  two  words  in 
half  an  hour.  From  time  to  time 
Kate  looked  at  her  watch,  and  made 
a  remark  under  her  breath  about 
the  hour.  "  It  is  too  late  for  the 
four  o'clock  train,"  she  said;  and 
then  it  was  too  late  for  the  mail 
at  half-past  five  ;  and  all  this  time 
not  a  word  came  out  of  the  still- 
ness to  relieve  their  anxiety.  The 
bees  buzzed  about  the  garden,  and 
the  sun  shone  and  shone  as  if 
he  never  could  weary  of  shining, 
and  blazed  across  the  monotonous 
lawn  and  vacant  paths,  which  no 
step  or  shadow  disturbed.  Oh  the 
burden  of  the  silence  that  lay  upon 
that  whole  smiling  world  outside, 
where  not  even  a  leaf  would  move, 
so  eager  was  nature  to  have  the 
first  word  of  the  secret !  When  Mrs 
Mitford's  needles  clicked  in  her 
tremulousness,  Kate  glanced  up 
with  eyes  of  feverish  reproach ; 
and  when  Kate's  scissors  fell,  the 
room  echoed  with  the  sound,  and 
Mrs  Mitford  felt  it  an  injury.  Thus 
the  long,  weary,  languid  afternoon 
passed  on.  When  Jervis  began  to 
stir  with  his  preparations  for  din- 
ner, and  to  move  about  his  pantry, 
with  clink  and  clang  of  glass  and 
silver,  laying  the  table,  the  sounds 
were  to  them  like  the  return  of  a 
jury  into  their  box  to  the  anxious 
wretches  waiting  for  their  verdict. 
Dinner  was  coming,  that  augustest 
of  modern  ceremonies,  and  the 
ladies  felt  instinctively  that  things 
must  come  to  a  crisis  now.  And 
accordingly,  it  was  just  after  Jervis 


1870.] 


John.— Part  1 V. 


217 


tad  carried  his  echoing  tray  out  of 
t!ie  pantry  to  the  sideboard  when 
the  door  of  the  study  at  last  opened, 
and  steps  were  heard  coming  along 
the  passage  —  Dr  Mitford's  steps, 
creaking  as  they  came,  and  another 
f  jotstep,  which  Kate  knew  to  be 
her  father's.  Not  John!  The 
1  idies  sat  bolt  upright,  and  grew  red 
and  grew  pale,  and  felt  the  blood 
tingle  to  their  finger-points.  And 
then  they  looked  at  each  other, 
and  asked,  silently,  "Where  is 
John?" 

This  time  it  was  no  longer  the 
jurymen.  It  was  the  judge  him- 
self, coming  solemn  with  his  ver- 
dict. The  gentlemen  came  into 
the  room  one  behind  the  other, 
Mr  Crediton  looking  worn  and 
tired,  and  even  Dr  Mitford's  white 
tie  grown  limp  with  suspense  and 
emotion.  But  it  was  he  who  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  left  you  so 
long  by  yourselves,  ladies/'  he  said, 
T*ith  a  little  air  of  attempted  jaun- 
tiness,  which  sat  very  strangely  on 
1dm, "  and  to  have  kept  Mr  Crediton 
away  from  you  ;  but  we  had  a  great 
deal  to  talk  over,  and  business,  you 
know,  mustbe  attended  to.  My  dear, 
it  was  business  of  a  very  momentous 
kind.  And  now,  Miss  Kate,"  said 
the  Rector,  turning  upon  her,  and 
holding  out  both  his  hands — he 
smiled,  but  his  smile  was  very 
limp,  like  his  tie,  and  even  his 
Lands,  though  not  expressive  gen- 
erally, trembled  a  little  —  "now, 
Miss  Kate,  for  the  first  time  I  feel 
ft  liberty  to  speak  to  you.  You 
must  have  thought  me  very  hard 
{ nd  cold  the  other  night ;  but  now 
1  have  your  father's  permission  to 
bid  you  welcome  to  my  family," 
Dr  Mitford  went  on,  smiling  a 
ghastly  smile  ;  and  he  stooped  over 
her  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and 
held  her  hands,  waving  them  up 
rind  down  as  if  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  them.  "  I  don't 
know  why  my  son  has  not  come  to 
1  >e  the  first  to  tell  you.  Everything 
is  settled  at  last." 

"Where  is  John?"  cried  Mrs  Mit- 
ford, with  her  soft  cheeks  blazing. 


And  her  husband  dropped  Kate's 
hands  as  if  they  had  burned  him, 
and  they  all  paused  and  looked  at 
each  other  with  an  embarrassment 
and  restraint  which  nobody  could 
disguise. 

"  To  do  him  justice,  I  don't 
think  he  felt  himself  equal  to  a 
grand  tableau  of  family  union  and 
rapture,"  said  Mr  Crediton.  "  Mrs 
Mitford,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  over- 
joyed. I  don't  see  why  we  should 
make  any  pretences  about  it.  They 
have  done  a  very  foolish  thing, 
and  probably  they  will  repent  of 

But  this  was  more  than  John's 
mother  could  bear.  "  One  of  them, 
I  am  sure,  will  never  have  any  rea- 
son to  repent  of  it,"  she  said,  with 
irrepressible  heat,  not  thinking  of 
the  double  meaning  that  her  words 
might  bear. 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  Mr  Credi- 
ton said,  and  shook  his  head.  And 
there  was  again  a  silence,  and  Kate 
sat  with  all  her  veins  swelling  as 
if  they  would  burst,  and  her  heart 
beating  in  her  very  throat,  and  no- 
body taking  any  further  notice  of 
her.  What  was  it  to  any  of  them 
in  comparison  with  what  it  was  to 
her  ?  and  yet  nobody  even  looked 
at  her.  It  seemed  so  utterly  in- 
credible, that  for  the  moment  she 
was  stunned  and  dumb,  and  capable 
of  nothing  but  amazement. 

"  No,"  said  her  father  again,  after 
a  pause;  "I  don't  pretend  to  be 
overjoyed.  We  have  had  a  great 
deal  of  talk,  and  the  talk  has  not 
been  agreeable.  And,  Mrs  Mitford, 
if  I  am  to  judge  by  your  looks,  I 
should  say  you  were  no  more  happy 
at  the  thought  of  losing  your  son 
than  I  am  at  that  of  losing  my 
daughter — in  so  foolish  a  way." 

"Let  us  hope  it  may  turn  out 
better  than  we  think,"  said  Dr 
Mitford ;  and  then  came  the  in- 
evitable pause,  which  made  every 
sentence  sound  so  harsh  and  clear. 

"  There  is  certainly  room  for  the 
hope/'  said  Mr  Crediton  ;  "  fortu- 
nately it  must  be  a  long  time  before 
anything  comes  of  it.  Your  son 
seems  to  have  quite  relinquished 


218 


John.— Part  IV. 


[Feb. 


the  thought  of  going  into  the 
Church." 

"  Have  you  settled  that  too  1 — is 
it  all  decided?  Oh,  Dr  Mitford, 
you  have  been  hasty  with  him!" 
cried  John's  mother.  "  I  told  you 
if  you  would  but  take  time  enough, 
and  go  into  things  with  him,  and 
explain " 

"  I  don't  think  explaining  would 
have  done  much  good,;;  said  Mr 
Crediton.  "  It  rarely  does,  when  a 
young  fellow  has  got  such  an  idea 
into  his  head.  The  only  thing  is, 
that  when  a  boy  changes  once  he 
may  change  twice — when  he  is  old- 
er, and  this  fever-fit,  perhaps,  may 
be  over " 

"  Oh,  can  you  sit  and  hear  this?" 
cried  Kate,  springing  to  her  feet. 
"Oh,  papa,  how  can  you  be  so 
wicked  and  so  rude  ?  Do  you  think 
John  is  like  that — to  take  a  fancy 
and  give  it  over  1  And  you  are  his 
mother,  and  know  him  best,  and 
you  leave  him  to  be  defended  by 
me!" 

"Kate,  my  dear!"  cried  Mrs 
Mitford,  hastening  to  her,  "you 
make  me  hate  myself.  You  un- 
derstand my  boy — you  stand  up  for 
him  when  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
is  silent.  And  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart !  And  I  will  never,  never 
grudge  him  to  you  again  !  " 

And  the  two  women  rushed 
into  each  other's  arms,  and  clung 
together  in  a  passion  of  tears  and 
mutual  consolation;  while  the  men, 
for  their  part,  looked  grimly  on, 
vanquished,  yet  finding  a  certain 
satisfaction  in  their  sense  of  supe- 
riority to  any  such  folly.  Mr  Cre- 
diton sat  down,  with  the  hard 
unsympathetic  self-possession  of  a 
man  who  has  still  a  blow  to  deliv- 
er;  and  poor  Dr  Mitford  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  aware  of  what 
was  yet  to  come.  But  in  the  mean 
time  the  victims  over  whom  the 
stroke  was  lowering  had  delivered 
themselves  all  at  once  from  their 
special  misery.  The  ice  had  broken 
between  them.  John,  who  had  di- 
vided them,  became  all  at  once 
their  bond  of  union.  "Mamma, 


if  you  will  stand  by  me  I  can  do 
anything,"  Kate  whispered,  with 
her  lips  upon  Mrs  Mitford's  cheek. 
"  My  own  child  ! "  John's  mother 
whispered  in  reply;  and  thus  the 
treaty  was  made  which  was  to  set 
all  other  diplomacies  at  nought. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  great  pity,"  said 
Mr  Crediton  again,  "  but  of  course, 
in  the  turn  that  circumstances  have 
taken,!  must  help  him  as  best  I  can. 
It  is  not  very  much  I  can  do,  for 
you  are  aware  when  a  young  man 
changes  his  profession  all  in  a  min- 
ute, it  is  a  difficult  thing  to  provide 
for  him.  And  he  did  not  seem  to 
have  any  clear  idea  what  to  do  with 
himself.  Probably  you  will  feel  it  is 
not  equal  to  your  son's  pretensions, 
Mrs  Mitford — I  have  offered  him 
a  clerkship  in  my  bank." 

"A  clerkship  in  a  bank!"  cried 
Mrs  Mitford,  petrified.  She  with- 
drew a  little  from  Kate  in  her  con- 
sternation, and  sat  down  and  gazed, 
trying  to  take  in  and  understand 
this  extraordinary  piece  of  news. 

"  Papa,  you  cannot  mean  it,"  cried 
Kate,  vehemently.  "  Oh,  are  you 
papa,  or  somebody  come  to  mock 
us  1  A  clerkship  in  the  bank — for 
Dr  Mitford's  son — for — John  ! " 

"  John  is  no  doubt  possessed  of 
many  attractions,"  said  Mr  Credi- 
ton, in  his  hardest  tones,  "  but  I  am 
only  an  ordinary  mortal,  and  I  can- 
not make  him  Prime  Minister. 
When  a  man  throws  himself  out  of 
his  proper  occupation,  he  must  take 
what  he  can  get.  And  he  has  ac- 
cepted my  offer,  Kate.  He  is  not 
so  high-flown  as  you  are;  and  I  can 
assure  you  a  man  m.iy  do  worse 
than  be  a  clerk  in  my  bank." 

"  It  is  a  most  honourable  intro- 
duction to  commerce,"  said  Dr 
Mitford,  coming  forward  very 
limp  and  conciliatory ;  "  and  com- 
merce, as  I  have  often  said,  is  the 
great  power  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. My  dear,  it  is  not  what  we 
expected — of  course  it  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  we  expected ;  but 

if  1  put  up  with  it It  cannot 

be  such  a  disappointment  to  you  as 
it  is  to  me." 


1370.] 


John.— Part  IV. 


219 


Mrs  Mitford  turned  away  with  an 
impatient  cry.  Her  very  sense  of 
decorum  failed  her.  Though  she 
had  kept  up  the  tradition  of  her 
husband's  superiority  so  long  that 
she  actually  believed  in  it,  yet  on 
tins  point  he  was  not  superior. 
She  was  driven  even  out  of  polite- 
ness, the  last  stronghold  of  a  well- 
bred  woman.  She  could  not  be 
civil  to  the  man  who  had  thus  out- 
raged her  pride  and  all  her  hopes. 
She  sat  and  moaned  and  rocked 
harself,  saying,  "  My  boy !  my 
boy  !"  in  a  voice  of  despair. 

"  He  is  saying  it  only  to  try  us," 
cned  Kate.  "  He  is  not  crueL 
Papa,  you  have  always  been  so 
g  )od  to  me !  Oh,  he  doss  not 
mean  it.  It  is  only — some  fright- 
ful— joke  or  other.  Papa,  that  is 
njt  what  you  mean  V 

"I  mean  what  I  say/'  said  Mr 
Crediton,  abruptly;  "and  when  I 
say  so,  I  think  I  may  congratulate 
both  Mrs  Mitford  and  myself  that, 
whatever  foolish  thing  our  children 
may  make  up  their  minds  to  do, 
they  cannot  do  it  very  soon.  That 
is  enough  of  this  nonsense  for  the 
present,  Kate.  Dr  Mitford  is  so 
kind  as  to  ask  us  to  stop  for  din- 
nor.  We  must  wait  now  for  the 
nine  o'clock  train." 

And  just  then  Jervis,  curious  but 
unenlightened,  rang  the  first  bell. 
And  what  are  all  the  passions 
and  all  the  struggles  of  the  heart 
compared  to  Dinner,  invincible 
potentate  ?  Mrs  Mitford  and  Kate 
gathered  themselves  together  meek- 
ly at  the  sound  of  that  summons. 
Against  it  they  did  not  dare  to  re- 
monstrate. They  gave  each  other 
a  silent  kiss  as  they  parted  at  the 
door  of  Kate's  room,  but  they  could 
not  resist  nor  trifle  with  such  a  stern 
necessity.  "Where  was  John?"  they 
asked  themselves,  as  each  stood  be- 
fore her  glass,  trying  as  best  she 
couldto  clearaway  the  trace  of  tears, 
and  to  hide  from  their  own  eyes  and 
from  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  servants 
all  signs  of  the  crisis  they  had  been 
going  through.  Kate  had  to  retain 
her  morning  dress,  as  she  had  still 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIl. 


a  journey  before  her ;  but  she  was 
elaborate  about  her  hair,  by  way  of 
demonstrating  her  self-possession. 
"  Papa  has  put  off  till  the  nine 
o'clock  train  ;  and  it  is  so  tiresome 
of  him,  making  one  go  down  to 
dinner  like  a  fright,"  she  said  to 
Parsons,  trying  to  throw  dust  in 
the  eyes  of  that  astute  young  wo- 
man. As  if  Parsons  did  not  know ! 
As  for  John,  he  had  been  wan- 
dering about  stupefied  ever  since 
that  amazing  conclusion  had  been 
come  to,  in  such  a  state  of  confusion 
that  he  could  not  realise  what  had 
happened.  Kate  was  to  be  his. 
That  was  the  great  matter  which 
had  been  decided  upon.  But  not- 
withstanding his  passionate  love 
for  Kate,  this  was  not  what  bulked 
largest  in  his  mind.  The  world 
somehow  had  turned  a  somersault 
with  him,  and  he  could  not  make 
out  whether  he  had  lighted  on 
solid  earth  again,  or  was  still  whirl- 
ing in  the  dizzy  air.  His  past 
life  had  all  shrivelled  away  from 
him  as  if  it  had  never  been.  And 
he  was  a  clerk  in  Mr  Crediton's 
bank !  To  this  all  his  dreams, 
all  his  ambitions,  all  his  superla- 
tive youthful  fancies  about  the 
only  work  worth  doing,  had  come  ! 
Everything  that  had  been  said  and 
done  beside  seemed  to  have  dis- 
appeared from  him,  and  only  the 
dull  fact  was  left,  and  the  dull 
amaze  which  it  brought.  His  sensa- 
tions were  those  of  a  man  who  has 
rolled  over  some  tremendous  preci- 
pice ;  or  who  wakes  out  of  a  swoon 
to  find  himself  lying  on  some  battle- 
field. He  was  very  sore  and  bat- 
tered and  beaten,  tingling  all  over 
with  bruises ;  and  the  relative 
position  of  the  world,  and  every- 
thing in  it,  to  himself  was  changed. 
It  might  be  the  same  sky  and  the 
same  soil  to  others,  but  to  him 
everything  was  different.  Kate  was 
to  be  his  ;  but  that  was  in  the 
future.  And  for  the  present  he 
was  to  begin  life,  not  in  any  noble 
way  for  the  service  of  others, 
but  as  a  clerk  in  Mr  Crediton's 
bank. 


220 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


DEMOCRACY  BEYOND   THE   SEAS. 


SIR  CHARLES  DILKE' s  work  is 
both  an  original  and  a  striking  one. 
Treating  of  a  wide  subject,  it  is  not 
diffuse.  Passing  over  many  lands, 
it  leaves  a  clear  and  distinctive  im- 
pression of  each  on  the  reader.  As 
a  photograph  of  the  ideas  and  hopes 
fermenting  in  the  minds  of  our  race 
in  its  transatlantic  homes  it  is 
very  valuable.  As  a  vivid  sketch, 
in  brief  words,  of  the  characteristic 
scenery  of  the  various  British  in- 
habited or  ruled  countries  it  is  ex- 
cellent. Yet  to  us  it  is  a  book 
which  leaves  an  impression  of  pro- 
found melancholy.  To  Sir  C.  Dilke 
himself,  and  to  the  majority  of  his 
readers,  we  believe  the  reverse  will 
be  the  case.  To  them  it  will  seem 
a  brilliant  and  interesting  picture 
of  the  Saxon  race,  full  of  a  joyous 
confidence  in  its  great  and  bound- 
less destiny.  Could  we  believe  Sir 
C.  Dilke  to  be  a  true  prophet,  we 
should  almost  despair  of  the  future 
of  the  world.  Sir  C.  Dilke  is  a 
Radical  of  the  most  advanced 
school.  His  one  great  hope  for  the 
future  is  a  world  of  democratic 
equality — his  one  idea  of  its  dan- 
ger the  dread  of  a  gentleman.  He 
would  have  every  man  blacken  his 
own  shoes  and  till  his  own  ground, 
or  work  in  his  own  mill  with  his 
own  hands.  His  two  great  bug- 
bears are  the  accumulation  of  wealth 
in  great  towns,  which  leads  to  mas- 
ters employing  workmen ;  and  pas- 
toral lands  in  the  coumtry,  which 
necessitate  large  landed  proprietors 
and  a  dependent  troop  of  shepherds. 
Could  these  two  birds  of  evil  omen 
be  only  conjured  away,  then  the 
landscape  to  him  would  be  bright 


and  fair — filled  with  our  strong, 
sturdy  race,  pushing  its  way  every- 
where, governed  everywhere  by  uni- 
versal suffrage,  voting  everywhere 
by  ballot,  manufacturing  by  co- 
operative associations  of  artisans, 
tilling  the  earth  by  the  hands  of 
peasant  -  proprietors.  No  upper 
classes  to  influence  by  their  wealth 
or  direct  by  their  knowledge ;  no 
accumulated  capital  to  corrupt  by 
its  temptations.  One  dead  level 
of  man  with  his  fellow-men.  That 
true  end  of  all  democracy  —  each 
man  earning  his  bread,  in  the  lite- 
ral sense,  with  the  sweat  of  his 
brow.  To  Sir  C.  Dilke  this  seems 
the  acme  of  civilisation  and  pro- 
gress. To  us  it  seems  a  simple  re- 
lapse into  barbarism. 

Equality  is  the  dream  of  demo- 
cracy— inequality  is  the  law  of  pro- 
gress. It  is  the  hope  of  rising 
above  one's  fellow-men  which  is 
the  great  spur  to  exertion.  It  is 
the  leisure  and  means  acquired  by 
the  accumulation  of  wealth  which 
alone  makes  an  advance  in  civilisa- 
tion possible.  When  each  man  ac- 
quires his  daily  bread  by  his  manual 
toil,  then  all  culture  is  impossible, 
and  all  progress  suspended.* 

There  is  one  great  charm  about 
this  book — it  is  eminently  a  sugges- 
tive one.  It  is  impossible  to  read 
twenty  pages  of  it  without  feeling 
inclined  to  lay  it  down  and  think 
over  what  you  have  read ;  and  this 
is  not  what  can  be  said  of  many 
works  nowadays. 

Its  great  fault  is  its  blind  and 
entire  adoration  of  democracy  pure 
and  simple.  It  is  quite  curious  to 
mark  the  extent  to  which  Sir  C. 


'  Greater  Britain.'  By  Sir  Charles  Wentworth  Dilke,  Bart.,  M.R  2  vols.  Lon- 
don :  Macmillan  &  Co. 

*  There  are  strong  and  ultra-Liberals  who  clearly  see  this.  "  There  is  no  form 
of  art  or  science  which  is  not  needed  in  the  public  service  of  such  a  country  as 
this.  Now  wealth  and  station  are  invaluable  helps  towards  the  attainment  of 
excellence  in  any  of  these  pursuits.  They  give  a  man  leisure  and  independence. 
They  enable  him  to  pursue  his  calling  as  a  profession,  and  not  as  a  mere  trade." — 
'  Pall  Mall  Gazette '  of  22d  October  1869. 


1870.] 


Democracy  beyond  tJie  Seas. 


221 


Pilke  carries  this,  and  the  entire 
good  faith  in  which  he  relies  on  it. 
No  religious  devotee  ever  believed 
more  devoutly  in  the  truth  of  his 
dogma.  It  goes  such  a  length  as 
entirely  to  vitiate  the  conclusions 
of  a  naturally  clear  and  logical 
Blind.  It  is  the  one  god  of  his  idola- 
try. Everything  is  good  which  leads 
necessarily  to  pure  democracy  ; 
everything  is  evil  which  checks  pro- 
gress towards  it.  This  is  the  un- 
failing standard  by  which  Sir  C. 
Dilke  judges  everything.  It  never 
even  crosses  his  mind  to  imagine 
that  that  can  be  evil  which  con- 
duces to  democracy,  or  good  which 
obstructs  progress  to  it.  To  him 
such  an  idea  would  be  simply  her- 
esy. There  is  something  interest- 
ing and  lamb-like  in  this  blind  de- 
votion to  a  political  creed.  Apart 
from  this  vitiating  article  of  faith, 
his  powers  of  reasoning  are  vigor- 
ous. We  have  little  doubt  the 
time  will  come  when  a  more  ex- 
tt  nded  experience  of  the  world  will 
make  him  look  back  with  a  sad 
smile  on  the  simple  fervour  of  his 
enrly  faith. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  and 
interesting  parts  of  his  work  is  the 
clear  picture  which  he  gives  of  the 
ideas  and  beliefs  which  are  now 
fermenting  and  becoming  consoli- 
dated in  the  minds  of  our  descend- 
ants "over  the  water."  In  refer- 
ence to  them  we  are  an  old  and 
comparativelystationary  State.  The 
youthful  vigour  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  the  germ  of  what  its  great 
future  on  the  world's  page  is  to  be, 
mast  be  sought  for  beyond  the 
Atlantic.  Hence  the  great  interest 
and  value  of  the  thoughts  which 
are  now  taking  root  in  the  minds 
of  men  there. 

On  one  subject  a  clear  and  defi- 
nite opinion  has  been  formed  by 
our  transatlantic  descendants,  and 
that  is  on  the  question  of  Free- 
Trade.  This  is  evidently  rather 
puzzling  to  Sir  C.  Dilke  ;  for  just 
as  decidedly  as  the  democracy  of 
our  old  and  rich  State  has  declared 
in  favour  of  Free-Trade,  has  the  de- 


mocracy of  the  young  and  poor  but 
rising  States  in  the  West  declared 
in  favour  of  Protection.  The  point 
is  full  of  interest,  and  is  worthy  of 
very  attentive  consideration  ;  for 
the  mercantile  and  commercial  wel- 
fare of  our  country  and  its  transat- 
lantic descendants  is  wrapped  up 
in  its  decision.  It  is  very  mark- 
worthy  that  the  conclusion  at  which 
the  United  States  and  Australia 
have  arrived  is  very  far  indeed  from 
being  formed  in  ignorance  of  the 
principles  on  which  Free-Trade  is 
held  to  be  established  in  this  coun- 
try. Quite  the  reverse  :  the  doc- 
trines of  Adam  Smith,  Ricardo,  and 
Mill  are  quite  as  well  known  and 
appreciated  by  them  as  by  us.  In 
the  abstract  they  fully  admit  that, 
for  the  pure  and  simple  creation  of 
wealth,  as  apart  from  all  other  con- 
siderations, they  are  perfectly  just. 
What  they  do  hold  is,  that  there 
are  other  things  in  national  pro- 
gress to  be  considered  besides  the 
accumulation  of  capital;  and  that 
the  mere  pursuit  of  money  is  of 
less  consequence  than  the  just  and 
healthy  development  of  all  the 
great  interests  which,  taken  to- 
gether in  the  aggregate,  form  a 
prosperous  nation. 

"Those,"  says  Sir  C.  Dilke,  "who 
speak  of  the  selfishness  of  the  Protec- 
tionists as  a  whole,  can  never  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  examine  into  the 
arguments  by  which  Protection  is  sup- 
ported in  Australia  and  America.  In 
these  countries  Protection  is  no  mere 
national  delusion  :  it  is  a  system  delib- 
erately adopted  with  open  eyes  as  one 
conducive  to  the  country's  welfare,  in 
spite  of  objections  known  to  all,  in  spite 
of  pocket  losses  that  come  home  to  all." 
—II.  63. 

"One  of  the  greatest  thinkers  of 
America  defended  Protection  to  me  on 
the  following  grounds  : — That  without 
Protection  America  could  at  present 
have  but  few  and  limited  manufactures. 
That  a  nation  cannot  properly  be  said 
to  exist  as  such  unless  she  has  manu- 
factures of  many  kinds  ;  for  men  are 
born,  some  with  a  turn  to  agriculture, 
some  with  a  turn  to  mechanics  ;  and 
if  you  force  the  mechanic  by  nature  to 
become  a  farmer,  he  will  make  a  bad 
farmer,  and  the  nation  will  lose  the  ad- 


222 


Democracy  beyond  the  Sea?. 


[Feb. 


vantage  of  all  his  power  and  invention. 
That  the  whole  of  the  possible  employ- 
ments of  the  human  race  are  in  a  mea- 
sure necessary  employments — necessary 
to  the  making  up  of  a  nation.  That 
every  concession  to  Free-Trade  cuts  out 
of  all  chance  of  action  some  of  the  facul- 
ties of  the  American  national  mind, 
and,  in  so  doing,  weakens  and  debases 
it.  That  each  and  every  class  of  work- 
ers is  of  such  importance  to  the  country 
that  we  must  make  any  sacrifice  neces- 
sary to  maintain  them  in  full  work." — 
II.  64,  65. 

"  The  chief  thing  to  be  borne  in  mind 
in  discussing  Protection  with  an  Aus- 
tralian or  an  American  is,  that  he  never 
thinks  of  denying  that  under  Protection 
he  pays  a  higher  price  for  his  goods 
than  he  would  if  he  bought  them  from 
us,  and  that  he  admits  at  once  that  he 
temporarily  pays  a  tax  of  15  or  20  per 
cent  tipon  everything  he  buys  in  order 
to  help  to  set  his  country  on  the  road 
to  national  unity  and  ultimate  wealth. 
Admitting  that  all  you  say  about  Pro- 
tection may  be  true,  he  says  that  he 
had  sooner  see  America  supporting  a 
hundred  millions  independent  of  the 
remainder  of  the  world,  than  two  hun- 
dred millions  dependent  for  clothes 
upon  the  British.  It  is  a  common  doc- 
trine amongst  the  colonies  of  England 
that  a  nation  cannot  be  called  indepen- 
dent if  it  has  to  cry  out  to  another  for 
supplies  of  necessaries:  that  true  na- 
tional existence  is  first  attained  when 
the  country  becomes  capable  of  supply- 
ing to  its  own  citizens  those  goods  with- 
out which  they  cannot  exist  in  the  state 
of  comfort  which  they  have  already 
reached.  Political  is  apt  to  follow  upon 
commercial  dependency,  they  say." — 
II.  66,  68. 

There  is  much  in  these  remarks 
deserving  of  careful  consideration, 
and  that  equally  whether  we  agree 
or  whether  we  disagree  with  them. 
Free-Trade  just  now  is  on  its  trial; 
and,  whilst  rejected  utterly  by  the 
United  States  and  Australia,  is  vig- 
orously assailed  in  France,  and  is 
even  rudely  challenged  by  the 
working  classes  in  this  country — 
its  own  very  native  seat  and  home. 

There  is  another  point  on  which 
opinion  in  the  United  States  runs 
directly  counter  to  opinion  in  this 
country,  and  that  is  on  the  com- 
petitive examination  system. 

"The  clearest-sighted  men  of    the 


older  colleges  of  America,"  says  Sir  C. 
Dilke,  "are  trying  to  assimilate  their 
teaching  system  to  that  of  Michigan — 
at  least  in  the  one  point  of  the  absence 
of  competition.  They  assert  that  toil 
performed  under  the  excitement  of  a 
fierce  struggle  between  man  and  man 
is  unhealthy  work,  different  in  nature 
and  in  results  from  the  loving  labour  of 
men  whose  hearts  are  really  in  what 
they  do — toil,  in  short,  not  very  easily 
distinguishable  from  slave  labour." — 
I.  86. 

"  The  system  of  elective  studies  pur- 
sued at  Michigan  is  one  to  which  we 
are  year  by  year  tending  in  the  English 
universities.  As  sciences  multiply  and 
deepen,  it  becomes  more  and  more  im- 
possible that  a  '  general  course  '  scheme 
can  produce  men  fit  to  take  their  places 
in  the  world.  Cambridge  has  attempted 
to  set  up  both  systems,  and,  giving  her 
students  the  choice,  bids  them  pursue 
one  branch  of  study  with  a  view  to  hon- 
ours, or  take  a  less  valued  degree  re- 
quiring some  slight  proficiency  in  many 
things.  Michigan  denies  that  the  stim- 
ulus of  honour  examinations  should  be 
connected  with  the  elective  system. 
With  her,  men  first  graduate  in  science, 
or  in  an  arts  degree,  which  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  English  '  poll,'  and 
then  pursue  their  elected  study,  which 
leads  to  no  university  distinction,  and 
which  is  free  from  the  struggle  for  place 
and  honours.  The  Michigan  professors 
say  that  a  far  higher  average  of  real 
knowledge  is  obtained  under  this  system 
of  independent  work  than  is  dreamt 
of  in  colleges  where  competition  rules. 
'  A  higher  average,'  is  all  they  say,  and 
they  frankly  acknowledge  that  there  is 
here  and  there  a  student  to  be  found  to 
whom  competition  would  do  good.  As 
a  rule,  they  tell  us,  this  is  not  the  case. 
Unlimited  battle  between  man  and  man 
for  place  is  sufficiently  the  bane  of  the 
world  not  to  be  made  the  curse  of 
schools.  Competition  breeds  every  evil 
which  it  is  the  aim  of  education,  the 
duty  of  a  university,  to  suppress — pale 
faces  caused  by  excessive  toil,  feverish 
excitement  that  prevents  true  work,  a 
hatred  of  the  subject  on  which  the  toil 
is  spent,  jealousy  of  best  friends,  sys- 
tematic depreciation  of  men's  talents, 
ejection  of  all  reading  that  will  not 
pay,  extreme  and  unhealthy  cultivation 
of  the  memory,  general  degradation  of 
labour — all  these  evils,  and  many  more, 
are  charged  upon  the  system." — I.  89, 
90. 

Any  one  who  has  thought  upon 
the  subject,  and  watched  the  effect 


1870.] 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


223 


of  the  opposite  system  at  our  uni- 
versities and  competitive  examina- 
tions for  public  appointments,  will 
readily  admit  that  there  is  much 
truth  in  these  remarks.  At  the 
same  time,  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  competition  gives  a  wonderful 
spur  to  idleness,  and  that  allowance 
must  be  made  in  a  republic  for  the 
democratic  jealousy  of  all  honours 
and  distinctions. 

Of  one  thing  we  are  quite  certain, 
and  that  is,  that  competitive  exami- 
nations are,  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
the  worst  system  that  could  be  de- 
vised for  the  selection  of  candidates 
for  the  public  service.  We  go  so 
far  as  to  say  that  we  believe  a  sys- 
tem of  choosing  candidates  by  lot, 
if  accompanied  with  a  good  2)ass 
examination,  would  produce,  on  the 
whole,  better  men  for  the  work. 
Competitive  examination  not  only 
does  not  procure  the  sort  of  men 
you  want,  but  positively  excludes 
them.  For  the  majority  of  the 
work  in  public  offices  you  want 
a  quiet,  contented,  unambitious, 
hard- working  man,  resigned  to 
rpend  all  his  days  labouring  at  an 
uninteresting  vocation  on  a  small 
salary,  with  no  hope  of  rising  ex- 
cept by  a  slow  and  regular  system 
of  promotion.  And  such  were  the 
(lass  of  men  who  formerly  received 
fcuch  appointments.  Under  the 
competitive  examination  system 
you  are  provided  for  such  a  place 
with  a  young,  clever,  ambitious 
man,  who  has  passed  well,  is  eager 
to  get  on,  is  proud  of  his  acquire- 
ments, who  loathes  the  drudgery 
lo  which  he  is  set,  who  is  heart- 
broken at  the  hopeless  prospect  that 
lies  before  him.  He  necessarily 
becomes  a  discontented,  querulous 
servant,  hating  his  work,  executing 
it  simply  as  a  task  to  be  got  over 
as  soon,  and  with  as  little  trouble, 
as  possible.  You  stimulate  a  youth 
to  the  highest  pitch  of  nervous  and 
intellectual  excitement  in  a  contest 
for  life  and  death  with  his  fellow- 
men,  and  then  set  him  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days  to  count  bags 
of  coffee  in  a  custom-house,  or  copy 


dreary  pages  of  manuscript  in  an 
office.  And  then  you  wonder  that 
he  does  not  take  to  his  work. 

We  once  asked  an  old  Civil  ser- 
vant of  the  Company's  service  what 
change  he  thought  competitive  exa- 
mination had  made  in  the  young 
men  who  came  to  India.  After 
reflecting  for  a  moment  he  said, — 

"  The  greatest  difference  that  I  see  is, 
that  those  we  get  now  cannot  ride.  You," 
he  added,  "may  think  this  atrifling  mat- 
ter, but  in  reality  it  goes  far  to  the  root  of 
the  thing.  In  India  each  district  de- 
pends almost  entirely  for  its  prosperity 
upon  the  character  of  the  Civil  servant 
in  charge.  To  do  it  justice  he  should 
be  a  man  of  boundless  energy  and  of  the 
most  active  habits  ;  willing  to  turn  his 
hand  to  anything ;  able  to  ride  fifty 
miles  a-day  under  a  burning  sun ;  to 
make  a  road,  to  build  a  bridge,  to  dis- 
perse a  mob,  or,  if  need  be,  to  hang  a  man 
— in  short,  to  be  everywhere  in  his  own 
district,  to  see  everything  done  himself, 
to  understand  everything  for  himself,  to 
trust  nothing  to  others,  to  keep  the 
reins  always  in  his  own  hand.  Under 
the  old  system  we  generally  got  well- 
educated  men,  gentlemen  by  birth  and 
training,  who  could  manage  the  natives 
well,  and  who  had  a  love  of  field-sports 
which  kept  up  the  activity  of  Europe  be- 
neath even  an  Asiatic  sky.  Now  we  get 
highly-educated  men — men  who  would 
do  honour  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge — 
who  hate  exertion  that  is  not  of  an  in- 
tellectual kind,  who  shirk  exposure  to 
the  sun,  and  desire  to  be  left  all  day  in 
peace  reading  their  books.  We  obtain 
the  qualities  we  do  not  want,  and  miss 
those  which  we  do." 

What  is  really  required  in  every 
department  is  not  an  examination  to 
test  merit,  but  one  to  exclude  ignor- 
ance. Any  mode  of  appointment 
under  such  a  system  would  give 
a  better  chance  of  getting  suitable 
men  than  we  now  have  under  the 
competitive  one.  Each  department 
knows  best  what  it  really  requires 
in  its  own  employes.  It  should  be 
left  to  it  to  lay  down  the  nature 
and  amount  of  the  examination 
which  every  candidate  should  be 
required  to  pass  before  taking  up 
his  appointment ;  and,  to  secure  in- 
dependence, the  examination  should 
be  conducted  by  the  Civil  Service 


224 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


Commissioners.  Under  such  a  sys- 
tem we  would  have  an  ordinary 
chance  of  getting  what  we  wanted — 
not,  as  now,  an  ingeniously-devised 
system  for  invariably  putting  the 
right  man  into  the  wrong  place. 

Sir  C.  Dilke's  view  of  the  South- 
ern States,  though,  of  course,  en- 
tirely Federal,  is  very  interesting. 
On  landing  at  Norfolk  pier,  on  the 
James  River,  he  remarks  : — 

"  These  Southerners  were  all  alike — 
all  were  upright,  tall,  and  heavily  mus- 
tached ;  all  had  long  black  hair  and 
glittering  eyes,  and  I  looked  instinc- 
tively for  the  baldric  and  rapier."  — 
I.  5.  "The  Southern  planters  were 
gentlemen  possessed  of  many  aristocra- 
tic virtues,  along  with  every  aristocratic 
vice  ;  but  to  each  planter  there  were 
nine  '  mean  whites.'— I.  8.  The  *  mean 
whites,'  or  '  poor  trash,'  are  the  whites 
who  are  not  planters — members  of  the 
slave-holding  race  who  never  held  a 
slave— white  men  looked  down  upon  by 
the  negroes." — I.  7. 

Of  the  negroes  he  remarks  : — 

"  The  negroes  upon  the  Virginian 
farms  are  not  maligned  by  those  who 
represent  them  as  delighting  in  the  con- 
trast of  crimson  and  yellow,  or  emerald 
and  sky-blue.  I  have  seen  them,  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  dressed  in  scarlet 
waistcoats  and  gold-laced  cravats,  re- 
turning hurriedly  from  *  meetin '  to 
dance  break- downs,  and  grin  from  ear 
to  ear  for  hours  at  a  time." — 1. 19. 

It  is  evident  that  this  negro 
question  is  a  puzzling  one  to  Sir 
C.  Dilke.  He  is  very  anxious  to 
believe  that  the  negro  will  work, 
but  yet  he  cannot  venture  to  assert 
that  he  thinks  he  will  do  so  ;  and 
certainly  the  examples  of  Africa  it- 
self, Hayti,  and  Jamaica,  are  not  in 
favour  of  this  conclusion.  He  has 
one  example,  however,  and  he 
makes  the  most  of  it.  Barbadoes 
is  prospering  ;  and  he  demands,  if 
Barbadoes,  why  not  other  negro- 
populated  States  ?  We  can  answer 
him  in  a  word.  The  negro  works 
in  Barbadoes  simply  because  if  he 
does  not  work  he  will  starve.  Bar- 
badoes is  a  small  island,  with  a 
dense  population  and  no  waste 
land.  The  planters  hold  the  whole 


of  the  estates.  If  a  negro  will  not 
work  he  is  turned  off  the  estate 
he  is  on,  and  no  other  planter  will 
receive  him.  Work  for  him  is  a 
necessity  —  the  alternative  is  emi- 
gration or  starvation.  In  similar 
circumstances  the  African  will  al- 
ways work.  But  see  him  in  the 
neighbouring  islands,  where  all  the 
circumstances  are  the  same,  except 
the  vital  one  of  the  occupation  of 
the  soil.  There  he  goes  into  the 
bush,  builds  a  hut,  clears  a  plot  of 
ground,  which  supplies  all  his  wants 
for  a  fortnight's  work  a-year,  and 
laughs  at  the  planters.  If  he  wishes 
money  for  any  extras  he  will  work 
for  a  few  days  at  high  wages  on 
their  estates,  but  anything  like 
regular,  sustained,  hard  labour,  such 
as  is  required  for  sugar-cultivation, 
cannot  be  depended  on.  Nor  can 
you  blame  him.  He  has  few  arti- 
ficial wants.  These  he  can  satisfy 
without  continuous  labour.  Why 
then  should  he  toil  ? 

Sir  C.  Dilke  has  great  powers  of 
description,  and  the  South  is  now 
the  classic  ground  of  America.  It 
has  historical  associations.  On 
visiting  Petersberg,  he  says  : — 

"  The  spot  where  we  first  struck  the 
rebel  lines  was  that  known  as  the 
Crater — the  funnel-shaped  cavity  form- 
ed where  Grant  sprang  his  famous  mine. 
1500  men  are  buried  in  the  hollow 
itself,  and  the  bones  of  those  smoth- 
ered by  the  falling  earth  are  working 
through  the  soil.  5000  negro  troops 
were  killed  in  this  attack,  and  are  bur- 
ied round  the  hollow  where  they  died, 
fighting  as  gallantly  as  they  fought 
everywhere  throughout  the  war.  It  is 
a  singular  testimony  to  the  continuous- 
ness  of  the  fire,  that  the  still  remaining 
subterranean  passages  show  that  in 
countermining  the  rebels  came  once 
within  three  feet  of  the  mine,  yet  failed 
to  hear  the  working  parties." — I.  14,  15. 

He  visited  the  cemetery  of  Rich- 
mond : — 

"From  Monroe's  tomb  the  evening 
view  is  singularly  soft  and  calm;  the 
quieter  and  calmer  for  the  drone  in 
which  are  mingled  the  trills  of  the 
mocking-bird,  the  hoarse  croak  of  the 
bull-frog,  the  hum  of  myriad  fire-flies, 
that  glow  like  summer  lightning  among 


1870.] 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


225 


the  trees,  the  distant  roar  of  the  river, 
of  which  the  rich  red  water  can  still  be 
seen,  beaten  by  the  rocks  into  a  rosy 
foam.  With  the  moment's  chillness  of 
the  sunset  breeze,  the  golden  glory  of 
the  heavens  fades  into  grey,  and  there 
comes  quickly  over  them  the  solemn 
blueiiess  of  the  southern  night. 
Thoughts  are  springing  up  of  the  many 
thousand  unnamed  graves  where  the 
robel  soldiers  lie  unknown,  when  the 
Federal  drums  in  Richmond  begin 
sharply  beating  the  rappel." — I.  17,  18. 

There  are  various  expressions 
scattered  through  Sir  C.  Dilke's  work 
which  show  that  he  considers  the 
regiments  of  the  Federals,  with  the 
'  best  blood  of  New  England  "  in 
tlieir  ranks,  as  having  been,  man  for 
man,  far  more  than  a  match  for  those 
rscruited  from  the  "  mean  whites  " 
of  the  Confederacy.  This  is  a  very 
singular  remark  to  come  from  one 
who  must  have  known  that  from 
first  to  last  the  North  enormously 
outnumbered  the  South,  that  the 
Federal  armies  on  the  eastern  sea- 
board were  mainly  composed  of 
Irishmen  and  Germans,  and  that 
in  every  single  action  of  the  war 
where  there  was  even  an  approach 
to  equality  of  numbers  the  Con- 
federates beat  the  Federals.  If  any 
one  thing  was  decisively  proved  by 
the  result,  it  was  this,  that  the 
fighting  power  of  the  former  exceed- 
ed that  of  the  latter  greatly,  and 
that  nothing  but  an  overwhelm- 
ing superiority  in  numbers  and  in 
wealth  gave  victory  finally  to  the 
North.  But  Sir  C.  Dilke  has  no 
word  of  sympathy  for  the  cause 
for  which  Jackson  and  Sydney 
Johnstone  died,  for  which  Beaure- 
gard  and  Longstreet  fought,  for 
which  Lee  commanded  in  the  field, 
and  Davis  ruled  in  the  Cabinet. 

The  great  constitutional  question 
afc  issue  on  the  conquest  of  the 
South  is  fairly  and  concisely  stated 
by  our  author  : — 

"The  one  great  issue  between  the 
Eadicals  and  the  Democrats  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  war  was  this  :  The  'Demo- 
cracy' denied  that  the  readmission  to 
Congress  of  the  Southern  States  was  a 
n.atter  of  expediency  at  all;  to  them 


they  declared  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
right.  Either  the  Union  was  or  was 
not  dissolved  :  the  Radicals  admitted 
that  it  was  not,  that  all  their  endeav- 
ours were  to  prevent  the  Union  being 
destroyed  by  rebels,  and  that  they  suc- 
ceeded in  so  doing.  The  States,  as 
States,  were  never  in  rebellion ;  there 
was  only  a  powerful  rebellion  localised 
in  certain  States.  '  If  you  admit,  then,' 
said  the  Democrats,  '  that  the  Union 
is  not  dissolved,  how  can  you  govern  a 
number  of  States  by  major-generals  ? ' 
Meanwhile  the  Radicals  went  on,  not 
wasting  their  time  in  words,  but  pass- 
ing through  the  House  and  over  the 
President's  veto  the  legislation  neces- 
sary for  the  reconstruction  of  free 
government — with  their  illogical  but 
thoroughly  English  good  sense  avoid- 
ing all  talk  about  constitutions  that  are 
obsolete  and  laws  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  enforce,  and  pressing  on  stead- 
ily to  the  end  that  they  have  in  view  : 
equal  rights  for  all  men,  free  govern- 
ment as  soon  as  may  be." — I.  287. 

What  the  required  measures  were 
was  the  abolition  of  State  rights  in 
the  conquered  States.  These  States 
must  be  held  against  the  declared 
will  of  their  white  inhabitants. 
Two  courses  were  open — military 
despotism  or  slave  despotism.  The 
North  chose  the  latter.  It  was  an 
ingenious  and  cheap  method  of 
persecution  to  the  Southern  planters 
to  hand  over  the  government  of  the 
South  to  its  Helots,  and  only  to  re- 
tain the  garrison  necessary  to  keep 
the  Helots  themselves  in  check. 
Russia  is  now  copying  the  device  in 
Poland,  and  keeping  it  by  the  aid  of 
the  enfranchised  serfs. 

The  model  republic  may  be  proud 
in  having  given  a  practical  lesson 
on  the  suppression  of  freedom  to 
the  model  despotism. 

"  It  is  clear  that  the  Southern  negroes 
must  be  given  a  decisive  voice  in  the 
appointment  of  the  Legislature  by 
which  they  are  to  be  ruled,  or  that  the 
North  must  be  prepared  to  back  up  by 
force  of  opinion,  or,  if  need  be,  by  force 
of  arms,  the  Federal  Executive,  when  it 
insists  on  the  Civil  Rights  Bill  being 
set  in  action  in  the  South.  Govern- 
ment through  the  negroes  is  the  only 
way  to  avoid  government  through  an 
army,  which  would  be  dangerous  to  the 
freedom  of  the  North.  It  is  safer  for 


226 


Democracy  beyond  the  /Seas. 


[Fib. 


America  to  trust  her  slaves  than  to 
trust  her  rebels — safer  to  enfranchise 
than  to  pardon.  "—I.  29. 

But  the  rebels  were  stupid  enough 
not  to  see  this.  An  old  Southern 
planter  said  to  Mr  Dilke, — 

"  '  The  Radicals  are  going  to  give  the 
ballot  to  our  niggers  to  strengthen  their 
party,  but  they  know  better  than  to 
give  it  to  their  Northern  niggers.' 

"D.  '  But  surely  there's  a  difference 
in  the  cases  ? ' 

"  The  Planter.  '  You're  right— there 
is ;  but  not  your  way.  The  difference 
is,  that  the  Northern  niggers  can  read 
and  write,  and  even  lie  with  consist- 
ency, and  ours  can't.' 

" D.  'But  there's  the  wider  differ- 
ence, that  negro  suffrage  down  here  is 
a  necessity,  unless  you  are  to  rule  the 
country  that's  just  beaten  you.' 

"  The  Planter.  '  Well,  then,  of  course, 
we  differ.  We  rebs  say  we  fought  to 
take  our  States  out  of  the  Union.  The 
Yanks  beat  us,  so  our  States  must  still 
be  in  the  Union.  If  so,  why  shouldn't 
our  representatives  be  unconditionally 
admitted  ? ' 

"  Nearer  to  a  conclusion  we,  of  course, 
did  not  come ;  he  declaring  that  no  man 
ought  to  vote  who  had  not  education 
enough  to  understand  the  Constitu- 
tion—  I,  that  this  was  good  prima  facie 
evidence  against  letting  him  vote,  but 
that  it  might  be  rebutted  by  the  proof 
of  a  higher  necessity  for  his  voting.  As 
a  planter  said  to  me,  '  The  Southerners 
prefer  soldier  rule  to  nigger  rule.'" — 
I.  35. 

And  in  the  face  of  this,  Sir  C. 
Dilke  wonders  that  the  planters 
have  mostly  emigrated ! 

But  Sir  C.  Dilke  is  very  candid 
as  to  the  legality  of  the  measures 
of  his  Northern  friends. 


"  The  more  honest  among  the  Repub- 
licans admit  that,  for  the  position  which 
they  have  taken  up,  they  can  find  no 
warrant  in  the  Constitution ;  that, 
according  to  the  doctrine  which  the 
'  Continental  statesmen '  and  the  au- 
thors of  '  The  Federalist '  would  lay 
down,  were  they  living,  thirty- five  of 
the  States,  even  if  they  were  unanimous, 
could  have  no  right  to  tamper  with  the 
Constitution  of  the  thirty-sixth.  The 
answer  to  all  this  can  only  be,  that, 
were  the  Constitution  closely  followed, 
the  result  would  be  the  ruin  of  this 
land."— I.  284* 

We  remarked  before  that  Sir  C. 
Dilke's  blind  devotion  to  democra- 
cy utterly  overpowers  his  naturally 
strong  logical  judgment.  The  above 
clearly  proves  this.  Even  on  the 
admission  of  their  opponents,  the 
South  had  the  legal  right  on  its 
side  throughout.  But  what  then  ? 
The  exercise  of  that  right  would 
have  interfered  with  the  universal 
dominion  of  democracy  on  the 
American  Continent  ;  therefore 
right  must  go  to  the  wall.  And 
the  Democrats  having  might,  it  did 
go  to  the  wall,  as  it  too  often  does 
in  similar  circumstances  in  this 
world.  It  is  curious  to  see  the 
advocates  of  a  despotic  democracy 
driven,  in  their  last  resort,  to 
justify  themselves  by  the  "  tyrant's 
plea" —  necessity.  The  sympathy 
between  the  United  States  and 
Russia  is  easy  to  understand. 

Sir  C.  Dilke,  of  course,  has  un- 
bounded admiration  for  the  work- 
ing of  democracy  in  the  States,  but 
he  evidently  has  some  secret  mis- 
givings as  to  the  perfect  purity  and 


*  When  democracy  is  removed,  Sir  C.  Dilke's  judgment  is  a  very  clear  one  in 
regard  to  questions  such  as  these.  Thus,  when  speaking  of  the  Dutch  system  of 
government  in  the  Eastern  Islands,  he  says  :  "Those  who  narrate  to  us  the  effects 
of  the  Java  system  forget  that  it  is  not  denied  that  in  the  tropical  islands,  with 
an  idle  population  and  a  rich  soil,  compulsory  labour  may  be  the  only  way  of 
developing  the  resources  of  the  countries,  but  they  fail  to  show  the  justification 
for  our  developing  the  resources  of  the  country  by  such  means  "  (ii.  179).  Ex- 
actly so ;  and  a  parallel  case  exists  in  the  United  States.  Those  who  insist  on 
the  right  of  the  Federals  to  reannex  the  Confederate  States  by  force  of  arms, 
forget  that  it  is  not  denied  that  such  was  the  only  means  of  re-establishing  one 
great  dominant  democracy  on  the  American  continent  ;  but  they  fail  to  show  the 
justification  for  establishing  such  a  democracy  by  violating  the  Constitution 
under  which  alone  the  independent  States  of  North  America  associated  them- 
selves for  certain  purposes  of  government  in  a  Federal  Union,  and  from  which 
certain  of  them  desired  peaceably  to  withdraw  when  they  conceived  these  pur- 
poses were  no  longer  obtained. 


1870.] 


Democracy  "beyond  ike  Seas. 


227 


freedom  of  choice  resulting  from 
the  "  caucus  and  convention  "  sys- 
tem (i.  291,  293) ;  he  is  not  happy 
<r.t  the  prospect  of  Irish  ascend- 
ancy in  the  great  cities  (i.  45),  arid 
lie  is  most  indignant  at  the  wealthy 
merchants  of  New  York  and  the 
other  seaboard  towns  because  they 
withdraw  from  all  share  in  public 
affairs,  and,  living  in  a  jealously- 
guarded  exclusive  circle,  abuse  mob- 
government. 

"  They  tell  a  story  of  a  traveller  on 
the  Hudson  River  Railroad  who,  as  the 
train  neared  Albany,  said  to  a  some- 
what gloomy  neighbour,  '  Going  to  the 
•State  Legislature  ?'  getting  for  answer, 
'  No,  sir ;  It's  not  come  to  that  with 
ne  yet.  Only  to  the  State  prison  ! ' 
Stories  such  as  this  the  rich  New 
Yorkers  are  nothing  loath  to  tell ;  but 
they  take  no  steps  to  check  the  dena- 
tionalisation they  lament.  Instead  of 
entering  upon  a  reform  of  their  munici- 
pal institutions,  they  affect  to  despise 
free  government ;  instead  of  giving,  as 
the  oldest  New  England  families  have 
done,  their  tone  to  the  State  schools, 
they  keep  entirely  aloof  from  school  and 
State  alike.  Sending  their  boys  to  Cam- 
bridge, Berlin,  Heidelberg,  anywhere 
rather  than  to  the  colleges  of  their  na- 
tive land,  they  leave  it  to  learned,  pious 
Boston  to  supply  the  West  with  teach- 
ers, and  to  keep  up  Hale  and  Harvard. 
Indignant  if  they  are  pointed  at  as 
'  no  Americans,'  they  seem  to  separate 
themselves  from  everything  that  is 
American.  They  spend  summers  in 
England,  winters  in  Algeria,  springs 
iu  Rome,  and  Coloradans  say,  with  a 
sneer,  '  Good  New  Yorkers  go  to  Paris 
when  they  die.'  "—I.  45,  46. 

It  never  seems  to  strike  Sir  C. 
Dilke  that  this  is  the  necessary 
result  of  pure  democracy.  Uni- 
versal suffrage  means  the  disfran- 
cliisement  of  every  class  above  the 
lowest  and  most  numerous.  It  is 
not  probable  that  a  very  large  sec- 
tion of  the  upper  classes  will  find 
tlieir  views  exactly  in  unison  with 
those  of  the  dregs  of  great  cities. 
Therefore  in  the  United  States 
they  generally  in  such  circum- 
stances withdraw  from  politics  al- 
together. With  us,  but  too  often, 
when  standing  for  such  constitu- 
encies, they  either  bribe,  or  even  in 


some  instances  play  the  hypocrite. 
It  was  a  curious  idea  of  our  Radi- 
cals that  you  would  increase  the 
purity  of  election  by  doubling  the 
number  and  the  poverty  of  the  elec- 
tors, and  the  revelations  of  the 
election  commissioners  are  the  nat- 
ural result.  But  what  to  us  is  even 
a  more  deplorable  result  is  the  rise 
of  a  class  hitherto  new  in  our  House 
of  Commons,  of  men  who  have  got 
in  by  the  profession  and  practice  of 
opinions  which  in  their  hearts  they 
despise.  It  but  too  commonly 
happens  now  that  you  meet  a 
member  one  day,  and  find  that  on 
some  point  he  has  very  clear  and 
decided  views ;  you  discover  his 
name,  a  few  days  after,  on  the 
division  list,  on  exactly  tha  oppo- 
site side.  You  say  to  your  friend 
in  some  wonder,  "How did  you  come 
to  vote  so  1 "  He  replies,  "My  dear 
fellow,  you  know  I  detest  the  mea- 
sure, but  I  could  not  help  myself. 
If  I  did  not  vote  for  it,  I  would  to 
a  certainty  lose  my  seat  at  the  next 
election." 

Sir  C.  Dilke  imagines  that  the 
result  of  "the  late  war  settled  for  all 
time  the  unity  of  the  United  States. 
But  there  are  many  passages  even 
in  his  own  book  which  make  us 
doubt  this. 

"  « We  aint  going  to  fight  the  North 
and  West  again,'  said  an  ex-colonel  of 
rebel  infantry;  'next  time  we  fight  'twill 
be  us  and  the  West  against  the  Yanks. ' " 
— 1. 6.  "Nextafterthe  jealousy  bet  ween 
two  Australian  colonies,  there  is  nothing 
equal  to  the  hatreds  between  cities  com- 
peting for  the  same  trade." — I.  102. 
"  The  Americans  of  the  valley  States, 
who  fought  all  the  more  heartily  in  the 
Federal  cause  from  the  fact  that  they 
were  battling  for  the  freedom  of  the 
Mississippi  against  the  men  who  held 
its  mouth,  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  they  will  have  to  assert  peaceably, 
but  with  firmness,  their  right  to  the 
freedom  of  their  railways  through  the 
Northern  Atlantic  States.  Whatever 
their  respect  for  New  England,  it  can- 
not be  expected  that  they  are  for  ever 
to  permit  Illinois  and  Ohio  to  be  neu- 
tralised in  the  Senate  by  Rhode  Island 
and  Vermont.  If  it  goes  hard  with 
New  England,  it  must  go  harder  still 
with  New  York ;  and  the  Western  men 


223 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


look  forward  to  the  day  when  Washing- 
ton will  be  removed,  Congress  and  all, 
to  Columbus  or  Port  Riley." — I.  105. 
"Governor  Gilpin  it  was  who  hit  upon 
the  glorious  idea  of  placing  Colorado 
half  upon  each  side  of  the  Sierra  Madre. 
There  never  in  the  history  of  the  world 
was  a  grander  idea  than  this.  Any 
ordinary  pioneer  or  politician  woiild 
have  given  Colorado  the  natural  frontier, 
and  have  tried  for  the  glory  of  the  foun- 
dation of  two  states  instead  of  one. 
The  consequence  would  have  been  the 
lasting  disunion  between  the  Pacific 
and  Atlantic  States,  and  a  possible 
future  break  up  of  the  country.  As  it 
is,  this  commonweath,  little  as  it  at  pre- 
sent is,  links  sea  to  sea,  and  Liverpool 
to  Hong- Kong." — I.  118. 

We  much  fear  that,  in  spite  of  the 
"  glorious  idea  "  of  Governor  Gil- 
pin,  the  future  break  up  of  the 
country  is  certain  to  take  place. 
The  revolt  of  the  South  was  but 
the  first  of  many  similar  struggles 
•which  the  growth  of  new  and  di- 
vergent interests  will  cause,  as  the 
vast  breadth  of  the  continent  be- 
comes peopled.  There  is  no  diver- 
sity of  race  to  complicate  the  ques- 
tion, so  that  natural  interests  in 
time  are  likely  to  work  out  their 
natural  results  in  the  dissolution  of 
the  great  American  Confederacy  of 
States,  and  its  reconstitution  in 
three  large  groups.  Nature  herself 
seems  to  have  pointed  out  the  limits 
of  the  three  kingdoms  into  which 
she  will  ultimately  cast  the  now 
United  States.  One  will  embrace 
the  Atlantic  seaboard  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Alleghanies  to  the  sea  ; 
the  second  will  include  the  whole 
valley  of  the  Mississippi,  from  the 
Alleghanies  to  the  Grand  Plateau 
and  the  Rocky  Mountains;  the 
third  will  lie  between  the  water- 
shed of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and 
the  Pacific  coast.  Each  of  these 
great  divisions  of  territory  has 
d  inherent  natural  outlets  and  differ- 
ent material  interests.  It  is  merely 
a  matter  of  time  when  these  will 
lead  to  the  dissolution  of  the  slender 
tie  of  a  common  Federal  govern- 
ment. 

We  have  delayed  so  long  on  the 
large  political  and  social  questions 


called  up  by  the  contemplation  of 
the  United  States,  that  we  have 
room  but  for  one  extract  to  paint 
its  great  Western  features. 

"  The  landscape  of  the  Great  Plain  is 
full  of  life,  full  of  charm — lonely  indeed, 
but  never  wearisome.  Now  great  roll- 
ing uplands  of  enormous  sweep,  now 
boundless  grassy  plains.  There  is  all 
the  grandeur  of  monotony,  and  yet 
continual  change.  Sometimes  the  dis- 
tances are  broken  by  the  buttes  or 
rugged  bluffs.  Over  all  there  is  a  spark- 
ling atmosphere  and  never  -  failing 
breeze ;  the  air  is  bracing  even  when 
most  hot ;  the  sky  is  cloudless,  and  no 
rain  falls.  A  solitude  which  no  words 
can  paint,  and  the  boundless  prairie 
swell,  convey  an  idea  of  vastness,  which 
is  the  overpowering  feature  of  the 
plains.  Vast  and  silent,  fertile  yet 
waste,  field-like  yet  untilled,  they  have 
room  for  the  Huns,  the  Goths,  the 
Vandals — for  all  the  teeming  multitudes 
that  have  poured  and  can  pour  from  the 
plains  of  Asia  and  of  Central  Europe. 
Twice  as  large  as  Hindostan,  more 
temperate,  more  habitable,  nature  has 

E laced    them    there    hedgeless,    gate- 
?ss,  free  to  all — a  green  field  for  the 
support  of  half   the  human  race,  un- 
claimed, untouched — awaiting,  smiling, 
hands  and  plough. " — I.  131-133. 

On  the  political  future  of  the 
Pacific  States  Sir  C.  Dilke  thus 
expresses  himself  : — 

"  The  material  interests  of  the  Pacific 
States  will  always  lie  in  union.  The 
West,  sympathising  in  the  main  with 
the  Southerners  upon  the  slavery  ques- 
tion, threw  herself  into  the  war,  and 
crushed  them,  because  she  saw  the  ne- 
cessity of  keeping  her  outlets  under  her 
own  control.  The  same  policy  would 
hold  good  for  the  Pacific  States  in  the 
case  of  the  continental  railroad.  Un- 
calculating  rebellion  of  the  Pacific 
States  upon  some  sudden  heat  is  the 
only  danger  to  be  apprehended.  .  .  . 
The  single  danger  that  looms  in  the 
more  distant  future  is  the  eventual  con- 
trol of  Congress  by  the  Irish  while  the 
English  retain  their  hold  on  the  Pacific 
shores."— I.  274,  275. 

Our  author  is  evidently  not 
happy  in  New  Zealand.  Despite 
of  its  unmatched  scenery,  it  has 
not  enough  of  the  true  ring  of 
pure  democracy  for  him.  To  the 
digger  of  the  west  coast  he  has  some 


1870.] 


Democracy  'beyond  the  Seas. 


229 


leaning,  but  with  the  gentleman 
farmer  of  the  east  he  has  no  sym- 
pathy. Its  scenery  he  sketches 
•with  his  usual  power.  On  ap- 
proaching the  western  coast  of  the 
south  island  he  says — 

"A  hundred  miles  of  the  southern 
Alps  stood  out  upon  a  pale-blue  sky  in 
curves  of  a  gloomy  white  that  were  just 
beginning  to  blush  with  pink,  but  ended 
to  the  southward  in  a  cone  of  fire  that 
b]azed  up  from  the  ocean.  It  was  the 
snow-dome  of  Mount  Cook  struck  by 
the  rising  sun.  The  evergreen  bush, 
flaming  with  the  crimson  of  the  rata- 
blooms,  hung  upon  the  mountain-side, 
and  covered  the  plain  with  a  dense 
jungle.  It  was  one  of  those  sights  that 
hzaint  men  for  years,  like  the  eyes  of 
Mary  in  Bellini's  Milan  picture." — I. 
330,  331. 

"The  peculiarity  which  makes  the 
New  Zealand  west-coast  scenery  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world  to  those 
wlio  like  more  green  than  California 
has  to  show,  is,  that  here  alone  can  you 
find  semi-tropical  vegetation  growing 
close  up  to  the  eternal  snows.  The  lati- 
tude and  the  great  moisture  of  the 
climate  bring  the  long  glaciers  very 
low  into  the  valleys ;  and  the  absence 
of  all  true  winter,  coupled  with  the 
rainfall,  causes  the  growth  of  palm-like 
fei'ns  upon  the  ice-rivers'  very  edge." — 
I.  310,  341. 

The  difficulties  of  its  political 
situation  he  has  well  depicted.  New 
Zealand  was  originally  settled  by 
different  colonies,  planted  at  dif- 
ferent times  and  at  different  points 
on  its  coast,  which  were  physically 
cut  off  from  each  other  by  impene- 
trable bush  and  roadless  tracts. 
This  led  to  the  rise  of  provinces, 
who  could  be  united  together  only 
by  the  loose  tie  of  a  federal  gov- 
ernment. Moreover,  it  is  separated 
into  two  islands,  the  northern  of 
which  is  inhabited  by  a  warlike 
and  powerful  native  race,  while  the 
southern  is  free  from  this  infliction. 
Th  us  the  southern  people  have  nei- 
ther native  wars  to  carry  on  nor 
native  tribes  from  whom  every  acre 
of  land  must  be  bought.  Hence 
they  decline  to  be  taxed  for  either 
Maori  wars  or  the  purchase  of 
Maori  lands.  Thus  government  is 


at  once  expensive  and  weak,  taxation 
heavy,  and  discontent  universal. 

"To  obtain  an  adequate  idea  of  the 
difficulty  of  his  task,  a  new  governor, 
on  landing  in  New  Zealand,  could  not 
do  better  than  cross  the  southern  isl- 
and. On  the  west  side  of  the  moun- 
tains he  would  find  a  restless  digger- 
democracy,  likely  to  be  succeeded  in 
the  future  by  small  manufacturers,  and 
spade-farmers  growing  root-crops  upon 
small  holdings  of  fertile  loam.  On  the 
east,  gentlemen  sheep-farmers,  holding 
their  twenty  thousand  acres  each,  sup- 
porters by  their  position  of  the  existing 
state  of  things,  or  of  an  aristocratic 
republic,  in  which  men  of  their  own 
caste  would  rule."— I.  345,  346. 

He  makes  the  following  just  and 
striking  remarks  upon  the  Maori 
race  in  its  contact  with  civilisa- 
tion : — 

"There  is  an  Eastern  civilisation — 
that  of  China  and  Hindostan — distinct 
from  that  of  Europe,  and  ancient  be- 
yond all  count :  in  this  the  Maories 
have  no  share.  No  true  Hindoo,  no 
Arab,  no  Chinaman,  has  suffered  change 
in  one  tittle  of  his  dress  or  manners 
from  contact  with  the  Western  races ;  of 
this  essential  conservatism  there  is  in 
the  New  Zealand  savage  not  a  trace." 

"Nature's  work  in  New  Zealand  is 
not  the  same  as  that  which  she  is 
quickly  doing  in  North  America,  in 
Tasmania,  in  Queensland.  It  is  not 
merely  that  a  hunting  and  fighting 
people  is  being  replaced  by  an  agricul- 
tural and  pastoral  people,  and  must 
farm  or  die — the  Maori  does  farm ; 
Maori  chiefs  own  villages,  build  houses, 
which  they  let  to  European  settlers  ; 
we  have  here  Maori  sheep-  farmers, 
Maori  shipowners,  Maori  mechanics, 
Maori  soldiers,  Maori  rough-riders, 
Maori  sailors,  and  even  Maori-traders. 
There  is  nothing  which  the  average 
Englishman  can  do  which  the  average 
Maori  cannot  be  taught  to  do  as  cheap- 
ly and  as  well.  Nevertheless  the  race 
dies  out.  The  Red  Indian  dies  because 
he  cannot  farm  ;  the  Maori  farms  and 
dies."— I.  387,  393. 

Sir  C.  Dilke's  spirit  rises  when 
he  reaches  Australia.  There  he  is 
once  more  in  a  congenial  atmo- 
sphere of  pure  democracy,  of  uni- 
versal suffrage,  of  vote  by  ballot. 
There  the  future  of  the  human 
race  is  bright  to  him  ;  but,  alas ! 


230 


Democracy  "beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


there  is  no  perfect  happiness  here 
on  earth.  There  is  a  serpent  even 
in  this  social  paradise  with  its 
apple  ready  to  tempt  the  demo- 
cratic Eve.  The  hateful  squatter 
aristocracy  of  Queensland,  with 
their  flocks  and  their  shepherds, 
are  ever  endangering  the  true  prim- 
itive love  of  equality  dear  to  the 
heart  of  the  Victorian  digger. 

"  As  the  rivalry  of  the  neighbour 
colonies  lessens  in  the  lapse  of  time, 
the  jealousy  that  exists  between  them 
will  doubtless  die  away ;  but  it  seems 
as  though  it  will  be  replaced  by  a  poli- 
tical divergence,  and  consequent  aver- 
sion, which  will  form  a  fruitful  source 
of  danger  to  the  Australian  Confedera- 
tion. In  Queensland  the  great  tenants 
of  Crown  lands — 'squatters,'  as  they 
are  called— sheep-farmers  holding  vast 
tracts  of  inland  country,  are  in  posses- 
sion of  the  government,  and  administer 
the  laws  to  their  own  advantage.  In 
New  South  Wales  the  power  is  divided 
between  the  pastoral  tenants  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  democracy  of  the  towns 
upon  the  other.  In  Victoria  the  demo- 
crats have  beaten  down  the  squatters, 
and,  in  the  interest  of  the  people,  put 
an  end  to  their  reign.  The  struggle 
between  the  great  Crown  tenants  and 
the  agricultural  democracy  in  Victoria, 
already  almost  over,  in  New  South 
Wales  can  be  decided  only  in  one  way ; 
but  in  Queensland  the  character  of  the 
country  is  not  entirely  the  same  :  the 
coast  and  river  tracts  are  tropical  bush 
lands,  in  which  sheep-farming  is  impos- 
sible, and  in  which  sugar,  cotton,  and 
spices  alone  can  be  made  to  pay.  The 
Queenslanders  have  not  yet  solved  the 
problem  of  the  settlement  of  a  tropical 
country  by  Englishmen,  and  of  its  cul- 
tivation by  English  hands.  If,  how- 
ever, the  other  colonies  permit  their 
northern  sister  to  continue  in  her  course 
of  importing  dark-skinned  labourers,  to 
form  a  poor  population,  a  few  years 
will  see  her  a  wealtny  cotton  and  sugar 
growing  country,  with  all  the  vices  of 
a  slave-holding  government,  though 
without  the  name  of  slavery.  The 
planters  of  the  coast  and  villages, 
united  with  the  squatters  of  the  table- 
lauds  or  downs,  will  govern  Queens- 
land, and  render  union  with  the  free 
colonies  impossible,  unless  great  gold 
discoveries  take  place,  and  give  the 
country  to  Australia."— II.  13-16. 

There  is  another  danger  to  the 


virtue  of  Australia — her  people  are 
a  pleasure-loving  race. 

"In  France  there  is  a  tendency  to 
migrate  to  Paris,  in  Austria  a  con- 
tinuous drain  towards  Vienna,  in 
England  towards  London.  A  cor- 
responding tendency  is  observable 
throughout  Australia  and  America. 
In  the  case  of  Australia  this  concentra- 
tion of  population  is  becoming  more 
remarkable  day  by  day.  Even  under 
the  system  of  free  selection  by  which 
the  Legislature  has  attempted  to  en- 
courage agricultural  settlement,  the 
moment  a  free  selector  can  make  a 
little  money  he  comes  to  one  of  the 
capitals  to  spend  it.  Sydney  is  the 
city  of  pleasure  to  which  the  wealthy 
Queensland  squatters  resort  to  spend 
their  money,  returning  to  the  north 
only  when  they  cannot  afford  another 
day  of  dissipation ;  while  Melbourne  re- 
ceives the  outpour  of  Tasmania.  The 
rushing  to  great  cities  the  moment 
there  is  money  to  be  spent,  characteris- 
tic of  the  settlers  in  all  these  colonies, 
is  much  to  be  regretted,  and  presents  a 
sad  contrast  to  the  quiet  stay-at-home 
habits  of  American  farmers." — II.  19, 20. 

Sir  Charles  thus  sketches  the 
great  enemy  of  democracy  in  Aus- 
tralia : — 

"  The  squatter  is  the  nabob  of  Mel- 
bourne and  Sydney,  the  inexhaustible 
mine  of  -wealth.  He  patronises  balls, 
promenade  concerts,  flower-shows ;  he 
is  the  mainstay  of  the  great  clubs,  the 
joy  of  the  shopkeepers,  the  good  angel 
of  the  hotels  :  without  him  the  opera 
could  not  be  kept  up,  and  the  jockey 
club  would  die  a  natural  death." — II. 
41. 

The  chief  engine  of  the  Radicals 
in  Victoria  and  New  South  Wales 
wherewith  to  beat  down  this  terrible 
aristocracy  of  wealth — this  night- 
mare of  the  virtuous  democrat — is 
the  "  free  selection  "  law.  By  it  the 
agricultural  settler  is  authorised  to 
buy  at  a  fixed  price  the  freehold  of 
a  plot  of  land,  provided  it  be  over 
40  and  less  than  320  acres,  "  any- 
where that  he  pleases — even  in  the 
middle  of  a  squatter's  run — if  he 
enters  at  once  and  commences  to 
cultivate ;  and  the  Land  Act  of  1862 
provides  that  the  squatting  licence 
system  shall  entirely  end  with  the 
year  1869."  Very  effectual  measures 


1S70.] 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


231 


these,  and  pretty  sure  to  produce 
the  intended  effect.  Despotic  de- 
mocracy goes  very  plainly  and  effec- 
tually to  work  in  its  own  cause. 

As  we  are  now  fast  following  in 
the  footsteps  of  Australian  demo- 
cracy, and  as  the  working  classes  in 
this  country  will  soon  come  to  learn 
the  reality  of  the  power  they  have 
acquired,  it  is  interesting  to  mark 
the  use  to  which  they  put  their 
power  in  Australia,  to  see  how  com- 
pletely they  have  left  behind  the 
b  irbarism  of  trades-unions  and  as- 
sassination, and  how  ably  they  at- 
tain exactly  the  same  results  by  the 
power  of  legislation  and  the  force 
o;  law. 

"In  America  the  working  men  them- 
selves, almost  without  exception  immi- 
grants, though  powerful  in  the  various 
St  ates  from  holding  the  balance  of  par- 
tins,  have  never  as  yet  been  able  to  make 
tl.eir  voice  heard  in  the  Federal  Con- 
gi  ess.  In  the  chief  Australian  colonies, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  artisans  have, 
more  than  any  other  class,  the  posses- 
sion of  political  power.  Throughout  the 
world  the  grievance  of  the  working  clas- 
ses lies  in  the  fact  that,  while  trade  and 
profit  have  increased  enormously  within 
the  last  few  years,  true  as  distinguish- 
ed from  nominal  wages  have  not  risen. 
In  the  American  States,  where  the  sup- 
pression of  immigration  seems  almost 
impossible,  their  interference  takes  the 
shape  of  eight-hour  bills,  and  the  exclu- 
si  >n  of  coloured  labourers.  In  Victoria 
and  New  South  Wales,  however,  it  is 
not  difficult,  quietly,  to  put  a  check 
upon  the  importation  of  foreign  labour. 
The  vast  distance  from  Europe  makes 
tie  unaided  immigration  of  artisans  ex- 
tromely  rare,  and  since  the  democrats 
hiive  been  in  power,  the  funds  for  assist- 
ed immigration  have  been  withheld,  and 
tie  Chinese  influx  all  but  forbidden, 
while  manifestoes  against  the  ordinary 
European  immigration  have  repeatedly 
bi  en  published  at  Sydney  by  the  council 
of  the  associated  trades.  Sydney  me- 
cl  anics,  many  of  them  free  immigrants 
themselves,  say  that  there  is  no  differ- 
eice  of  principle  between  the  introduc- 
tion of  free  or  assisted  immigrants,  and 
that  of  convicts."— II.  71,  72. 

This  passage  throws  a  flood  of 
li^ht  on  the  real  cause  of  the  deadly 
hostility  of  the  Australians  to  trans- 
portation, and  very  clearly  explains 


how,  in  the  face  of  a  democratic 
class  despotism,  "  there  is  no 
sign  that  in  Australia,  any  more 
than  in  America,  there  will  spring 
up  a  centre  of  opposition  to  the 
dominant  majority/' — II.  57. 

There  is  a  danger  to  democratic 
equality  here  in  the  very  bosom  of 
republicanism,  which  we  would 
strongly  recommend  to  the  consi- 
deration of  Mr  Mill,  and  the  advo- 
cates of  the  rights  of  women. 

"  There  is  at  present  in  Victoria  and 
New  South  Wales  a  general  admission 
among  the  men  of  the  existence  of  equal- 
ity of  conditions,  together  with  a  per- 
petual rebellion  on  the  part  of  their 
wives  to  defeat  democracy,  and  to  re- 
introduce  the  old  'colonial  court'  so- 
ciety, and  resulting  class  divisions.  The 
consequence  of  this  distinction  is,  that 
the  women  are  mostly  engaged  in  elbow- 
ing their  way.  .  .  .  Like  the  American 
'  Democrat,'  the  Australian  will  admit 
that  there  may  be  any  number  of  grades 
below  him,  so  long  as  you  allow  that  he 
is  at  the  top  ;  but  no  Republican  can 
be  stancher  in  the  matter  of  his  own 
equality  with  the  best" — II.  57. 

We  remarked  in  the  beginning  of 
this  article  that  Sir  C.  Dilke  had 
before  him  a  golden  millennium  of 
democracy,  in  which  every  one  was 
to  be  his  own  servant,  and  earn  his 
own  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  own 
brow.  This  fixes  here  : — 

"  Day  by  day  the  labour  question,  in 
its  older  aspects,  becomes  of  less  and  less 
importance.  The  relationship  of  master 
and  servant  is  rapidly  dying  the  death  : 
co-operative  farming  and  industrial  part- 
nerships must  supersede  it  everywhere  at 
no  distant  date.  The  existing  system  of 
labour  is  anti-democratic  :  it  is  at  once 
productive  of,  and  founded  on  the  exist- 
ence of,  an  aristocracy  of  capital  and  a 
servitude  of  workmen  ;  and  our  English 
democracies  cannot  afford  that  half  their 
citizens  should  be  dependent  labourers. 
If  manufactures  are  to  be  consistent  with 
democracy,  they  must  be  carried  on  in 
sliops  in  which  each  man  shall  be  at  once 
capitalist  and  handicraftsman.  It  is 
not  enough  that  the  workman  should 
share  in  the  profits.  The  change  which, 
continuing  through  the  middle  ages  into 
the  present  century,  has  at  last  every- 
where converted  the  relation  of  lord  and 
slave  into  that  of  master  and  hireling, 
is  already  giving  place  to  the  silent  re- 


232 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


solution  which  is  steadily  substituting 
for  this  relationship  of  capital  and  labour 
that  of  a  perfect  marriage,  in  which  the 
labourer  and  the  capitalist  shall  be  one. " 
—II.  81,  82. 

In  this  scoffing  sceptical  age  it  is 
pleasant  to  meet  with  one  who  has 
so  strong  and  earnest  a  belief,  so 
pure  and  undoubted  a  faith,  in  any- 
thing, even  though  it  be  in  the  un- 
selfishness and  virtue  of  the  demo- 
cracy of  the  future  ! 

Sir  C.  Dilke  has  a  great  dread, 
and  that  is  the  Irish  immigrant. 
We  can  hardly  make  out  whether 
he  fears  most  the  Celtic  migra- 
tion of  men  into  the  cities  on  the 
seaboard  of  the  United  States,  or 
of  women  into  the  immaculate 
Australian  colonies.  But  his  re- 
marks on  the  characteristics  of  the 
different  races  of  immigrants  are 
worthy  of  attention. 

"  To  avoid  the  evil,  by  as  far  as  pos- 
sible refusing  to  meet  it  face  to  face, 
South  Australia  has  put  restrictions  on 
her  Irish  immigration  ;  for  there,  as  in 
America,  it  is  found  that  the  Scotch  and 
Germans  are  the  best  of  immigrants. 
The  Scotch  are  not  more  successful  in 
Adelaide  than  everywhere  in  the  known 
world.  Half  the  most  prominent  among 
the  statesmen  of  the  Canadian  Confede- 
ration, of  Victoria,  and  of  Queensland, 
are  born  Scots,  and  all  the  great  mer- 
chants of  India  are  of  the  same  nation. 
Whether  it  be  that  the  Scotch  immi- 
grants are  for  the  most  part  men  of  better 
education  than  those  of  other  nations,  of 
whose  citizens  only  the  poorest  and  most 
ignorant  are  known  to  emigrate,  or 
whether  the  Scotchman  owes  his  uni- 
form success  in  every  climate  to  his  per- 
severance or  his  shrewdness,  the  fact  re- 
mains, that  wherever  abroad  you  come 
across  a  Scotchman,  you  invariably  find 
him  prosperous  and  respected.  The 
Scotch  emigrant  is  a  man  who  leaves 
Scotland  because  he  wishes  to  rise  faster 
and  higher  than  he  can  at  home, 
whereas  the  emigrant  Irishman  quits 
Galway  or  county  Cork  only  because 
there  is  no  longer  food  or  shelter  for  him 
there.  The  Scotchman  crosses  the  seas 
in  calculating  contentment,  the  Irish- 
man in  sorrow  and  despair."  —  II. 
120,  121. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and 
brilliant  parts  of  Sir  C.  Dilke's 
work  is  his  sketch  of  British  India. 


His  descriptions  of  it  are  singu- 
larly vivid.  Take  as  an  example 
his  view  of  Agra  : — 

"  The  fort  and  palace  of  Akbar  are 
the  Moslem  creed  in  stone.  Without — 
turned  towards  the  unbeliever  and  the 
foe — the  far-famed  triple  walls,  frown- 
ing one  above  the  other  with  the  frown 
that  a  hill  fanatic  wears  before  he 
strikes  the  infidel :  within  is  the  serene 
paradise  of  the  believing  'Emperor  of 
the  World'— delicious  fountains  pour- 
ing into  basins  of  the  whitest  marble, 
beds  of  rose  and  myrtle,  balconies,  and 
pavilions :  part  of  the  zenana,  or 
women's  wing,  overhanging  the  river, 
and  commanding  the  distant  snow- 
dome  of  the  Taj.  Within,  too,  the 
'  Motee  Musjid  ' — Pearl  of  Mosques,  in 
fact  as  well  as  name — a  marble  cloister- 
ed court,  to  which  an  angel  architect 
could  not  add  a  stone  nor  snatch  one 
from  it  without  spoiling  all.  These  for 
believers :  for  non-believers  the  grim 
old  Saracenic  'Hall  of  the  Seat  of 
Judgment.'  The  palace,  except  the 
mosque,  which  is  purity  itself,  is  over- 
laid with  a  crust  of  gems.  There  is  one 
famed  chamber— a  women's  bath-house 
— the  roof  and  sides  of  which  are  covered 
with  tiny  silver-mounted  mirrors,  placed 
at  such  angles  as  to  reflect  to  infinity 
the  figures  of  those  who  stand  within 
the  bath ;  and  a  court  is  near  at  hand, 
paved  with  marble  squares  in  black  and 
white,  over  which  Akbar  and  his  viz- 
ier used  to  sit,  and  gravely  play  at 
draughts  with  dancing-girls  for  pieces." 
—II.  228,  229. 

Who  is  there  that  has  travelled 
through  the  North-West  Provinces 
who  will  not  endorse  this  descrip- 
tion ? 

"Throughout  the  plains  of  India  the 
highroads  pass  villages,  serais,  police- 
stations,  and  groups  of  trees  at  almost 
equal  intervals.  The  space  between 
clump  and  clump  is  generally  about 
three  miles,  and  in  this  distance 
you  never  see  a  house,  so  compact  are 
the  Indian  villages.  The  North-West 
Provinces  are  the  most  densely  peopled 
countries  of  the  world,  yet  between  vil- 
lage and  village  you  often  see  no  trace 
of  man,  while  jackals  and  wild  blue- 
cows  roam  about  as  freely  as  though 
the  country  were  an  untrodden  wilder- 
ness. Each  time  you  reach  a  clump 
of  banyans,  tamarind,  and  tulip  trees, 
you  find  the  same  tenants  of  its  shades  : 
village  police-station,  Government  post- 
ing-stable, and  serai  are  always  enclosed 


1870.] 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


233 


•within  its  limits.  All  the  villages  are 
fortified  with  lofty  walls  of  mud  or 
Ir-iek,  as  are  the  numerous  police-sta- 
tions along  the  road,  where  the  military 
constabulary,  in  their  dark-blue  tunics, 
yellow  trousers,  and  huge  puggrees  of 
b  'ight  red,  rise  up  from  sleep  or  hookah 
as  you  pass,  and,  turning  out  with 
tulwars  and  rifles,  perform  the  military 
sr.lute  due  in  India  to  the  white  face  from 
all  native  troops."— II.  237,  238. 

We  have  rarely  read  a  more  gra- 
phic touch  than  the  following  sketch 
of  the  Indus  :  — 

"  Climate  affects  colour,  and  every 
country  has  tints  of  its  own.  California 
is  golden,  New  Zealand  a  black-green, 
Australia  yellow,  the  Indus  valley  is  of 
a  blazing  red.  Although  every  evening 
tLe  Belochee  mountains  came  in  sight 
a^  the  sun  sank  down  behind  them  and 
revealed  their  shapes  in  shadow,  all 
through  the  day  the  landscape  was  one 
of  endless  flats.  The  river  is  a  dirty 
flood — now  swift,  now  sluggish,  run- 
ning through  a  country  in  which  sand- 
deserts  alternate  only  with  fields  of 
stone.  Villages  upon  the  banks  there 
are  none,  and  from  town  to  town  is  a 
dry's  journey  at  the  least.  The  only 
life  in  the  view  is  given  by  an  occasional 
sail  of  gigantic  size  and  curious  shape 
belonging  to  some  native  craft  or  other, 
on  her  voyage  from  the  Punjaub  to  Kur- 
raohee."— II.  328,  329. 

Oar  author  sees  clearly  and  has 
expressed  strongly  the  causes 
which,  despite  our  just  govern- 
ment and  the  immense  consequent 
increase  of  material  prosperity, 
reader  our  rule  unpopular  amongst 
the  natives. 

^  No  parallel  can  be  drawn  in  Europe 
or  North  America  to  that  state  of  things 
wl  ich  exists  wherever  we  carry  our  arms 
in  the  East.  The  best  example  that 
could  be  given  of  that  which  occurs  con- 
tinually in  the  East,  would  be  one  which 
should  suppose  that  the  emperor  and 
nobility  in  Russia  were  suddenly  de- 
stroyed, and  the  country  left  in  the 
hands  of  the  British  ambassador  and  the 
lat  3  serfs.  Even  this  example  would  fail 
to  convey  a  notion  of  the  extent  of  the 
revolution  which  takes  place  on  the  con- 
quest by  Britain  of  an  Eastern  country  ; 
for  in  the  East  the  nobles  are  better 
taiight,  and  the  people  more  ignorant, 
th;in  they  are  in  Russia,  and  the  change 
causes  a  more  complete  destruction  of 
poetry,  of  literature,  and  of  art." — II. 


367,  368.    "  We  are  levelling  all  ranks  in 
India;  we  are  raising  the  humblest  men, 
if  they  will  pass  certain  examinations,  to 
posts  which  we  refuse  to  the  most  ex- 
alted nobles,  unless  they  can  pass  higher. 
Not  only  does  the  democratic  character 
of  our  rule  set  the  old  families  against 
us,  but  it  leads  also  to  the  failure  of  our 
attempt    to  call   around    us   a   middle 
class— an  educated  thinking  body  of  na- 
tives, with  something  to  lose,  who,  see- 
ing that  we  are  ruling  India  for  her  own 
good,  would  support  us  heart  and  soul, 
and  form  the  best  bucklers  of  our  do- 
minion.    As  it  is,  the  attempt  has  long 
been  made  in  name ;  but,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  we  have  humbled  the  upper  class, 
and  failed  to  raise  a  middle  class  to  take 
its  place.     We  have  crushed  the  prince 
without   setting   up  the   trader  in   his 
stead.  "—II.  380,  381.     "  The  old  school 
of  Hindoos  fear  that  we  aim  at  subvert- 
ing all  their  dearest  and  most  venerable 
institutions ;    and    the   freethinkers   of 
Calcutta  and  the  educated  natives  hate 
us,    because,   while  we   preach   culture 
and  progress,  we  give  ihem  no  chance 
of  any  but  a  subordinate  career." — II. 
377.      "The  men  who  cry  out  against 
our  rule  are  the  nobles  and  the  schemers, 
who,  under  it,  are  left  without  a  hope. 
Our  levelling  rule  does  not  even,  like 
other  democracies,  raise  up  a  military 
chieftainship.     Our  native  officers  of  the 
highest  rank  are  paid  and  treated  much 
as  are  European   sergeants,  though  in 
native  states  they  would,  of  course,  be 
generals  and    princes." — II.  318,  319. 
"The  native  merchants  and  townsfolk 
generally  are  our  friends.     It  is  unfor- 
tunately the  fact,  however,  that  the  cul- 
tivators  of    the   soil,  who   form  three- 
fourths  of  the  population  of  India,  be- 
lieve themselves  worse  off"  under  us  than 
in  the  native  states."— II.  319,  320. 

•  There  is  much  in  the  above  to 
make  the  most  thoughtless  pause 
and  reflect.  On  the  difficulties  we 
encounter  in  carrying  out  our  views 
in  India,  Sir  C.  Dilke  says  : — 

"The  comparatively  fair  treatment 
we  extend  to  the  low-caste  and  no- caste 
men  is  itself  an  insult  to  the  high-caste 
nobility;  and  while  the  no-caste  men 
care  little  how  we  treat  them  provided 
we  pay  them  well,  and  the  bunny  a  or 
shopkeepiug  class,  encouraged  by  the 
improvement,  cry  out  loudly  that  the 
Government  wrongs  them  in  not  treat- 
ing them  as  Europeans,  the  high-caste 
men  are  equally  disgusted  with  our 
good  treatment  both  of  middle-class 


234 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


[Feb. 


and  inferior  Hindoos.  The  Indian  is 
essentially  the  caste  man,  the  Saxon  as 
characteristically  the  no-caste  man,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  produce  a  mutual  un- 
derstanding. Just  as  in  England  the 
people  are  too  democratic  for  the  Gov- 
ernment, in  India  the  Government  is 
too  democratic  for  the  people." — II. 
216,  217.  "There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  revolution  in  the  land-laws" 
(in  Oude)  "set  on  foot  by  us  resulted 
in  the  offer  of  a  career  as  native  police- 
men or  railway  ticket-clerks  to  men 
whose  ancestors  were  warriors  and 
knights  when  ours  wore  woad." — II. 
227.  "It  is  a  question  whether  we 
are  not  responsible  for  the  tone  which 
has  been  taken  by  civilisation  in  Cal- 
cutta. The  old  philosophy  has  gone, 
and  left  nothing  in  its  place  :  we  have 
by  moral  force  destroyed  the  old  reli- 

fion,  but  we  have  set  up  no  new." — II. 
80.  "  We  have  suppressed  infanti- 
cide" (of  girls),  "which  means  that 
children  are  smothered  or  starved  in- 
stead of  being  exposed.  The  deaths  of 
three  or  four  hundred  children  are  cre- 
dited to  the  wolves  in  the  Umritsur  dis- 
trict of  the  Punjaub  alone ;  but  it  is 
remarked  that  the  '  wolves '  pick  out  - 
the  female  infants. "—  II.  219,  220.  "Al- 
though despotic,  our  government  in 
India  is  not  bad  :  indeed,  the  hardest 
thing  that  can  be  said  of  it  is  that  it  is 
too  good.  We  do  our  duty  by  the  na- 
tives manfully,  but  they  care  little 
about  that ;  and  we  are  continually 
hurting  their  prejudices,  and  offending 
them  in  small  things,  to  which  they 
attach  more  importance  than  they  do 
to  great.  We  worry  them  with  muni- 
cipal institiitions  and  benevolent  in- 
tentions that  they  cannot  and  will  not 
understand." — II.  375. 

As  to  the  support  we  should  be 
likely  to  receive  from  our  native 
subjects  in  India  in  case  of  inva- 
sion, Sir  C.  Dilke's  views  are  not 
very  encouraging;  but  we  must 
say  that  all  we  have  ourselves  seen 
entirely  confirms  them. 

"  No  native  believes  that  we  shall 


permanently  remain  in  India.  No  na- 
tive really  sympathised  with  us  during 
the  rebellion.  The  natives  of  India 
watch  with  great  interest  the  advance 
of  Russia,  not  that  they  believe  that 
they  would  be  better  off  under  her  than 
under  us,  but  that  they  would  like,  at 
all  events,  to  see  some  one  thrash  us, 
even  if  in  the  end  they  lost  by  it.  They 
can  understand  the  strength  which  a 
steady  purpose  gives ;  they  cannot  grasp 
the  principles  which  lie  at  the  root  of 
our  half -mercantile  half-benevolent  des- 
potism."—1 1.  308, 309.  "  It  is  impossible 
to  believe  that  the  native  States  would 
ever  be  of  assistance  to  us,  except  in 
cases  where  we  could  do  without  their 
help.  In  the  event  of  an  invasion  of 
Hindostan,  a  large  portion  of  our  Euro- 
pean force  would  be  needed  to  overawe 
the  native  princes,  and  prevent  their 
marching  upon  our  rear."  —  II.  320. 
"The  present  attitude  of  the  mass  of 
the  people  is  one  of  indifference  and  of 
neutrality."— II.  326.* 

In  these  long  and  numerous  ex- 
tracts we  think  we  have  amply 
justified  the  eulogium  with  which 
we  opened  our  notice  of  this 
book.  They  fully  prove,  we  ven- 
ture to  believe,  the  brilliant  powers 
of  description,  the  clearness  of  ob- 
servation, and — when  the  disturbing 
influence  of  the  anticipated  demo- 
cratic millennium  is  removed — the 
strength  of  judgment  of  Sir  C. 
Dilke.  His  great  defect  is  a  cer- 
tain rawness  of  political  thought — a 
want  of  reflection  in  not  qualifying 
the  expectations  of  the  present  by 
the  experience  of  the  past,  which  is 
very  natural  in  a  young  and  enthu- 
siastic politician,  but  which  a  more 
extended  knowledge  of  life  is  pretty 
sure  to  cure.  Parliamentary  prac- 
tice is  a  good  antidote  for  a  too  ar- 
dent faith  in  political  perfectibility. 
Above  all,  however,  his  book  is  a 
suggestive  one  ;  and  that,  in  these 
days  of  stereotyped  thought,  is  a 


*  Sir  C.  Dilke  makes  the  following  just  remarks  on  our  interference  with 
native  customs: — "The  English  idea  of  'not  recognising'  customs  or  religions 
which  exist  among  a  large  number  of  the  inhabitants  of  English  countries  is  a 
strange  one,  and  productive  of  much  harm.  .  .  .  Recognition  is  one  thing,  inter- 
ference another.  How  far  we  should  interfere  with  native  customs  is  a  question 
upon  which  no  general  rule  can  be  given,  unless  it  be  that  we  should  in  all  cases 
of  proposed  interference  with  social  usages  or  religious  ceremonies  consult  intelli- 
gent but  orthodox  natives,  and  act  up  to  their  advice."— II.  267.  . 


1870.] 


Democracy  beyond  the  Seas. 


235 


real  treat.  Differing  entirely  as  we 
do  from  Sir  C.  Dilke's  views  as  to 
the  blessing  of  the  democratic  flood 
which  we  see  every  day  rising  higher 
jind  higher  around  us,  we  have  yet 
derived  the  greatest  pleasure,  and 
very  much  profit,  from  watching  its 
"  whither,"  so  clearly  foreshadowed 
in  his  pages.  We  always  value  his 
facts,  and  admire  his  candid  state- 
ment of  them,  though  we  very  fre- 
quently deduce  from  them  conclu- 
sions the  very  reverse  of  his.  We 
only  wish  we  more  frequently  found 
such  an  agreeable,  instructive,  and 
clever  adversary. 

It  is  impossible  to  contemplate 
the  progress  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  in  the  New  World  and  in 
Australia  without  a  feeling  of  awe. 
The  silent,  ceaseless,  daily  advance 
of  the  frontier  of  civilisation  in  the 
Far  West,  along  the  whole  extent 
of  that  mighty  line,  one  end  of 
which  rests  on  the  snows  of  the 
polar  circle,  and  the  other  is  scorch- 
ed by  the  fiery  heat  of  the  tropics, 
is  the  most  wonderful  phenomenon 
of  modern  times ;  while  the  in- 
crease of  our  Australian  colonies  is 
in  some  respects  even  more  aston- 
ishing. The  establishment  of  the 
State  of  California  on  the  shores  of 
the  Pacific,  and  the  completion  of 
the  railroad  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco,  have  bridged  the  New 
World,  and  settled  our  sturdy  de- 
scendants in  permanent  occupation 
of  both  its  coasts.  The  whole  con- 
tinent of  Australia,  and  most  of 
the  islands  of  Polynesia,  are  evident- 
ly destined  to  become  the  seats  of 
the  same  devouring  race.  The  Red 
Indian  of  the  prairies,  the  miser- 
able savage  of  Australia,  the  brave 
and  intelligent  Maori,  alike  wither 
away  as  soon  as  they  come  in  con- 
tact with  its  onward  march.  But 
it  will,  ere  long,  meet  a  more  for- 
midable opponent ;  and  it  will  be 
very  interesting  to  watch  the  result 
of  the  impact  on  each  other  of  the 
colonising  races  of  theWest  and  East 
— of  the  English  and  the  Chinese. 
Already  in  Australia  and  California 
they  have  come  in  collision,  and  the 

VOL.  CVH. — NO.  DCLII. 


Chinese  immigrants  show  no  dis- 
position to  give  place  to  their  white 
fellow-colonists. 

Now,  wherever  this  hardy  push- 
ing race  of  ours  establishes  itself, 
it  carries  with  it  the,spirit  to  which 
it  owes  its  birth.  It  is  the  rest- 
less dissatisfied  spirit  of  democracy 
which  has  impelled  it  over  the  sea 
and  into  the  wilderness.  And,  as 
a  necessary  result,  government  by 
universal  suffrage  accompanies  it 
in  its  tour  of  the  globe.  For  good 
or  for  evil,  then,  we  must  accept  it 
as  an  established  fact  that,  for  at 
least  some  time  to  come,  the  rule 
of  a  pure  democracy  will  be  spread 
over  the  whole  of  North  America 
and  Australia.  What  the  result  of 
this  vast  experiment  will  be  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  subjects  for 
human  speculation. 

Clearly  it  will,  for  many  a  long 
year,  be  strictly  protective  in  mat- 
ters of  trade.  Between  the  manu- 
facturers of  the  young  rising  States 
in  the  West  and  those  of  the  old 
parent  State  in  the  East  there  will 
be  sore  hostility.  This  arises  from 
the  very  nature  of  things,  and  is 
therefore  inevitable.  We  may  la- 
ment, but  we  cannot  avert  it. 

By  many  it  has  been  thought 
that  the  great  defect  of  democratic 
government  is  its  weakness.  To 
us  it  seems  that  the  great  thing  to 
be  dreaded  in  it  is  its  strength. 
There  is  no  despotism  in  the  world 
so  awful  as  the  rule  of  a  tyrant 
majority.  From  the  rule  of  a  single 
tyrant  one  may  hope  to  shelter 
one's  self ;  from  that  of  a  tyrant 
majority  there  is  no  escape.  All 
the  barriers  of  the  constitution  are 
taken  by  it  in  reverse.  The  de- 
fences of  the  people  against  royal 
or  aristocratic  oppression  become 
the  very  instruments  of  the  levelling 
tyranny  of  the  masses.  This  over- 
bearing power  produces  politically 
the  worst  results.  It  drives  all  the 
better  class  of  citizens,  all  men  of 
independent  principles,  to  with- 
draw altogether  from  public  life. 
People  will  not  go  on  always  fight- 
ing a  losing  game.  So  long  as  the 


£36 


Democracy  'beyond  tlie  Seas. 


[Feb. 


different  parties  in  a  state  are,  by 
the  diversity  of  its  political  institu- 
tions, nearly  balanced,  a  wholesome 
rivalry  will  exist,  and  all  shades  of 
opinion  will  be  held  and  expressed 
in  public.  But  once  let  a  deter- 
mined and  overwhelming  majority 
be  fairly  established  in  the  posses- 
sion of  power,  then  all  opposition 
will  cease  on  the  part  of  those  whose 
opposition  alone  would  be  of  value. 
The  truth  of  this  is  already  be- 
coming apparent  both  here  and  in 
America. 

In  this  country  the  ultra-Liberal 
party  are  in  undisputed  possession 
of  the  municipal  elections.  The 
consequence  is,  that  the  whole  re- 
spectable classes  have  withdrawn 
from  any  share  in  the  government 
of  our  great  cities.  In  the  United 
States  universal  suffrage  has  pro- 
duced the  same  result  in  the  go- 
vernment of  the  State.  Hardly  a 
man  of  independent  character,  of 
good  fortune,  or  of  original  thought, 
will  there  enter  political  life.  It  is 
almost  an  insult  to  ask  an  acquaint- 
ance if  he  is  a  member  of  Congress. 
All  the  wealth,  thought,  and  inde- 
pendence of  the  country  is  practi- 
cally disfranchised,  and  has  with- 
drawn from  the  contest.  Men 
bankrupt  in  character  and  bank- 
rupt in  reputation,  briefless  bar- 
risters, ruined  merchants,  broken- 
down  tradesmen,  unlucky  farmers, 
constitute  the  majority  of  the  mem- 
bers of  Congress.  We  much  fear 
that,  since  the  great  lowering  of 
the  franchise  last  year,  a  tendency 
to  a  similar  state  of  things  may  be 
observed  in  this  country.  There 
are  symptoms  of  the  majority  of 
the  House  of  Commons  having, 
upon  many  great  questions,  con- 
sented to  abandon  the  right  of 
private  judgment,  and  to  give  their 
votes,  not  as  independent  members, 
but  as  the  mere  delegates  of  their 
constituents. 

The  time  when  democracy  is 
most  formidable  to  other  states  is 
during  the  brief  period  which  oc- 
casionally arises  when,  still  pre- 
serving the  energy  generated  by 


the  habit  of  unlimited  freedom,  it 
is  controlled  and  directed  to  one 
object  by  despotic  power.  This  it 
was  which  in  ancient  times  led  to 
the  spread  of  Grecian  civilisation 
through  the  conquests  of  Alexan- 
der, and  to  the  vast  extension  of 
the  Eoman  power  which  took  place 
under  Julius  and  Augustus  Caesar. 
This  it  was  which  in  modern  days 
led  to  the  subjection  of  Europe 
by  the  legions  of  France  under 
the  guidance  of  Napoleon,  and  to 
that  vast  development  of  strength 
by  the  Federal  States  which  end- 
ed in  the  crushing  of  the  Con- 
federate cause  by  Sherman  and 
Grant.  The  energy  of  democracy 
directed  by  a  single  will,  whether 
the  will  be  that  of  a  single  despot 
or  of  a  tyrant  majority,  is,  of  all 
combinations,  that  which  develops 
the  greatest  amount  of  offensive 
strength,  and  is  most  dangerous 
to  the  freedom  of  the  world.  For- 
tunately the  junction  of  these  two 
forces  can  be  but  fleeting. 

One  more  remark,  and  we  have 
done.  It  seems  to  be  the  decree  of 
Providence  that  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
or  Germanic  race  alone  is  confided 
the  mission  of  colonising  all  those 
parts  of  our  globe  where  the  sons 
of  Japheth  can  establish  themselves, 
without  coming  in  contact  either 
with  tropical  heats  or  the  older  and 
less  yielding  races  of  the  earth. 

At  one  time  it  looked  as  if  it 
would  have  fallen  out  otherwise. 
The  Latin  race,  through  the  dis- 
covery and  conquest  of  Mexico  and 
Peru,  seemed  about  to  leave  its  im- 
press on  half  the  globe.  But  after 
the  first  great  development  of  its 
expansive  power,  it  appeared  to 
lose  all  energy  and  vital  strength. 
So  far  from  constantly  increasing 
its  boundaries  and  winning  new 
dominions  from  the  waste,  it  can- 
not now  maintain  its  own  numbers, 
pure  in  blood,  in  the  lands  which 
itself  has  settled.  In  Mexico  and 
most  of  the  South  American  States 
we  see  every  day  the  numbers  of 
the  pure  Spaniards  diminishing, 
and  those  of  the  half-caste  mixed 


1870.] 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


237 


races  increasing.  With  each  ad- 
vancing year  the  amount  of  white 
blood  in  these  magnificent  regions 
of  the  earth  is  lessening.  Now  ex- 
actly the  reverse  is  the  case  in  those 
states,  whether  in  North  America 
or  Australia,  founded  by  the  Ger- 
manic race,  coming  from  its  homes 
in  the  British  Isles,  in  North  Ger- 
many, and  in  Scandinavia.  These 
not  only  are  increasing  with  a 
boundless  rapidity,  but  the  native 
tribes  with  whom  they  come  in  con- 
tact melt  away  before  the  mere 
touch  of  their  surging  civilisation, 
and  leave  no  perceptible  mixture 
of  their  blood  in  the  ranks  of  their 
successors. 

But  it  is  very  different  when  the 
northern  races  of  Europe  meet 
either  with  the  deadly  heat  of  the 
tropics  or  with  the  ancient  races 
of  the  Old  World.  There  is  no  ex- 
ample anywhere  of  northern  Eu- 
ropeans being  able  to  support  their 


own  numbers,  unmixed  in  blood 
and  unrefreshed  from  home,  in  the 
regions  of  the  palm.  There  is  no 
trace  anywhere  of  their  supplant- 
ing in  their  native  seats  either  the 
Asiatic  or  the  negro.  We  have 
held  India  for  more  than  a  hundred 
years,  but  we  have  made  no  im- 
press on  the  teeming  numbers  or 
ancient  civilisation  of  its  native  in- 
habitants. The  same  remark  holds 
good  of  the  French  in  Algeria,  the 
Dutch  in  Java,  and  the  Russians 
in  Asia.  The  European  race  in 
contact  with  the  Asiatic  holds  the 
position  of  a  conqueror,  and  rules 
it  as  a  conquered  people.  But  it 
cannot  take  its  place.  On  the  con- 
trary, by  governing  it  well  it  vastly 
increases  the  numbers  and  devel- 
ops the  wealth  of  the  subject  race. 
This  is  a  strange  and  mysterious 
law,  and  points  to  many  important 
conclusions  which  we  have  no  space 
here  to  enter  on. 


CORNELIUS       O'DOWD. 


WORDS  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 


WHEN  a  gentleman  with  small 
powers  of  voice  and  some  smaller 
knowledge  of  music  has  obtained 
currency  amongst  his  friends  as  a 
singer,  being  able — rare  accomplish- 
ment amongst  Englishmen  !  —  to 
aid  his  efforts  and  drown  his  fail- 
ures by  a  very  humble  performance 
on  the  piano,  there  is  no  limit  to 
the  extent  to  which  he  may  not 
push  his  pretensions,  merely  on  the 
faith  of  the  few  chords  he  has 
learned  to  strike,  and  the  imposing 
attitude  they  have  enabled  him  to 
assume  when  entreated  to  sing. 

That  wonderful  mesmerism  ac- 
complished by  the  united  effort  of 
the  voice  and  the  instrument,  that 
marvellous  magic  which  comes  of 
the  blended  expression  of  human 
]>assion  by  the  throat  and  by  the 
lingers,  is  a  complete  mystery  to 
the  unscientific  listener,  carried 


away  by  a  captivation  so  far  above 
even  his  conceptions  of  power.  He 
knows  nothing  about  that  curious 
chemistry,  the  result  of  the  unit- 
ed powers  of  human  expression 
and  technical  skill,  and  he  re- 
gards the  performer  with  admi- 
ration, perhaps  with  envy.  It 
may,  however,  happen  that  by 
some  luckless  chance,  by  some  acci- 
dent of  time  or  place,  at  a  picnic, 
in  a  boat,  or  in  some  bachelor's 
quarters,  the  gifted  songster  has 
been  persuaded,  over-persuaded,  to 
sing  without  an  accompaniment. 
From  that  hour  the  illusion  is  dis- 
pelled for  ever.  It  is  not  merely 
that  false  notes  stand  out  in  all 
their  glaring  guiltiness — it  is  not 
that  the  weak  voice  seems  to  trem- 
ble with  its  own  conscious  debility, 
but  there  is  no  body  of  sound,  no 
flowing  melody,  no  sustained,  appeal 


238 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


to  the  senses,  none  of  that  harmony 
that  wrapt  one  around  like  a  gar- 
ment ;  in  fact  it  is  a  sort  of  "  prose 
intoned/'  and  we  are  not  likely  to 
be  enraptured  by  that. 

To  the  man  thus  involved  in 
failure,  there  remains  no  success 
throughout  his  whole  life  long — at 
least  in  so  far  as  the  witnesses  of 
that  failure  are  concerned.  He 
may  sing  himself  hoarse,  he  may 
rehearse  all  those  mild  agonies  of 
passion  familiar  to  the  piano-stool, 
he  may  pour  forth  his  regrets  or 
his  raptures  with  any  inflection  of 
sound — the  spell  has  departed,  the 
charm  is  dissolved.  That  one  un- 
lucky act  of  polite  compliance  has 
done  for  him — he  is  a  magician  no 
more. 

These  "Worte  ohne  Lieder"— 
for  such  they  really  are — are  there- 
fore a  great  peril,  and  a  clever 
artist  will  carefully  avoid  them. 
Now,  to  apply,  as  the  parsons 
say — to  apply  these  words  to  our- 
selves, my  brethren,  a  gentleman 
from  Tipperary  has  been  doing  that 
which  neither  Mario  nor  Giuglini 
would  have  dared  to  attempt,  and 
in  this  wise  :  In  his  eagerness  to 
procure  the  liberation  of  the  Fenian 
prisoners,  he  has  been  speaking 
widely  throughout  Ireland ;  and 
naturally  indulging  in  those  ornate 
forms  of  eloquence  which  are  dis- 
tinctively called  Irish,  he  has  been 
very  abusive  of  English  Govern- 
ments, using  freely  some  very  hard 
epithets  about  ministers  and  states- 
men,winding  up  with  that  "refrain" 
we  all  know  so  well,  about  seven  hun- 
dred years  of  tyranny  and  oppres- 
sion, Saxon  perfidy,  Protestantism, 
and  the  penal  laws.  So  far  all  well. 
Listened  to  at  Cabra  or  the  Cobourg 
Gardens,  heard  at  Clontarf  or  Kil- 
liney,  these  displays,  with  all  their 
surroundings,  have  a  certain  fitness 
and  appropriateness  there  is  no  dis- 
puting. The  very  audience,  too,  is 
in  keeping  with  the  tone  of  the 
performance,  and  the  chance  inter- 
ruptions of  "  More  power  to  you  ! " 
"Bad  luck  to  them!"  "Na  boch- 
lish!"  and  suchlike,  are  all  so  many 


meet  accompaniments  of  the  situa- 
tion ;  but  more  than  all  these  is 
the  magic  influence  of  the  speaker's 
intonation,  that  richly  -  cadenced 
swing  called  "Brogue,"  which  lends 
itself  as  happily  to  strong  pas- 
sion as  to  touching  sentiment, 
and  is  equally  good  in  pathos  or 
defamation — that  voluptuous  sink 
and  swell,  that  rapturous  roll,  being 
to  the  words  precisely  what  the 
piano  accompaniment  is  to  the  voice. 
We  all  of  us  who  have  had  any 
experience  of  English  songs  well 
know  what  lachrymose  nonsense, 
what  tawdry  imagery,  what  sickly 
sentimentality  they  are  made  of, 
and  yet  how,  by  the  aid  of  a  little 
taste  and  musical  skill,  a  pleasant 
and  flowing  melody,  they  are  car- 
ried off,  and  actually  sound  very 
sweetly;  and  one  no  more  thinks 
of  criticising  the  poetry  than  the 
pedal  of  the  pianoforte.  This  is 
exactly  the  case  with  a  great  deal 
of  third  and  fourth  rate  Irish  elo- 
quence. It  is  the  melody,  not  the 
words,  that  is  listened  to.  Of  course 
I  speak  of  the  presence  of  an  Irish 
audience. 

Let  the  attempt  be  made  in  Eng- 
land, however.  Change  the  venue 
from  Tullaghmast  to  Trafalgar 
Square,  which  Mr  Moore  rashly  per- 
suaded himself  to  adventure,  and 
see  what  will  come  of  it !  There 
you  have  at  once  the  "  Worte  ohne 
Lieder,"  the  poor,  weak,  tasteless, 
vapid  words,  and  none  of  that  swel- 
ling cadence,  that  touching  intona- 
tion, that  softened  down  all  the 
absurdity,  and  made  even  balder- 
dash musical. 

Of  course  the  accomplished  orator 
no  more  thought  of  bringing  his 
' ( brogue  "  across  the  Channel  than 
he  would  sport  his  Connemara 
stockings  at  a  drawing-room.  He 
left  it — or  at  least  as  much  of  it 
as  he  could  leave  —  behind  him 
at  Kingstown,  and  addressed  the 
Cockneys  in  his  best  imitation  of 
their  own  high-pitched  and  very 
unmusical  accents,  and  see  what 
has  come  of  it.  The  whole  press  of 
England,  from  Printing-House 


1870.] 


Words  without  Music. 


239 


Square  to  '  Punch/  were  in  a  sort  of 
hysterical  scream  about  the  tinsel 
decorations  and  rampant  absurdi- 
ties of  Irish  eloquence ;  while,  had 
the  distinguished  performer  merely 
been  singing,  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  do,  with  his  native  accompani- 
ment, the  air  would  have  seemed, 
;is  it  was,  a  very  pleasant  little 
tune,  and  perfectly  "  grindable  " 
on  the  organ. 

Now  I  maintain  that  it  would 
be  good  sense  and  good  law  to  send 
u  man  six  weeks  to  the  treadmill 
for  uttering  that  in  a  Cockney  ac- 
cent which,  when  enunciated  with 
a  rich  brogue,  would  be  amply 
punished  by  a  small  fine  and  an 
admonition.  For  in  exactly  the 
t  ame  proportion  that  one  "  does  not 
^wear  to  the  truth  of  a  song,"  one 
does  not  go  into  the  dock  to  up- 
hold the  argument  enunciated  with 
the  swing  of  a  brogue. 

Is  it  not  quite  clear  that "  Othello" 
or  "Hamlet,"  when  heard  at  the 
Grand  Opera,  convey  no  impres- 
sions of  tragic  terror1?  It  is  not 
easy  to  imagine  that  any  man  will 
ting  himself  into  an  act  of  jealousy 
or  of  vengeance.  There  are  various 
pleasurable  emotions  that  will  be 
suggested  by  the  performance,  and 
<>ur  sympathies  will  be  captivated 
in  many  ways,  even  to  the  extent 
(>f  believing  that  if  speech  and  lan- 
guage had  never  existed,  the  sounds 
we  had  been  listening  to  would 
liave  very  adequately  expressed 
much  suffering  and  great  passion  ; 
I  ut  as  we  no  more  expect  to  hear  a 
man  sing  before  he  commits  a  mur- 
der than  to  dance  himself  into  an 
ecstasy  of  rage,  we  reject  all  idea  of 
reality,  and  regard  the  action  of  the 
piece,  not  as  a  representation  of 
human  motives,  but  as  a  paraphrase, 
all  the  more  pleasurable  that  the 
verisimilitude  never  goes  to  a  pain- 
ful reality.  And  if  we  are  not 
deeply  moved  when  Othello  bids 
farewell  to  the  world  with  an  oboe 
accompaniment,  no  more  are  we 
terror-struck  when  certain  Celtic 
orators  denounce  Saxon  tyranny  in 
a  native  recitative.  It  would  be 


very  terrible  if  either  Othello  or  Mr 
Isaac  Butt  were  in  earnest ;  but 
the  music  reassures  us,  and  we  are 
at  ease  again. 

If  the  Premier  be  then  really 
bent  on  ruling  Ireland  according  to 
Irish  instincts,  let  him  exempt  from 
legal  penalty  all  expressions,  how- 
ever treasonable  or  felonious,  if  de- 
livered with  a  brogue  \  let  them 
come  into  the  category  of  national 
music,  and  imply  no  more  than 
"  Garry  Owen,"  or  "  Tatter  Away," 
— mere  ebullitions  of  a  high-heart- 
ed Celtism. 

"Where's  the  Slave  so  Lowly" 
is  very  good  treason-felony,  but 
nobody  thinks  of  committing  the 
charming  young  lady  who  sings  it 
to  Kilmainham ;  and  why  prosecute 
these  other  minstrels,  whose  sweet 
recitative  is  not  a  whit  more  seri- 
ous, nor  half  so  dangerous  ? 

You  are  an  excellent  people  you 
English — you  build  very  fine  ships 
at  Birkenhead,  manufacture  excel- 
lent shawls  at  Paisley,  and  make 
most  serviceable  crockery  in  Staf- 
fordshire ;  but  with  all  that,  you 
are  a  cold  people,  an  unsympathis- 
ing  people,  and  an  unimpressionable 
people.  What  is  not  done  in  your 
own  way,  or  said  in  your  own 
words,  is  not  done  nor  said  aright ; 
and  after  centuries  of  neighbour- 
hood, you  know  no  more  of  that 
Eastern  nation  that  lives  to  the 
west  of  you — for  even  geographi- 
cally Ireland  is  a  bull ! — than  you 
do  of  Fiji.  With  the  very  smallest 
gleam  of  intelligence  to  guide  you, 
you  would  have  seen  that  Pheni- 
cian  invectives  are  not  danger- 
ous 'libels,  and  that  de,nuncia- 
tions  uttered  with  a  brogue  are 
not  necessarily  treasonable ;  and  it 
is  only  when  you  insist  on  the 
singer  singing  without  the  accom- 
paniment that  the  words  exhibit 
themselves  in  a  tasteless  sentimen- 
tality and  a  very  commonplace 
imagery. 

That  you  prefer  Beales  is  easy 
to  see,  just  as  you  like  "  Bob  and 
Joan"  better,  and  think  it  sweeter 
melody,  than  "  Erin  Mavourneen" 


240 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


or  "  Cushla  Macree."  I'll  not 
quarrel  with  you  about  this — I  only 
bargain  that  if  you  ask  my  country- 


man to  sing  again,  you'll  not  oblige 
him  to  do  so  without  the  instru- 
ment. 


WHO'S  AFRAID 


I  remember  once,  on  board  a 
river -steamer  in  America,  a  very 
powerful  fellow — he  stood  consider- 
ably above  six  feet — dressed  in  a  suit 
of  one  colour,  and  with  a  bowie-knife, 
which  he  drew  from  his  collar  be- 
hind his  neck,  and  laid  on  the  table 
with  a  marked  emphasis,  saying, 
as  he  entered,  "  Is  there  any  infer- 
nal blue-nose  here  ?"  No  infernal 
blue-nose  having  responded  to  the 
polite  inquiry,  after  a  pause  of  some 
seconds,  he  asked  if  there  was  any 
d — d  skunk  of  a  down-easter  there  1 
The  same  respectful  silence  ensued 
after  this  query  ;  and  now,  looking 
fiercely  around  the  company,  and 
for  a  moment  I  half  felt  as  if  fixing 

me,  he  said,  "  Is  there  any  b y 

Britisher  present  ? "  I  eagerly  arose, 
and,  approaching  him  with  a  most 
deferential  demeanour,  assured  him 
what  pleasure  it  afforded  me,  in  my 
capacity  as  an  English  subject,  to 
solicit  the  honour  of  his  acquaint- 
ance— a  favour  which,  I  am  proud 
to  say,  he  accorded  me  with  a  very 
benign  condescension.  The  inci- 
dent came  very  forcibly  to  my  re- 
collection on  reading  the  speech  of 
the  Rev.  J.  Ryan  at  the  Clonmel 
election,  in  which  he  begins  thus — 
"  Is  there  any  one  in  court  afraid  of 
British  cannon?"  Loud  cries  of 
"  No ! "  replied  to  this  demand.  Now 
I  am  perfectly  aware  what  a  miser- 
able contrast  is  presented  by  my 
own  pusillanimity  on  board  the  river- 
boat  with  the  bold  attitude  of  the 
hearers  of  Father  Ryan.  I  beg  re- 
spectfully that  it  may  be  remem- 
bered that  a  bowie-knife  of  theWest, 
three  inches  in  breadth,  bearing  a 
most  ugly  resemblance  to  an  ancient 
Roman  sword,  two-edged  and  glis- 
tening, lay  on  the  table  during  my 
interrogatory ;  while,  so  far  as  I  am 
aware,  not  a  single  piece  of  ordnance 
figured  at  the  scene  in  Clonmel, 


and  that  really  this  material  ele- 
ment enters  largely  into  the  charac- 
ter of  the  scene. 

It  appeared,  however,  from  the 
unanimous  response  of  the  meet- 
ing, that  no  one  was  afraid  of  Brit- 
ish cannon — a  declaration  which, 
however,  might  have  offered  a  more 
unqualified  satisfaction,  if  it  were 
not  that  the  same  answer  was  re- 
turned to  the  second  question,  "  Is 
there  any  one  afraid  of  truth?" 
since  if  the  "No  "  so  spontaneously 
shouted  to  this  demand  implied 
that  the  people  present  were  pre- 
pared to  hear  what  the  world 
thought  of  them — and,  indeed,  of 
the  orator  that  addressed  them — 
their  indifference  to  truth,  like  their 
courage,  might  have  savoured  of 
hardihood. 

I  made  an  effort — I  well  know 
how  feeble  it  was — during  the  de- 
bate on  the  Irish  Church  question, 
to  point  out  what  a  restraining 
force  the  Protestant  Establishment 
was  against  the  insolent  aggression 
of  Romanism,  and  that  the  only 
check  upon-  the  violence  of  the 
priest  lay  in  the  calm  dignity  of  the 
Christian  gentleman  who  repre- 
sented the  rival  faith.  I  do  not 
expect  people  unacquainted  with 
Ireland  to  recognise  the  force  of 
this  influence,  but  I  very  confi- 
dently appeal  to  all  who  know  that 
country  and  its  people  as  to  the 
truth  of  what  I  am  asserting,  that 
not  merely  were  the  gross  supersti- 
tions and  the  mock  miracles  of  the 
Church  held  in  abeyance  by  the 
mere  presence  of  pure  religious 
culture,  but  that  the  personal  ruf- 
fianism of  the  black-gaitered  rebel 
was  more  efficiently  restrained  by 
the  contrast  with  the  blameless 
life  and  inoffensive  demeanour  of 
the  Protestant  clergyman  than  by 
all  the  appeals  of  the  press  or  the 


1870.] 


Who's  afraid  ? 


241 


mock  pastorals  of  the  hierarchy.  I 
know  too  well  how  difficult  it  is  to 
make  this  clear  to  any  one  who  has 
not  lived  in  Ireland  and  known 
the  people,  and  I  know,  too,  that 
it  would  not  be  deemed  ground 
enough  whereon  to  rest  a  defence 
of  the  Establishment ;  but — shall  I 
repeat  it  1 — Protestantism  formed 
the  social  police  of  the  nation,  and 
you  have  nothing  left  by  which 
you  can  replace  it.  If  you  imagine 
Ireland  will  be  more  governable 
when  you  have  made  it  Mexico, 
I  can  only  say  you  will  soon  have 
an  opportunity  of  testing  your  con- 
viction. You  have  begun  your 
experiment  with  such  good  faith, 
it  would  be  unfair  to  suspect  the 
sincerity  of  your  motives. 

Do  not,  however,  imagine  that 
you  have  more  than  begun  that 
process  of  pacification  in  which 
you  pride  yourself.  Your  boon  of 
religious  equality  is  not  a  very  old 
benefit,  but  it  is  forgotten  already. 
Nor  when  you  have  confiscated  the 
landed  property  of  the  kingdom, 
will  you  be  accepted  as  pacificators 
if  you  do  not  release  the  Fenian 
prisoners  !  The  patriotic  voice  of 
[reland  declares  "  Killing  to  be  no 
murder,"  and  it  is  a  very  mild  corol- 
lary that  deduces  Treason  to  be  no 
felony.  It  will  take  some  time, 
perhaps,  for  the  slow  Saxon  intel- 
ligence to  realise  all  these  things ; 
but  events  teach  more  rapidly  than, 
mere  precept. 

Are  you  prepared,  then,  to  re- 
lease O'Donovan  Rossa  from  the 
orank,  and  present  him  to  the 
Speaker  ?  or  will  you  persist  in 
maintaining,  in  all  the  indignity  of 
i  mprisonment,  the  chosen  represen- 
tative of  a  free  people  1  O' Cou- 
ncil's election  for  Clare  brought 
the  question  of  Catholic  emancipa- 
tion to  a  legal  issue;  who  knows 
whether  Clonmel  may  not  prove  of 
]ike  moment1?  The  patriot  has 
only  erred  in  that  fault  of  which 
Talleyrand  admonished  his  follow- 
ers :  it  was  trop  de  zele.  All  that 
)ie  was  doing,  all  that  he  wanted  to 
do,  could  have  been  done  by  the 


Constitution ;  but  he  did  not  know 
it.  It  might  be  difficult  to  explain 
to  a  brigand  in  Greece  or  Italy  that 
their  respective  Governments  were 
busily  elaborating  the  provisions  of 
an  Act  which  would  make  highway 
robbery  unnecessary,  and  even  mur- 
der gratuitous ;  and  that,  though 
the  process  of  legal  redress  might 
be  slower  and  less  practical,  it  was 
hoped  that  the  "  wild  justice " 
would  be  advantageously  super- 
seded by  more  prosaic  and  hum- 
drum enactments.  I  am  afraid  that 
the  Italian  or  the  Calabrian  would 
like  "his  own  way  best;"  and  I 
am  equally  afraid  that  when  Pat 
comes  to  compare  the  halting  steps 
of  your  pacificatory  process  with  the 
summary  results  that  ensue  from 
what  the  eloquent  Father  Ryan 
calls  "his  own  revolver,"  he  too 
will  like  his  own  way  best.  What 
security  of  tenure  can  compare 
with  having  no  landlord?  What 
compensation  for  improvement  can 
vie  with  spare  cash  to  buy  powder 
and  ball? 

Remember  this — and  it  is  worth 
remembering — that  in  all  you  do 
for  Ireland  you  have  two  task- 
masters, who,  though  they  work 
occasionally  in  concert,  have  dis- 
tinct aims  and  objects, — the  priest 
and  the  peasant.  You  must  satisfy 
both.  For  the  former  you  must 
abrogate  old  laws;  for  the  latter 
you  must  make  new  ones.  How 
long  you  may  reconcile  yourself 
to  listen  to  such  language  as  the 
national  press  of  Ireland  at  present 
rewards  you  with — how  long  you 
will  endeavour  to  reconcile  with 
the  ways  of  good  government  a 
people  who  make  all  government 
impossible — are  questions  between 
yourself  and  your  endurance;  but 
if  it  be  your  intention  to  concede 
everything,  to  abrogate  all  that 
adheres  to  England  in  Ireland  as 
fully  and  as  thoroughly  as  you  have 
done  with  respect  to  the  Church, — 
I  would  only  say,  Do  it  at  once. 
Strip  the  landlord  of  his  property, 
but  spare  his  life.  Establish  Po- 
pery in  the  kingdom,  and  let  those 


242 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


who  care  to  remain  in  Ireland  after 
a  certain  date  know  that  they  stay 
at  their  own  peril,  and  that,  what- 
ever be  the  risks  they  incur,  the 


Imperial  Government  accepts  no 
responsibility,  nor  will  pledge  itself 
to  try  rebels.  Then  shall  we  see — 
Who's  afraid? 


NEW  MEASURES   AND   OLD   MEN. 


If  on  the  introduction  of  rail- 
road travelling  into  England  we 
had  persisted  in  applying  to  the 
new-made  mode  of  transit  what- 
ever we  could  of  the  machinery  of 
the  old  system  that  preceded  it — 
if,  instead  of  station-masters  and 
pointsmen,  telegraph  clerks  and 
stokers,  we  had  employed  all  the 
old  material  of  the  mail-coach  days, 
and  engaged  coachmen,  guards,  and 
helpers,  the  likelihood  is  that  we 
should  have  sacrificed  some  of  the 
efficiency  of  the  scheme  to  ideas  of 
economy  or  thrift. 

Of  all  classes  of  people,  besides, 
who  would  exert  themselves  to 
acquire  the  use  and  practice  of  a 
new  machinery,  none  would  be  less 
likely  to  display  zeal  or  activity 
than  those  who  had  passed  their 
lives  in  the  exercise  of  the  system 
that  was  now  abandoned,  not  alone 
from  the  natural  dislike  men  feel 
to  be  voted  obsolete  and  behind 
their  age,  which  certainly  would  re- 
sult from  having  to  go  to  school 
again  in  mature  life,  but  also  from 
that  very  well  understood  motive 
that  makes  men  averse  to  new- 
fangled notions,  which,  if  adopted, 
would  involve  in  a  sort  of  barbar- 
ism all  the  habits  and  ways  of  their 
own  early  years.  In  fact,  nothing 
could  be  devised  more  likely  to 
render  the  new  discovery  defective 
and  unpopular,  than  to  employ  in 
its  service  those  whose  knowledge 
and  acquirements  it  had  rendered 
bygones.  Instead  of  these  people 
applying  themselves  steadily  and 
patiently  to  learn  a  new  career,  we 
should  find  them  ingeniously  try- 
ing to  adapt  the  new  system  to 
their  old  long  -  practised  habits. 
The  coachman  would  be  keeping 
his  time  by  all  the  old  artifices  of 
"  making  play  "here  and  breathing 


a  bit  there,  and  the  guard  would 
be  satisfied  that  a  blast  of  his  horn 
should  be  sufficient  to  keep  the 
road  clear,  and  apprise  the  people 
at  the  next  "change"  to  be  on 
the  alert  for  his  arrival.  To  teach 
these  men  that  a  mile  of  ground 
was  a  matter  of  two  minutes, 
that  a  danger-signal  was  an  emer- 
gency to  be  measured  by  seconds, 
that  a  fractional  increase  or  de- 
crease of  speed  signifies  to  run  into 
or  be  run  into  by  some  one  before 
or  behind  you,  to  transfer  all  the 
adaptiveness  to  the  management 
of  a  blood-team  to  the  use  of  a 
boiler,  would  be  one  of  the  most 
hopeless  of  all  imaginable  under- 
takings. 

Are  we  then,  you  would  ask — are 
we  to  turn  them  adrift  upon  a 
world  that  has  no  longer  any  need 
of  them,  or  are  we  to  burden  our- 
selves with  the  support  of  so  many 
useless  and  unprofitable  people  ?  I 
reply,  Pension  them  by  all  means  : 
infinitely  better  charge  the  budget 
with  their  maintenance  than  damage 
the  whole  character  of  a  great  in- 
vention, and  destroy  the  working 
efficiency  of  a  noble  discovery.  You 
are  ready  to  interrupt  me  here,  and 
ask,  Why  all  these  shrewd  warnings 
and  cautions  about  a  danger  so 
little  likely  to  be  incurred  1  Who 
is  insane  enough  to  do  anything  so 
shortsighted  and  so  foolish  as  this  1 
and  my  answer  is,  The  thing  has 
been  actually  done ;  the  experiment 
has  been  made  ;  and  the  results  are 
before  our  eyes — being  enacted,  I 
may  say — while  I  yet  write.  Look 
towards  the  east  of  Europe  and  you 
will  see  it  all. 

When  Austria  was  driven  by  the 
course  of  events  to  lose  her  posses- 
sions in  Italy  and  her  influence  in 
Germany,  to  fall  back  upon  herself, 


1870.] 


New  Measures  and  Old  Men. 


243 


t  he  very  wisely  bethought  her,  that 
for  the  benefit  of  internal  resources, 
for  the  development  of  native  in- 
dustry and  enterprise,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  a  constitutional 
form  of  government, — that  free  in- 
stitutions are  the  best  education  for 
a  nation,  and  that  law  and  order 
j  ire  never  so  successfully  instilled 
as  when  the  people  are  themselves 
interested  in  the  edicts  they  have 
figreed  to  obey.  Baron  Beust,  to 
whom  this  change  first  commended 
itself,  went  to  work  with  a  will. 
He  instituted  the  Parliamentary 
form  of  rule,  Ministerial  responsi- 
bility, freedom  of  discussion,  free- 
dom of  the  press,  trial  by  jury, 
municipal  reform,  with  a  large  share 
of  local  self-government.  It  was 
not  easy,  if  even  possible,  in  a 
country  inhabited  by  such  a  mix- 
tare  of  races  to  consult  or  provide 
for  autonomy,  but  he  did  so  to  the 
fullest  extent  as  regarded  Hungary, 
and  made  considerable  concessions 
elsewhere,  particularly  on  the  "  Lit- 
toral," with  reference  to  educa- 
tion in  the  Italian-speaking  pro- 
vinces of  the  empire.  If  he  failed 
to  conciliate  the  Sclaves  it  was  per- 
haps less  his  fault  than  that  their 
pretensions  were  put  forward  in  a 
way  that  evidently  threatened  the 
disruption  of  the  empire — for  what 
i.j called  "Confederation"  could  cer- 
tainly have  no  other  interpretation 
— not  to  add  that  the  discontent  of 
these  people  was  nourished  and 
stimulated  by  Russian  intrigue. 

Austria,  meanwhile,  went  for- 
ward, eagerly  bent  on  extending  to 
her  people  the  largest  measure  of 
liberty.  Of  course  such  a  procedure 
could  meet  with  little  sympathy  at 
St  Petersburg,  who  had  to  think  of 
1'oland;  nor  even  at  Berlin,  where, 
in  fashioning  the  new  machinery  of 
a  North-German  Confederation,  the 
question  of  individual  right  was  to 
be  as  little  recognised  as  might  be. 
Still  Baron  Beust  went  ahead, 
not  troubling  himself  very  much 
about  his  neighbours,  nor,  so  far 
as  one  could  see,  much  disposed 
to  hamper  his  rule  with  needless 


complications  of  either  alliance  or 
animosity. 

Now  all  this  had  been  admirable 
in  every  respect,  if  it  were  not  that 
in  working  the  new  system  he  had 
encumbered  himself  with  the  old 
agency — that  is,  that  in  carrying 
out  the  active  life  of  a  Liberal  Ad- 
ministration he  had  burdened  him- 
self with  the  wearisome  formalism 
and  dreary  delays  of  an  old  and 
worn-out  bureaucracy.  To  any  one 
conversant  with  the  soul -depress- 
ing slowness  of  Austrian  official 
life  in  the  good  old  days  of  Metter- 
nich  and  Schwarzenberg,  when  the 
most  insignificant  document  of 
every  department  had  to  be  copied 
and  re-copied,  and  docketed  and 
registered  and  re -registered,  and 
then  transmitted  to  some  one  else 
who  did  all  this  over  again  by  way 
of  check,  till  either  the  event  which 
evoked  the  correspondence  had  so 
changed  its  aspect  as  to  make  the 
decision  inapplicable,  or,  as  often 
happened,  to  be  utterly  ignored  al- 
together ;  to  any  one  who  had 
seen  the  daily  life  of  "  Schreiberei" 
pursued — from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest  officer  of  the  State — from 
the  Cabinet  Minister  to  the  corpo- 
ral,— it  would  seem  as  though  no 
human  existence  could  ever  be  pro- 
longed to  an  extent  to  reap  the 
benefits  of  such  departmental  care 
and  protection. 

And  yet  it  is  with  this  agency — 
dry,  formal,  minute,  and  methodi- 
cal— that  Austria  tries  to  apply  the 
last  new  discoveries  in  Liberal  gov- 
ernment. What  would  they  say  at 
Woolwich  if  they  were  told  that  no 
more  cannon  should  be  founded  till 
they  had  worked  up  all  the  old  pig- 
iron  into  smooth  bores  or  breech- 
loaders 1  Here  is  this  very  experi- 
ment being  tried  before  our  eyes  ! 

No  wonder  if  the  machinery  of 
the  State  works  harshly  and  un- 
genially,  where  every  employe  is 
an  obstructive  and  an  opponent, 
not  seeking  to  accommodate  him- 
self to  the  play  of  a  new  mechanism, 
but  trying  how  far  he  can  mould 
its  operations  to  his  own  long- 


244 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


formed  habits,  and  to  ways  he  is 
too  old  to  abandon. 

As  an  instance  of  what  can 
come  of  such  a  combination,  the 
events  now  happening  in  South 
Dalmatia  are  sufficiently  in  point. 
While  the  officials  of  the  locality 
were  laboriously  copying  out  the 
instructions  of  the  new  law  on  the 
militia  conscription,  making  the 
fourfold  detail  of  registering  here 
and  endorsing  there — sending  certi- 
fied copies  to  this  man  and  abstracts 
to  that — the  Russian  agents,  along 
with  certain  Montenegrin  spies, 
penetrating  the  province  in  every 
direction,  had  ample  time  to  propa- 
gate the  intelligence  that  by  their 
enlistment  for  the  landwehr  the 
people  were  virtually  accepting  ser- 
vice in  the  regular  army ;  and  under 
the  pretext  of  being  enrolled  for 
the  protection  of  their  own  homes, 
they  were  actually  subjecting  them- 
selves to  be  drafted  to  the  utmost 
limits  of  the  empire,  to  serve  on  the 
far-away  confines  of  Poland,  or  in 
the  dreaded  swamps  of  the  Lower 
Danube. 

A  very  little  foresight  and  pre- 
caution might  have  saved  all  mis- 
construction on  this  head;  the  dis- 
content was  not  very  deep  rooted, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  population  on 
the  whole  was  not  inimical  to  im- 
perial rule.  Bureaucratic  apathy, 
however,  easily  takes  the  forms  of 
insolence  and  superciliousness.  The 
peasantry,  resenting  these,  rose, 
burned  the  baptismal  registries, 
destroyed  all  the  records  of  con- 
scription, and  defied  the  authori- 
ties. The  Government  sent  troops, 
and  the  mountaineers,  fully  as 
warlike  in  their  native  fastnesses, 


defied  the  soldiery.  The  first  care 
of  the  military  commander  was  to 
garrison  and  provision  the  various 
small  forts,  which,  at  distances 
through  this  wild  region,  serve  as 
pivots  for  a  force  to  act  on.  The 
peasants  did  riot  hesitate  to  meet 
these  detachments,  and,  so  far  as 
rumour  goes,  in  some  cases  over- 
powered them. 

To  bring  up  the  regiments  to  a 
war  standard,  the  new  recruits  of 
the  last  levy  have  been  sent  for- 
ward ;  and  although  it  is  reported 
that  they  have  behaved  well  in  the 
field,  the  hospitals  are  full  of  sick, 
and  a  call  for  an  increased  staff  of 
surgeons  has  been  forwarded  to 
Vienna. 

No  one  pretends  to  believe  that 
an  outbreak  of  sufficient  magnitude 
to  call  for  12,000  regular  troops  to 
meet  it  could  have  arisen  on  such 
grounds  as  these;  but  Russia  has 
taken  excellent  care  to  begin  her 
operations  at  a  very  distant  frontier 
of  the  empire,  and  on  a  quarrel 
eminently  social  in  its  character, 
just  as  the  title  to  an  estate  is  con- 
tested by  an  action  at  law  for  some 
small  and  insignificant  holding. 
Still  I  persist  in  maintaining  that 
if  the  new  laws  of  the  kingdom 
were  expounded  with  the  willing 
activity  of  men  who  were  working 
in  accordance  with  their  spirit,  it 
would  not  be  so  easy  to  make  Dal- 
matians the  dupes  of  Russians  or 
tools  of  Montenegrins.  The  old 
musket  drill  will  not  do  with  the 
new  breech-loader,  nor  will  old 
Austrian  bureaucracy  consist  with 
modern  liberty,  nor  with  the  de- 
mands of  men,  who,  to  be  ruled, 
must  be  reasoned  with. 


In  one  of  the  Occasional  Notes  something  of  this  sort  of  conversa- 

of  *  Pall  Mall '   a  short  time   ago  tion,  so  that  people,  with  a  few  easy 

I   read   a  clever    suggestion.       It  "gambits"    in   their   head,   could 

was   apropos    to   a  notice   of   Mr  while  away  time  pleasantly,  instead 

Longman's    little    book  on    chess  of  maintaining  a  rigid,  silence,  or 

openings,  that  it  would  be  doing  keeping  up  that  species  of  bald  dis- 

the  world  good  service  to  devise  jointed  chat  which  is  still  worse. 


1870.] 


Talk-11  Gambits: 


245 


The  difficulties  are,  however,  con- 
siderable. First  of  all,  the  habit  of 
introducing  people  to  each  other 
tas  in  great  degree  fallen  into  dis- 
i.se,  and,  save  by  that  formal  pre- 
sentation by  which  you  are  con- 
signed to  take  a  certain  person  in 
to  dinner,  you  may  happen  not  to 
know,  or  be  known  to,  any  one  in 
a  drawing-room.  What  gives  the 
especial  value  to  the  chess  open- 
ings is  the  fact  that,  as  you  may 
be  totally  ignorant  of  the  strength 
of  your  adversary,  a  few  cautious 
noves,  to  which  the  corresponding 
replies  are  known  to  you,  enable 
you  to  measure  in  some  degree 
j  our  opponent,  and  see  how  far  it 
r  light  be  safe  for  you  to  play  boldly 
or  the  reverse. 

If,  for  instance,  he  answer  your 
gambit  by  the  appropriate  move, 
you  are  at  once  aware  that  he  has 
given  some  study  to  the  game,  and 
you  address  yourself  more  cautious- 
ly to  the  board.  In  conversation, 
however,  as  you  do  not  at  least 
always  play  to  win,  as  you  simply 
desire  to  "  have  a  game,"  your  ob- 
joct  is  merely  by  any  opening — any 
break — to  give  some  opportunity 
for  the  other  player  to  move  a 
piece,  and  thus  give  rise  to  that 
pleasant  interchange  of  agreement 
or  opposition  which  makes  up  TALK. 
Now  I  would  here  beg  to  insin- 
uate that,  for  any  advantageous 
analogy  to  conversation,  Whist  is 
infinitely  preferable  to  Chess.  First 
cf  all,  in  chess  the  exact  equality 
\vith  which  the  two  players  con- 
front each  other  at  first  has  no 
resemblance  to  real  life,  where 
nothing  is  so  rare  as  to  find  a  Mr 
]  Hsraeli  pitted  against  a  Mr  Glad- 
stone. This  stern  uncongenial 
condition  of  exact  equality  gives 
the  whole  character  to  the  game,  and 
makes  it  as  unlike  real  life  as  pos- 
sible, where  what  we  call  chance 
enters  so  much  into  everything.  To 
divest  social  intercourse  of  this 
character  of  the  intellectual  duel  is 
the  great  object  of  all  who  care  for 
pleasant  companionship ;  and  in  the 
diversity  of  men's  tastes  and  tem- 


pers, in  the  different  measures  of 
their  capacities,  this  difficulty  is  not 
hard  to  overcome. 

Between  chess  and  conversation 
the  analogies  are  few.  "  The  queen's 
pawn  two "  game,  indeed,  opens 
like  the  talk  about  the  weather,  and 
may  be  the  opening  of  an  able  or  a 
very  inferior  player.  The  gambit 
which  sacrifices  a  pawn  to  the  ad- 
versary for  the  sake  of  an  advan- 
tage in  position,  resembles  the 
bait  of  a  man  who  throws  out  a 
paradox  to  see  whether  you  will 
gravely  make  it  an  object  of  attack, 
or  simply  take  it  as  the  expression 
of  a  caprice,  or  a  glove  thrown  to 
provoke  battle.  The  late  Arch- 
bishop Whately  was  rather  an  ad- 
ept at  this  sort  of  stratagem,  and 
if  he  hadn't  practised  it  so  persis- 
tently and  unmercifully,  would 
have  deserved  the  gratitude  of 
many  who  remembered  how  often 
he  dissipated  the  dull  reserve  of  a 
dinner  by  some  of  these  sallies. 

Whately,  however,  had  no  origin- 
ality, nor  had  he  any  readiness.  He 
came  out  with  so  many  rounds  of 
service  ammunition;  and  if  he  fired 
them  off  before  the  end  of  the  even- 
ing, he  was  harmless  afterwards. 
To  enlarge  one  of  these  "bagged" 
conundrums,  and  follow  it  at  a 
sharp  pace  over  everything,  was  his 
delight ;  and  for  the  first  or  perhaps 
the  second  time  one  witnessed  this, 
it  was  amusing.  He,  however,  re- 
peated his  stories  to  satiety ;  and 
a  very  brief  acquaintance  with 
him  gave  one  the  solution  of  every 
one  of  his  riddles,  and  the  key  to 
each  of  the  concetti,  by  which  he 
used  to  startle  the  decorum  of  a 
dinner-party.  Lord  Melbourne  had 
a  charming  turn  for  those  plea- 
sant little  paradoxes  which  are  so 
suggestive  of  spirited  talk,  and  with 
him  they  were  real  impromptus. 
They  came  out  of  the  matter  in 
hand,  and  seemed  actually  like 
sudden  flashes  of  a  right  view  of  a 
subject,  which  a  strong  light  had 
not  hitherto  so  forcibly  displayed 
before  him.  Then  he  had  that 
wonderful  geniality  which  seasons 


246 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


conversation  for  every  appetite;  and 
above  all,  he  had  that  width  of 
sympathy,  without  which  no  really 
good  talker  ever  gained  pre-emi- 
nence, which  enabled  him  not  only  to 
hit  the  very  sentiment,  but  often  to 
catch  the  very  expression,  the  man 
he  was  addressing  would  have  used. 
The  Irish  Chief-Justice  Bushe  was 
the  only  one  I  could  think  of  plac- 
ing on  equality  with  him  for  that 
sort  of  easy  talk  in  which  scholar- 
ship blends  with  great  knowledge  of 
life ;  and  with  this  Bushe  had  a  vein 
of  native  drollery  and  wit  which 
are  not  to  be  found  out  of  the  Celtic 
temperament. 

When  Sir  William  Smith,  Lord 
Guillamore,  and  Mr  Bushe,  were  the 
three  "  chiefs  "  of  their  several  law 
courts,  it  was  a  constant  question 
amongst  their  respective  followers 
to  which  should  be  given  the  palm 
of  conversational  superiority  ;  but 
in  reality  Bushe's  claim  was  indis- 
putably the  highest.  For  epigram- 
matic neatness,  and  an  incisiveness 
that  divided  a  subject  as  keenly  as 
the  knife  of  a  surgeon,  Sir  William 
was  unsurpassed;  while  for  a  sar- 
castic humour  that  recalled  Swift, 
Lord  Guillamore  was  distinguish- 
ed beyond  every  man  of  his  day. 
"  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  se- 
cret in  conversational  success,"  said 
Bushe  one  day,  to  some  one  who 
questioned  him ;  "  I  believe  it  all  lies 
in  two  easy  rules  :  Be  always  nat- 
ural, and  be  good-natured."  He 
assuredly  practised  as  he  preached. 

For  a  polished  elegance  without 
a  trace  of  pedantry,  and  for  a  neat- 
ness of  expression  which  continu- 
ally verges  on  wit,  and  seems  only 
not  so  by  the  careful  abstention  of 
the  speaker,  there  is  nothing  pos- 
sibly, among  Englishmen  at  least, 
can  be  pitted  against  Sir  Henry 
Bulwer.  If  there  be  something 
tantalising  in  feeling  that  he  has 
not  said  all  he  might  on  a  subject, 
he  consoles  you  by  the  thought 
that  he  has  said  something  you 
had  not  heard  from  another,  and 
certainly  in  a  form,  and  with  a 
turn  of  expression,  none  other  could 


have  hit  upon.  As  a  raconteur  of 
an  incident  he  has  no  equal  out  of 
France ;  and  no  Frenchman  can 
surpass  him  in  the  adroitness  with 
which  he  can  make  the  moral  of 
his  story  serve  the  purpose  of  his 
argument.  His  name  has  escaped 
me  against  a  determination  I  had 
made  not  to  quote  living  conversa- 
tionalists, but  there  is  no  one  who 
could  give  such  valuable  hints  for 
good  talking ;  and,  from  the  form 
of  his  mind  they  would  take  the 
shape  of  short  aphorisms,  easy  to 
remember,  and  admirable  for  use. 

The  "  talk-openings" — take  them 
even  in  the  simple  form  of  ante- 
prajidial  utterances — could  be  com- 
municated only  by  masters  in  the 
art ;  for  it  is  in  conversation  as  in 
medicine,  that  nothing  but  the 
"Dons"  can  be  teachers.  The 
preceptive  power  of  the  good  talker 
is  perhaps  the  most  striking  of  his 
gifts.  The  intuitive  appreciation  of 
the  tastes,  the  tempers,  and  the 
prejudices  of  his  hearers  —  what 
they  would  require  in  the  way  of 
sentiment,  what  they  would  bear 
in  the  way  of  scandal,  where  they 
must  be  instructed,  where  aston- 
ished, where  the  talker  can  insin- 
uate a  slight  interest  on  his  own 
behalf,  and  where  a  little  modest 
self-disparagement  heightens  the 
zest  of  an  anecdote,  how  to  illustrate 
where  there  is  no  time  for  argu- 
ment— and  all  these  without  seem- 
ing to  engross  unfairly  the  time  of 
the  company. 

Kings  and  kaisers  are  strong 
in  conversational  gambits.  They 
make  a  special  study  of  talk-open- 
ings ;  but  as  they  are  always  "  played 
up  to,"  and  never,  or  at  least  very 
rarely,  puzzled  by  an  adverse  move, 
their  game  is  easy  enough.  They 
can  talk  Protection  with  an  old 
Tory,  and  discuss  Providence  with 
a  Bishop,  and  yet  never  suffer 
either  to  get  beyond  the  stage  of 
blessings  and  thanksgivings.  In 
the  same  way  they  speak  of  pain- 
less surgery  to  the  doctor,  and  the 
Suez  Canal  to  the  engineer,  and 
yet  it  is  just  possible  that  each 


1870.] 


A  /Small  Clerical  Error. 


247 


of  these  persons  would  feel  the 
flattery  of  being  addressed  on  any- 
thing rather  than  what  savours  of 
;i  metier.  Generally  it  is  only  a 
very  young  man  likes  to  be  talked 
to  about  his  own  career.  Before 
his  ambition  has  had  time  to  be 
blunted  by  defeats,  he  dreams  of 
very  high  successes ;  and  you  are 
quite  safe  in  prognosticating  the 
Woolsack  to  the  newly-called  bar- 
rister, or  the  command  of  an  army 
to  a  young  sub.  in  the  goose-step. 

All  ante-prandial  talk  should  be 
of  a  character  that  incurs  no  risk  of 
a  dissentient  opinion.  Mild  praises 
of  something  that  it  is  safe  to  praise 
are  good  gambits.  The  weather, 
the  crops,  something  that  the  Queen 
has  done,  or  the  Princess  of  Wales 
lias  said,  are  never  hazardous. 


If  dinner  be  unavoidably  delay- 
ed, and  if  a  slight  diversion  in  the 
shape  of  provocation  be  deemed  ad- 
visable, a  quotation  from  Carlyle, 
taken  at  random,  will  always  do. 
It  will  be  sure  to  offend  some- 
body; and  even  when  the  matter 
of  it  be  unobjectionable,  the  man- 
ner will  as  certainly  outrage  some 
taste,  and  jar  upon  some  suscepti- 
bility. 

Indeed,  I  think  Carlyle  and  Rus- 
kin  might  serve  as  conversational 
"  bitters,"  taken  to  give  an  appe- 
tite, but  never  accepted  as  articles 
of  diet,  and  only  administered  in 
the  smallest  liqueur-glasses. 

If  the  flavour  be  found  too 
pungent  for  ladies,  let  them  take 
"Martin  Tupper"  instead. 


A  SMALL  CLERICAL  ERROR. 


In  that  very  interesting  discourse 
in  which  Bishop  Temple  took  his 
farewell  of  Rugby,  there  are  certain 
points  to  which  exception  might 
fairly  be  taken.  I  will,  however, 
advert  to  one  only,  and  to  that  one 
simply,  on  the  ground  of  its  being 
a  matter  on  which  the  eloquent 
speaker  was  evidently  less  qualified 
to  pronounce  than  many  others  who 
could  lay  no  claim  to  either  his  at- 
tainments or  his  capacity. 

Dr  Temple  opines  that  the  higher 
classes  have  much  to  learn  from  the 
humbler  ;  and  I  would  make  no  ob- 
jection to  the  assertion  if  he  had 
not  added — as  regards  justice;  it 
being  his  opinion  that  among  the 
cultivated  men  and  women  refine- 
ment prevails  over  the  sense  of  equi- 
ty; and  that  the  thought  of  whether 
what  is  done  be  done  in  accordance 
with  good  breeding  and  good  man- 
ners, weighs  more  heavily  than  if 
done  with  reference  to  sound  prin- 
ciples of  morality. 

Now  it  is  not  on  the  score  of 
any  abstract  proposition  I  would 
say  that  the  judgment  of  the  humble 
man  could  be  a  better  guide  than 
the  dictum  of  the  cultivated  man — 


it  is  on  the  questions  which  pertain 
to  his  daily  experience  of  life— to 
the  wants  that  beset  him — to  the 
straits  by  which  he  is  surrounded — 
to  the  best  modes  by  which  his  or- 
dinary difficulties  can  be  met — to 
the  ways  in  which  help  aids  him 
best  and  speediest — to  the  sort  of 
education  that  most  adapts  him  to 
the  mode  of  his  life — to  where  inter- 
ference is  useful  and  kindly  and 
acceptable,  and  where  it  is  simply 
inconvenient,  unpleasant,  and  dis- 
tasteful. In  all  these  themes  the 
poor  man  will  unfold  stores  of  know- 
ledge peculiarly  and  specially  his 
own  ;  and  will  show  he  has  for  his 
own  daily  purposes  mastered  ques- 
tions which  scientific  heads  call  san- 
atory, or  chemical,  or  social,  or  sta- 
tistic, as  it  may  be.  Ask  the  doc- 
tor, who  knows  more  about  the  poor 
than  any  one,  whether  he  has  not 
learned  much  from  the  thoughtful 
experience  of  humble  people,  whose 
simple  habits  of  observation  are  un- 
disturbed by  all  attempt  or  desire 
to  make  them  conform  to  a  theory; 
how  they  watch  the  changeful  in- 
fluences of  weather  on  disease — how 
they  note  how  the  very  hours  of  the 


248 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[Feb. 


night  bear  upon  the  recurrence  of 
certain  symptoms — how  their  very 
superstitions  are  but  as  formulae,  as 
it  were,  to  express  some  combination 
which  is  above  their  power  of  ex- 
planation. Mark  the  way  in  which  a 
shepherd  or  a  sailor  will  sum  up  the 
signs  of  coming  weather — the  mar- 
vellous acuteness  with  which  he  will 
distinguish  between  the  true  and 
the  false  indications — the  profound 
knowledge  he  will  exhibit  of  nature 
in  all  her  moods  of  change — and, 
lastly,  how  he  has  educated  his 
senses  to  investigate  problems  that 
science  can  only  deal  with  by  aid 
of  instruments  and  inventions. 

There  is  in  one  of  Scott's  con- 
versations a  touching  record  of 
what  he  himself  had  gleaned  from 
intercourse  with  uneducated  men 
and  women,  which  might  make 
ordinary  people  very  careful  how 
they  undervalue  such  sources  of 
knowledge.  I  wish  my  memory 
could  help  me  to  the  passage — and 
I  dread  to  mar  it  by  a  garbled  quo- 
tation ;  for  like  the  people  who  re- 
member the  facts  of  geometry,  but 
have  forgotten  the  proofs,  so  it  is 
with  me.  I  can  retain  some  traces  of 
other  men's  wisdom,  but  have  lost 
the  clue  by  which  they  gained 
them. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  this  part 
of  the  venerable  Bishop's  address 
I  would  draw  attention.  It  is 
rather  to  the  contrast  he  endeav- 
ours to  establish  between  the  con- 
dition of  society  abroad  and  that 
which  we  find  at  home.  He  seems 
to  think  that  the  sympathy  be- 
tween the  higher  and  lower  classes 
is  stronger  and  closer  in  France, 
Germany,  and  Italy,  than  in  Eng- 
land :  and  that  this  better  state  of 
things  is  owing  to  a  certain  genial 
culture  in  the  higher  ranks  which 
forbids  them  to  separate  themselves 
from  their  poorer  brethren.  Now, 
if  he  had  known  the  Continent 
better,  he  would  have  known  that 
this  is  not  the  case.  The  familiar- 
ity, almost  at  times  verging  on 
equality,  which  subsists  between 
the  extreme  conditions  of  society 


abroad,  depends  upon  the  simple 
fact  that  the  real  differences  be- 
tween them  are  marvellously  small 
and  few.  They  are  separated  by 
conventionalities,  and  little  else. 
The  landlord  living  on  his  estate 
has,  outside  the  fact  of  his  wealth 
and  his  power  to  use  it,  scarcely 
anything  to  distinguish  him  from 
the  peasant.  A  little  better  food 
and  a  little  better  clothing,  per- 
haps, would  mark  his  condition  j 
but  there  would  be  nothing  in  the 
tone  of  his  conversation,  the  range 
of  his  knowledge,  the  sort  of  in- 
terests which  would  engage  or  the 
class  of  topics  that  would  amuse 
him,  to  remove  him  from  the  daily 
life  and  occupations  of  the  humbler 
man.  On  religion,  on  politics,  on 
the  events  of  the  little  world  around 
them,  they  would  be  certain  to 
think  alike,  and,  what  is  more,  to 
express  themselves  alike,  when  they 
discussed  them.  Those  customs  of 
cleanliness  and  order — the  fifty  odd 
small  requirements  of  the  gentle- 
man— which  exist  with  us,  and  to 
dispense  with  which  even  for  a  day 
becomes  a  serious  privation — have 
no  place  here.  The  "Illustrissimo" 
lives  in  the  corner  of  a  house  as 
large  as  Buckingham  Palace,  and 
that  corner  very  meanly — indeed 
miserably — furnished.  Three  straw- 
bottomed  chairs,  a  round  table  with 
a  tea-service — never  used — a  look- 
ing-glass, a  gilt  console,  and  a  bust 
of  Victor  Emmanuel,  comprise  the 
articles  of  a  salon.  Of  a  "tub," 
or  of  any  form  of  bath  whatever, 
he  knows  no  more  than  does  a  mole 
of  a  microscope.  He  has  none 
of  those  innumerable  little  wants 
whose  very  slavery  is  a  discipline 
of  civilisation,  and  consequently  it 
is  no  hardship  to  him  to  take  his 
cup  of  black  coffee  on  the  same 
bench  with  a  labouring  man  whose 
toilet  has  taken  about  as  much 
time  as  his  own,  whose  chin  is  as 
unshaven,  and  whose  hands  as 
innocent  of  soap.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  all  these  similarities  of 
habit  and  condition  are  very  equal- 
ising elements,  and  conduce  to  a 


1870.] 


A  Small  Clerical  Error. 


249 


great  freedom  in  intercourse,  and 
in  that  conversation  in  which  the 
recurrence  of  some  reference  to  his 
3-ank  as  the  Signor  Conte  or  Herr 
"Baron,  alone  defines  the  different 
stations  of  the  speakers. 

It  is  needless  to  say  how  much 
ilike  two  such  men  will  feel  on 
every  subject  that  could  come  be- 
fore them.  The  essential  difference 
of  wealth  will  not  separate  them,  be- 
cause it  is  wealth  unemployed  in  the 
diffusion  of  luxury  or  refinement. 
It  exists  in  the  books  of  the  banker, 
:md  not  in  the  daily  habits  of  the 
possessor.  The  little  daily  news- 
paper, ill  printed  and  worse  written, 
forms  the  staple  intelligence  of  each 
— where  each  finds  his  prejudices 
fostered,  his  hopes  illustrated,  and 
Jiis  fears  shadowed  forth,  in  a  lan- 
guage so  like  his  own  that  its  per- 
•suasiveness  is  complete. 

Last  of  all  will  come  that  grand 
]  eveller  the  Church,  in  which  each 
not  alone  believes,  but  believes  in 
precisely  the  same  way,  taking  the 


same  view  of  its  powers,  and  form- 
ing the  same  estimate  of  its  preten- 
sions. 

If,  then,  the  like  classes  in  our 
country  are  not  linked  together  by 
so  close  a  sympathy  as  we  see  here, 
surely  it  is  not  without  a  "  plea  in 
mitigation."  And  be  it  remembered 
that,  in  this  compact  of  equalisation, 
if  the  peasant  gains  something,  the 
man  of  station  loses  much — sitting 
down  contented,  as  he  does,  with 
certain  material  advantages,  and 
having  no  goal  of  a  higher  civilisa- 
tion or  a  more  cultivated  existence 
before  him. 

The  Herr  Graf  smokes  a  some- 
what better  tobacco  and  has  more 
leisure  than  the  Bauer.  Out  of 
these  there  is  not  much  to  choose 
between  them.  If  Dr  Temple, 
then,  desires  to  see  a  closer  union 
between  different  conditions  of 
society  with  us,  surely  it  is  not  at 
this  price  he  would  purchase  the 
boon  !  And  that  such  is  the  cost 
there  can  be  no  doubt. 


250 


The  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


THE    COMING    SESSION. 


THERE  is  something  inexpres- 
sibly naive,  not  to  say  pleasant,  in 
the  tone  which  the  organs  of  the 
present  Government  are  assuming 
while  they  discuss  the  probable 
acts  of  the  coming  session  and 
speculate  on  their  issues.  The 
moderation  with  which  they  de- 
liver their  minds  is  very  edifying. 
That  which  above  all  things  they 
deprecate  is,  that  into  the  de- 
bates with  which  we  are  threat- 
ened, any  other  than  the  purest 
spirit  of  patriotism  should  enter. 
Party  is  and  has  long  been  the 
bane  of  this  free  commonwealth. 
If  party  spirit  be  suffered  to  exer- 
cise its  old  pernicious  influence 
over  us  we  shall  do  no  good,  nor 
arrive  on  any  subject  bearing  upon 
the  best  interests  of  the  country 
except  at  the  lamest  possible  con- 
clusions. We  are  warned,  indeed, 
that  the  matter  at  once  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  Parliament  is  both  deli- 
cate and  important.  Mr  Gladstone 
will  inaugurate  the  opening  of  the 
new  session  with  a  "  most  elabor- 
ate bill  for  dealing  with  the  tenure 
of  Irish  land."  And  we  further 
learn  that  the  subject  is  one  "  which 
might,  no  doubt,  excite  the  fiercest 
animosities."  Men  are  most  moved, 
it  appears,  by  what  affects  their 
personal  interests  (a  truly  marvel- 
lous discovery);  and  "an  Irish  Land 
Bill  will  affect  the  interests  of  a 
class  much  larger  and  more  power- 
ful than  the  Protestant  clergy." 
But  though  all  this  be  true,  and 
the  incidents  naturally  arising  out 
of  it  obvious  enough,  the  supporters 
of  the  present  Government  appear 
to  be  sanguine  that  nature  will  not 
be  allowed  to  have  her  way.  "  An 
insufficiently  considered  or  an  un- 
skilfully drawn  bill,  might  destroy 
the  submissive  unanimity  of  the 
Liberal  members,  rouse  anew  the 
activity  of  the  Orange  zealots,  and 
hinder  the  consideration  of  almost 
every  other  measure.  From  such 


a  fate,  however,  we  hope  to  be  de- 
livered," how,  or  by  what  process, 
Mentor  does  not  condescend  to 
explain.  On  the  other  hand,  if  it 
be  on  the  other  hand,  "  a  long 
fight  on  tenures  and  evictions 
would  be  far  worse  than  the  pre- 
sent controversies  on  the  Irish 
Church,  for  it  would  have  the 
effect  of  embittering  the  tenant 
against  the  landlord,  and  giving 
excuse  for  continued  agitation." 
How  the  feelings  of  the  tenant 
towards  the  landlord,  and  of  the 
landlord  towards  the  tenant,  are  to 
be  made  more  bitter  than  they  seem 
at  present  to  be,  the  sage  who  thus 
instructs  while  he  soothes,  and 
aims  at  conciliating,  has  not  stop- 
ped to  make  clear.  All  that  he 
does  is  to  assume  that  there  is 
reason  to  hope  better  things,  be- 
cause public  opinion  has  been  grad- 
ually tending  to  agreement  during 
the  recess,  and  thus  smoothing  the 
way  both  for  the  Government  and 
the  Opposition.  At  the  same  time 
it  is  clearly  to  be  understood  that 
this  shading  away  of  public  opinion 
ought  to  have  run,  if  it  has  not  run, 
entirely  in  one  direction.  "  The 
Government  would  be  universally 
condemned  by  the  Liberal  party  if 
it  hesitated  to  bring  in  a  really 
sufficient  measure ;  if,  from  a  desire 
to  conciliate  foes  or  to  spare  friends, 
it  were  to  present  a  bill  which 
should  slur  over  difficulties,  cleverly 
contriving  to  leave  things  as  they 
are.  A  bill  intended  only  to  pass 
would  be  the  reproach,  and  per- 
haps the  ruin,  of  the  Government." 
So  run  the  arguments,  if  argu- 
ments they  deserve  to  be  called,  of 
those  clever  and  not  very  scrupulous 
individuals  whom  Mr  Gladstone 
and  Mr  Bright  contrive  to  engage 
as  their  scouts  or  precursors  in  the 
coming  Parliamentary  campaign. 
Their  business  is  to  deal  as  much  as 
possible  in  generalities.  They  do 
not  pretend  to  have  been  admitted 


1870.] 


The  Coming  Session. 


251 


more  than  other  people  to  a  know- 
ledge of  what  is  in  preparation,  but 
they  are  satisfied  that  it  is  at  once 
stringent  and  moderate,  sweeping, 
and  at  the  same  time,  in  the  main, 
conciliatory.  "  The  Government 
measure  must,  and  of  course  will, 
do  all  that  justice  demands  for  the 
tenant,  and  thus  satisfy  the  hopes 
of  the  most  able  and  impartial  men 
who  have  studied  the  condition  of 
Ireland.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
recent  discussions  forbid  the  fear 
that  any  rash  and  unsound  proposal 
will  be  submitted  to  Parliament." 
What  recent  discussions  are  alluded 
to?  The  appeals  of  the  Tenant 
League,  with  Mr  Gladstone's  mean- 
ingless replies  to  them  ?  or  the 
bolder  remonstrances  of  the  Rom- 
ish priests,  who  look  to  revolvers 
and  the  "  tumbling  of  landlords  " 
as  the  surest  and  easiest  mode  of 
settling  the  difficulty?  Or  does 
the  political  prophet  who  thus 
prophesies  smooth  things  count 
upon  the  effect  produced  on  pub- 
lic opinion  by  the  recent  distribu- 
tion of  the  army  in  Ireland  into 
flying  columns,  and  the  diligence 
with  which  reinforcements  are 
thrown  into  the  country  from  day 
to  day  1  Whatever  his  anticipa- 
tions may  be,  and  on  whatever 
ground  rested,  there  seem  to  us,  at 
the  present  moment,  to  be  no  very 
manifest  tokens  of  their  receiving 
a  speedy  fulfilment.  The  rioting  at 
the  Longford  election,  the  shooting 
down  of  policemen  by  the  brace, 
the  recent  murder  of  an  unoffending 
egg  merchant  for  no  assignable 
reason  except  that  he  drove  a  pros- 
perous trade,  do  not  hold  out  any 
marked  assurance  of  public  tran- 
quillity. And  as  to  landlord-shoot- 
ing, that  appears  to  grow  only 
more  brisk  and  successful  from  day 
today.  But  this  is  not  all.  The 
authority  to  which  we  now  refer 
counts  upon  even  a  surer  means 
of  tranquillising  Ireland  than  any 
which  the  Tenant  League  suggests, 
or  "the  landlord-tumbling"  priest- 
hood or  even  the  soldiery  can  sup- 
ply. He  has  not  seen  the  bill;  he 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLII. 


professes  to  know  nothing  of  its 
tenor,  but  he  is  satisfied  that  it  will 
be  such  as  "  to  secure  the  assent  of 
thinking  men  on  either  side  of  the 
House."  Now  thinking  men,  we 
are  inclined  to  believe,  seldom  com- 
mit themselves  beforehand.  They 
are  certainly  not  prone  to  take  leaps 
in  the  dark  twice  in  their  lives. 
The  thinking  men  on  either  side  of 
the  House  will  therefore,  in  all 
probability,  be  prepared  themselves 
to  criticise  and  to  listen  to  the 
criticisms  of  others,  whether  these 
be  hostile  to  a  measure  confessedly 
experimental,  or  the  reverse.  Nor 
is  it  the  habit  of  thinking  men,  for 
the  mere  sake  of  helping  a  Govern- 
ment out  of  a-  difficulty,  to  say  that 
wrong  is  right,  or  an  unwise  policy  a 
wise  policy.  There  were  quite  as 
many  thinking  men  who  condemned 
the  measure  of  last  session  as 
approved  it,  even  though  some  of 
them,  against  their  better  judgment, 
helped  to  carry  it  through.  We 
are  disposed  to  believe,  then,  that 
these,  at  all  events,  will  not  again 
allow  themselves  to  postpone  the 
interests  of  the  commonwealth  to 
those  of  faction,  satisfied,  as  they 
must  now  be,  that  their  worst  fears 
in  regard  to  what  would  follow  on 
the  suppression  of  the  Irish  Church 
have  been  more  than  realised. 

While  one  section  of  the  Minis- 
terial press  takes  this  view  of  our 
condition  and  prospects,  another, 
which  professes  to  be  more  guided 
by  the  precepts  of  reason  and  phil- 
osophy, labours  under  serious  appre- 
hension lestthe  Government  should, 
from  sheer  excess  of  strength,  bring 
evil  on  the  country.  The  political 
prospects  of  the  new  year  would, 
it  appears,  be  perhaps  more  cheer- 
ful if  they  were  likely,  as  in  former 
times,  to  be  affected  by  the  balance 
of  parties.  An  Opposition,  as  long 
as  it  possesses  power,  affords  some 
security  against  imprudent  legisla- 
tion, although  it  may  sometimes 
interfere  with  necessary  improve- 
ments. But  under  the  remarkable 
management  of  Mr  Disraeli,  ac- 
cording to  our  candid  antagonists, 

3 


252 


The  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


his  party  has  been  reduced  to  com- 
parative insignificance:  "And  in  fu- 
ture elections  its  numbers  will  be 
still  further  reduced  ;"  for  the  bal- 
lot, which,  we  are  told,  "  will  pro- 
bably be  adopted  by  the  present 
Parliament,  would,  at  least  in  the 
first  instance,  transfer  several  coun- 
ty seats  to  the  Liberal  party  :  and 
the  changes  effected  in  boroughs, 
though  perhaps  it  may  not  be 
uniform  in  character,  will,  on  the 
whole,  tend  in  the  same  direction/' 
Nor  do  the  misfortunes  of  the 
unhappy  Tories  end  there.  "  The 
control  even  of  the  House  of  Lords 
is  escaping,  not  from  the  Con- 
servative party,  but  from  Mr  Dis- 
raeli." There  may  be  some  truth 
in  this  latter  assertion,  ungener- 
ously as  the  assertion  is  made. 
The  House  of  Lords  is  certainly 
not  what  it  used  to  be  when  the 
late  Lord  Derby  guided  its  deliber- 
ations. Nor  will  it  be  Mr  Glad- 
stone's fault  if  the  House  of  Lords 
stop  short  of  getting  beyond  the 
control  of  any  human  being  except 
perhaps  himself.  A  Minister  who, 
within  a  few  months  of  attaining 
to  power,  lavishes  coronets  with 
so  free  a  hand  that  several  of  his 
own  adherents  decline  the  honour 
that  is  pressed  on  them,  is  little 
likely  to  suffer  any  regard  to  the 
balance  of  power  in  the  State  to 
stand  between  him  and  the  accom- 
plishment of  any  object  on  which 
he  has  set  his  heart.  Ambition 
of  this  sort,  however,  may  overleap 
itself.  The  coronet  on  his  brow 
has  a  marvellous  effect  in  weaning 
your  Liberal  statesman  from  excess 
in  Liberalism.  We  suspect  that 
both  Lord  Overstone  and  Lord 
Belper  are  at  this  moment  a  great 
deal  more  frightened  at  the  turn 
which  public  affairs  seem  to  be 
taking  than  many  of  their  seniors 
on  the  peerage-roll.  At  all  events, 
they  have  wonderfully  changed  in 
their  general  views  of  things  since, 
as  Messrs  Jones  Loyd  and  Strutt, 
members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, both  used  to  magnify  their 
own  order,  and  speak  lightly  of 


other  powers  than  that  of  the 
people.  Be  this,  however,  as  it 
may,  we  confess  ourselves  very 
sceptical  with  regard  to  the  per- 
manent subserviency  of  the  peers 
of  England  to  any  Minister,  so 
long  as  they  are  permitted  to 
exercise  their  rights  as  a  separate 
branch  of  the  Legislature.  At  the 
same  time,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
pretend  indifference  to  the  dangers 
with  which  they  and  we  are  threat- 
ened, far  less  to  ignore  their  re- 
ality. The  House  of  Lords  yielded 
too  much  a  year  ago  not  to  ha,ve 
exposed  themselves  this  year,  and 
the  next,  and  the  year  after,  to 
enormous  pressure.  Whether  they 
will  be  able  to  sustain  it  must  de- 
pend very  much  on  the  line  of 
action  which  it  may  please  the 
Whig  rather  than  the  Tory  portion 
of  their  body  to  adopt,  and  still 
more  upon  the  support  which  they 
are  likely  to  receive  from  the 
"thinking  men,"  of  whom  it  is 
assumed  that  they  are  already 
converted,  in  Parliament  and  out 
of  it,  to  pure  Gladstonianism. 
Just  hear  the  Ministerial  advocate 
on  that  head  : — 

"  The  Ministerial  bill  is  perhaps  not 
yet  prepared,  but,  whatever  be  its  pur- 
port, it  will  certainly  be  passed.  The 
few  remaining  Whigs  will  perhaps  dis- 
like it  as  strongly  as  the  members  of 
the  Opposition,  but  their  hands  will  be 
tied.  If  the  late  rumours  of  dissension 
in  the  Cabinet  had  been  well  founded, 
the  retirement  of  half  his  colleagues 
would  not  have  weakened  Mr  Glad- 
stone's hold  on  the  House  of  Commons ; 
or  if  he  were,  in  spite  of  probability,  en- 
countered by  opposition,  he  might  still 
coerce  the  House  by  threatening  an  ap- 
peal to  the  constituencies.  There  may 
be  different  opinions  as  to  his  policy  and 
his  character,  nor  indeed  is  it  easy  to 
form  a  definite  judgment  on  one  of  the 
most  complex  of  problems  ;  but  whe- 
ther his  patriotic  earnestness,  or  his 
liability  to  be  possessed  by  fixed  ideas, 
is  selected  for  praise  or  for  comment,  it 
is  certain  that  he  holds  for  the  moment 
the  most  commanding  position  which 
has  been  occupied  by  any  Minister  since 
the  time  of  Pitt.  The  Government 
which  carried  the  first  Reform  Bill  was, 
until  its  work  was  accomplished,  equally 


1870.] 


The  Coming  Session. 


253 


popular  ;  but  Lord  Grey  never  stood,  as 
Mr  Gladstone  does,  apart  from  his  col- 
leagues, and  in  popular  estimation  above 
f  11  of  them,  with  the  doubtful  exception 
of  Mr  Bright.  If  they  reject  any  of  his 
proposals,  they  may,  if  they  can,  change 
his  opinion,  and  they  have  always  the 
alternative  of  resigning.  It  would  be 
rasy.to  supply  their  places  with  more 
docile  partisans,  who  would  receive  the 
sime  support  in  Parliament,  though 
perhaps  they  might  not  be  equally 
entitled  to  its  confidence." 

"  Non  noster  hie  sermo"  Not 
thus  are  we  prepared,  Tories  though 
we  be,  to  speak  of  such  men  as  are, 
unhappily  for  themselves,  associ- 
ated with  Mr  Gladstone  and  Mr 
3  bright  in  the  affairs  of  Govern- 
ment. Much  less  can  we  accept, 
without  looking  narrowly  into 
it,  the  conclusion  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone is  our  only  inevitable  Prime 
Minister.  His  position  was,  we 
admit,  or  it  seemed  to  be  last 
session,  a  very  commanding  one. 
The  cry  which  he  raised  just  as 
1  he  old  Parliament  was  in  its  death- 
agony  found  a  ready  echo  in  Scot- 
land, Ireland,  and  Wales;  and  on 
the  strength,  of  his  assurances  that 
lie  had  discovered  a  certain  cure 
lor  disaffection,  the  new  con- 
stituencies, especially  in  these  sec- 
t  ions  of  the  empire,  pronounced  in 
his  favour.  He  was  lifted  into 
office  for  the  purpose  of  achieving 
one  particular  object,  and  he  did 
achieve  it.  But  it  does  not  neces- 
t  arily  follow  that  the  success  which 
attended  an  effort  to  destroy  has 
assured  to  the  destroyer  that  auto- 
cracy in  the  State  which  is  here 
assigned  to  him.  Mr  Gladstone's 
mode  of  accomplishing  the  object 
which  he  professed  to  seek  went 
very  far  apart  from  the  process 
which,  being  yet  before  the  con- 
stituencies, it  suited  his  purpose 
to  shadow  out.  Nobody  pretends 
t  o  deny  that  when  his  plans  came 
t  o  be  developed  from  the  Treasury 
benches  they  were  listened  to  with 
•  lismay  by  more  than  the  Tory 
opposition.  Mr  Wykham  Martin 
did  not  stand  alone  in  deprecating 
the  cruelty  and  injustice  against 


which  he  lacked  courage  to  pro- 
test. Indeed  it  was  only  their 
recent  experience  of  the  effect  of 
disunion  among  themselves  that 
kept  the  Liberal  party,  or  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  them,  from 
breaking  out  in  1869  into  open 
rebellion.  Mr  Gladstone's  bearing, 
likewise,  in  browbeating  and  si- 
lencing all  criticism,  gave  as  much 
offence  as  the  wanton  harshness  of 
his  policy.  That,  too,  was  put  up 
with,  because  the  Liberals  shrank 
from  the  discredit  that  would  at- 
tend a  second  quarrel  among  them- 
selves within  an  interval  of  two 
years.  But  bullying,  though  it  may 
serve  the  ends  of  the  Minister  who 
has  recourse  to  it  once  or  twice, 
will  not  be  tolerated  as  a  system 
in  a  British  House  of  Commons. 
It  is  bad  enough  to  be  spoken  of 
as  "a  subservient  majority" — to 
have  their  behaviour  described  in 
their  own  newspapers  as  a  "  sub- 
missive unanimity  ; "  but  a  too 
frequent  or  too  rude  appeal  to  the 
spirit  of  dictation  in  the  House 
itself  may  provoke,  when  the  inci- 
dent is  at  once  least  expected  and 
most  inconvenient,  a  disposition  to 
kick  among  the  Liberal  majority. 
In  like  manner  it  appears  to  us 
that,  in  counting,  as  his  friends  of 
the  press  seem  to  do,  on  the  hold 
which  Mr  Gladstone  has  established 
over  the  constituencies,  they  go  a 
great  deal  farther  than  the  facts  of 
the  case  will  warrant.  His  com- 
ing measure,  if  it  satisfy  the  party 
of  movement  in  Ireland,  is  very 
little  likely  to  be  agreeable  to  the 
party  of  order  elsewhere;  and  within 
the  party  of  order  we  include  a  vast 
majority  of  the  voters  in  England 
and  Scotland,  whether  they  march 
at  this  moment  under  the  banner 
of  Liberalism  or  Conservatism.  But 
is  it  probable  that  Mr  Gladstone's 
coming  measure  will  or  can  give 
satisfaction,  even  to  the  party  of 
movement  in  Ireland  itself  1  If 
he  play  into  the  hands  of  the  priests, 
will  the  Fenians  stand  by  him  ] 
If  he  try  to  conciliate  the  Fenians, 
will  the  priests  endure  it  ?  and  in, 


254 


The  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


either  case  is  it  conceivable  that 
the  Protestant  people  of  either  Eng- 
land or  Scotland  will  permit  him 
to  hand  over  the  Irish,  tied  and 
bound,  to  the  guidance  of  the  Rom- 
ish hierarchy,  or  to  legislate  so  as 
to  render  a  dissolution  of  the  union 
inevitable  within  a  year  or  two  at 
the  farthest  ?  It  is  easy  enough  to 
talk  or  write  about  patriotism,  una- 
nimity, and  the  absence  of  party 
spirit,  while  yet  the  points  to  be 
submitted  for  the  consideration  of 
the  Legislature  are  under  a  cloud. 
We  shall  see,  by-and-by,  when  the 
clouds  lift,  what  these  points 
really  are,  and  then,  and  only  then, 
will  it  be  known  how  far  the  major- 
ity which  carried  its  submissiveness 
to  an  extreme  last  session  is  still 
disposed  to  merit  the  not  very  en- 
viable character  which  the  Minister 
and  his  familiars  seek  to  fix  upon 
them. 

Again,  we  do  not  know  how  far 
the  noblemen  and  gentlemen  espe- 
cially referred  to  in  the  subjoined 
extract  are  disposed  to  conform  to 
the  views  concerning  themselves 
that  are  set  forth  in  it ;  but  we  are 
quite  satisfied  of  this,  that  before 
submitting  to  the  justice  of  the  in- 
ference which  is  drawn  from  it,  the 
public  will  carefully  consider  what 
it  is  that  Mr  Gladstone  has  done 
for  the  country  in  times  past,  and 
what,  therefore,  he  may  be  expect- 
ed to  achieve  for  it  in  time  coming. 
Certainly,  to  predicate  of  any  one 
man — if  he  were  as  gifted  as  Pitt, 
and  Fox,  and  Burke,  and  Peel,  all  in 
combination — that  he,  and  only  he, 
can  govern  the  country,  and  that, 
therefore,  "  his  defects  and  eccen- 
tricities must  be  put  up  with,"  is 
going  a  good  deal  farther  than  we 
are  inclined  to  believe  will  be  ac- 
cepted by  "  the  thinking  men  "  of 
this  constitutional  monarchy  : — 

"It  is  not  altogether  satisfactory  that 
the  welfare  of  the  nation  should  depend 
on  the  resolutions  of  one  impulsive 
statesman  ;  but  if  any  politician  doubts 
whether  it  is  desirable  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone should  be  Prime  Minister,  he  has 
only  to  consider  the  state  of  affairs 


which  would  follow  if  he  were  unfor- 
tunately to  be  disabled  or  removed  from 
the  conduct  of  affairs.  The  Liberal 
party  is  not  prepared  with  any  available 
successor,  and  it  would  be  impossible, 
as  it  would  be  undesirable,  that  Mr 
Disraeli  should  return  to  power.  Mr 
Bright,  who  alone  among  his  colleagues 
holds  a  great  and  independent  position, 
even  if  he  were  not  unfitted  by  his 
tastes  and  habits  to  conduct  an  Admin- 
istration, would  not  command  the  con- 
fidence of  the  moderate  section  of  the 
Liberal  party.  Mr  Lowe,  Mr  Card  well, 
Mr  Bruce,  and  Mr  Childers,  render  val- 
uable services  in  their  several  depart- 
ments, but  each  of  them  would  probably 
acknowledge  that  he  was  not  capable 
of  succeeding  to  Mr  Gladstone.  The 
large  experience  of  Lord  Granville  and 
Lord  Clarendon  is  better  appreciated 
by  Parliament  than  by  the  country,  and 
a  peer  at  the  head  of  the  Government 
is  practically  dependent  on  the  leader 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  most 
vehement  of  Mr  Gladstone's  assailants 
ought  to  confess,  on  reflection,  that  it 
would  be  more  difficult  to  do  without 
him  than  with  him.  As  ^Eschylus, 
according  to  Aristophanes,  said  in  the 
Elysian  fields  of  Alcibiades,  a  lion's 
whelp  or  an  irresistible  Minister  may 
be  an  inconvenience  in  a  constitutional 
State,  but  when  he  is  once  in  power  it 
only  remains  to  put  up  with  his  defects 
and  his  eccentricities." 

And  first  let  us  consider  what  Mr 
Gladstone's  position  is,  arid  the 
process  by  which  he  has  achieved 
it.  Mr  Gladstone  is  compared  to 
Mr  Pitt.  "  He  holds,  for  the  moment, 
the  most  commanding  position 
which  has  been  occupied  by  any 
Minister  since  the  time  of  Pitt." 
But  Mr  Gladstone  surpasses  Mr 
Pitt,  whether  in  perpetuity  or  for 
the  moment  only  we  are  not  told. 
"  The  Government  which  carried 
the  first  Reform  Bill  was,  until  its 
work  was  accomplished,  equally 
popular ;  but  Lord  Grey  never  stood, 
as  Mr  Gladstone  does,  apart  from 
his  colleagues,  and  in  popular  esti- 
mation above  them  all,  with  the 
doubtful  exception  of  Mr  Bright." 
A  Prime  Minister  "who  stands 
apart  from  his  colleagues,"  whether 
he  trust  to  the  favour  of  the  Crown 
or  to  "  popular  estimation,"  is  not 
fit  to  be  the  head  of  the  Govern- 


1870,] 


The  Coming  Session. 


255 


ment  in  a  free  country.  Call  him 
what  you  will,  he  is  a  Dictator  and 
nothing  else  ;  and  the  costly  farce 
of  associating  with  him  in  the 
Cabinet  ten  or  twelve  highly- 
salaried  dummies,  may  just  as  well 
be  dispensed  with.  But  so  firm  is 
Mr  Gladstone's  grasp  of  the  reins 
jf  office,  and  so  essential  his  man- 
ipulation of  them  to  the  existence 
of  the  cjmmon  wealth,  that  if  by 
my  evil  chance  they  were  to  escape 
from  his  hands,  ruin  must  follow. 
''  The  Liberal  party  is  not  prepared 
with  any  available  successor,  and  it 
would  be  impossible,  as  it  would 
be  undesirable,  that  Mr  Disraeli 
.should  return  to  power."  Such  is 
the  judgment  of  the  organs  of  the 
party  which  counts  among  its  fore- 
most men  Lord  Clarendon,  Lord 
Granville,  Mr  Lowe,  Mr  Cardwell, 
Mr  Bruce,  and  Mr  Childers.  Now 
we  all  know  that  there  was  a  time 
when,  supported  by  Mr  Cardwell, 
and  other  equally  able  men — dis- 
ciples, like  himself,  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel — Mr  Gladstone  entertained  few 
political  opinions  in  common  with 
the  Whigs  as  Lords  Clarendon  and 
Granville  represent  them ;  while 
his  attitude  towards  that  section 
of  the  Liberal  party  of  which  Mr 
Ghilders  may  be  taken  to  be  a  fair 
specimen,  was  one  of  unmeasured 
hostility.  How  does  it  happen 
that  he  is  at  this  moment  not  only 
on  relations  of  amity  with  both 
sections,  but  their  master,  and  the 
master  of  a  third  section  also, 
which  is  neither  Whig  nor  Radical, 
though  it  would  be  at  least  as  dan- 
gerous as  either  if  only  it  were  nu- 
merically more  powerful  than  it  is, 
having  Mr  Robert  Lowe  at  its 
head  ?  It  would  require  far  more 
space  than  we  can  now  command 
to  answer  that  question  fully.  To 
do  justice  to  so  wide  a  subject, 
we  must  needs  analyse  the  whole 
character  of  the  man,  and  show 
iiow  one  principle  after  another 
'nas  yielded  in  him  to  the  force  of  a 
temptation  which  would  have  led 
him  on  to  an  analogous,  though 
diametrically  opposite  result,  had 


the  progress  of  public  events  been 
different  from  what  it  was.  For 
the  present  it  may  suffice  to  say, 
that  in  the  impulsiveness  of  which 
Mr  Gladstone  is  popularly  regarded 
as  the  victim,  we  entirely  disbe- 
lieve. A  steadier  motive -power 
than  impulse  has  guided  him 
through  the  whole  of  his  tortuous 
course.  Mr  Gladstone  arrived, 
soon  after  entering  upon  public 
life,  at  a  great,  perhaps  an  exag- 
gerated, estimate  of  his  own  powers. 
He  was  not  in  office  six  months 
before  he  believed  in  the  destiny 
which  was  to  make  him,  sooner  or 
later,  First  Minister  of  the  English 
Crown.  Had  Peel  lived,  and — 
which  we  cannot  help  believing 
that  he  would  have  done — regained 
his  place  as  leader  of  the  great 
Conservative  party,  then  Mr  Glad- 
stone would  have  probably  remain- 
ed a  Conservative  to  the  end  ;  and 
doubtless  about  this  very  time,  or 
perhaps  a  little  earlier,  might  have 
attained  his  present  eminence  as 
the  legitimate  successor  of  a  depart- 
ed or  disabled  Conservative  chief 
But  Peel  died,  just  as  the  hearts  of 
his  old  followers  had  begun  to  soften 
towards  him,  and  the  little  band  of 
new  men  that  swore  by  him  while 
all  the  rest  stood  aloof,  felt  them- 
selves stranded.  How  they  sulked 
and  fretted,  and  "put  themselves 
continually  up  to  auction,  and  con- 
tinually bought  themselves  in,"  it 
would  be  to  repeat  a  tale  thrice  told 
if  we  referred  to  the  circumstance 
here.  Enough  is  done  when  we 
remind  our  readers  that  the  party, 
originally  small,  dwindled  away  by 
degrees  till  it  became  a  byword  in 
the  mouths  of  all  men  ;  and  would 
have  disappeared  entirely  but  for 
certain  incidents  which  have  oper- 
ated more  powerfully  on  the  fate 
of  the  nation  than  their  seeming 
importance,  when  first  noticed,  led 
the  most  careful  observer  to  anti- 
cipate. 

The  Whigs  had  long  made  use  of 
the  Radicals  to  serve  their  own 
purposes.  With  them  they  worked 
to  achieve  ends  peculiarly  their 


256 


The  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


own,  and  all  the  recompense  made 
for  their  services  amounted  to 
smooth  words  and  a  very  cold 
shoulder.  The  Radicals  bore  this 
for  a  while,  and  then  lost  patience. 
The  Whigs,  on  this,  began  to  fear, 
and,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  to 
hate,  their  recalcitrant  allies. 

The  Radicals  despised  and  ab- 
horred the  Whigs.  Both  de- 
tested the  Tories,  fearing  nothing 
so  much  as  their  return  to  office. 
The  Peelitestook  then  an  attitude  of 
political  independence,  and  became 
in  consequence  masters  of  the  situ- 
ation. Lord  Aberdeen's  Cabinet 
was  more  of  a  Peelite  Cabinet  than 
anything  else,  and  Mr  Gladstone 
became  its  moving  spirit.  There 
was  little  cordiality  among  the  con- 
stituent elements  in  that  hetero- 
geneous body  ;  yet  the  fact  of  sit- 
ting together  in  the  same  council- 
chamber  tended  to  smooth  down 
some  asperities,  and  the  adroit 
management  of  Lord  Palmerston 
did  all  the  rest.  Winning  the 
Peelites  to  himself,  he  separated 
them  for  ever  from  the  Tories,  and 
reduced  them  to  choose  at  his  death 
between  pure  Radicalism  and  sub- 
serviency to  the  Whigs.  Mr  Glad- 
stone did  not  hesitate  which  line  to 
take.  He  knew  that,  as  a  Whig, 
he  would  never  reach  the  highest 
office  in  the  State.  One  by  one  the 
principles  of  his  earlier  years  had 
been  departed  from,  and  he  stood 
prepared,  while  as  yet  only  leader 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  to  throw 
over  whatever  remained.  How  he 
went  to  work,  how  ready  he  found 
Mr  Bright  and  the  extreme  section 
of  the  Liberals  to  co-operate  with 
him  in  undermining  Lord  Russell's 
influence,  we  need  not  stop  to  point 
out.  The  history  of  the  last  two  or 
three  years  is  charged  with  proofs 
of  his  treason  as  well  to  new 
alliances  as  to  old.  He  is  now 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  with  the 
Tories  in  a  small  minority,  with 
the  Whigs  utterly  degraded,  and 
the  contemners  of  every  other  con- 
stitution than  that  of  the  United 
States  of  America  pressing  him 


on  along  a  road  on  which  he 
did  not  enter  at  first  without 
reluctance,  but  from  which  he  can 
never  more  turn  aside  unless  driven 
from  it  and  from  office  at  the  same 
time.  The  conclusion,  then,  at 
which  we  arrive  is  this, — that  from 
a  very  early  date  in  his  public 
career,  beginning  palpably  at  the 
period  when  he  seceded  from  Sir 
Robert  Peel's  Administration,  sup- 
porting, as  an  independent  mem- 
ber, a  measure  against  which,  as  a 
Minister,  he  had  formerly  spoken, 
Mr  Gladstone  set  his  heart  on  be- 
coming what  he  now  is,  and, 
finding  other  avenues  to  the  attain- 
ment of  his  end  barred  against  him, 
he  deliberately,  and  with  exceeding 
skill,  slid  from  extreme  Toryism 
into  the  deepest  depth  of  Radical- 
ism. Consider  his  course  of  action 
during  the  last  twenty  years,  and 
you  will  not  fail  to  recognise  the 
justice  of  this  conclusion.  He 
seizes  every  opportunity  of  getting 
ahead  of  the  statesmen  with  whom 
he  is  associated  in  the  Government. 
He  coquets  with  Church  ques- 
tions so  long  as  it  is  possible  to 
retain  his  hold  upon  the  represen- 
tation of  the  University  of  Oxford, 
because  that  is  to  him  an  object  of 
ambition  second  only  to  the  Pre- 
miership. But  losing  that,  he 
plunges  boldly  into  extremes,  and 
having  Lord  Russell  as  his  chief, 
he  enters  into  secret  and  confiden- 
tial communication  with  Mr  Bright. 
Last  of  all,  presuming  that  nothing 
else  will  carry  him  free  of  Whig 
embarrassment,  he  contrives  and 
executes  that  master-stroke  of 
policy  which  reunites  in  its  hour  of 
greatest  distress  a  broken  Liberal 
party.  He  denounces  the  upas- 
tree  of  Protestant  ascendancy  in 
Ireland,  heads  a  crusade  for  the 
overthrow  of  the  Church  in  that 
portion  of  the  kingdom,  and,  sus- 
tained by  the  whole  might  of 
Roman  Catholics,  political  dis- 
senters, men  professing  no  creed, 
and  London  and  other  mobs,  he 
carries  Downing  Street  by  assault, 
and  reigns  there  as  we  are  assured 


1870.] 


The  Coming  Session. 


257 


supreme.  Is  his  hold  upon  power 
AS  fixed  as  his  flatterers  in  and  out 
of  the  House  of  Commons  affirm  it 
to  be  1  We  doubt  the  fact,  and  for 
the  following  among  other  reasons : 

The  overthrow  of  the  Protestant 
Church  was  to  be  a  message  of 
peace  which  the  Irish  people  could 
not  fail  to  understand.  They  were 
to  learn  from  that  act,  and  the 
determination  with  which  it  was 
carried  through,  that,  come  what 
might,  a  full  measure  of  justice 
would  henceforth  be  meted  out  to 
them  in  all  respects.  And  the  more 
to  convince  them  of  the  goodwill 
of  their  rulers,  a  certain  number  of 
Fenian  leaders,  whom  the  preced- 
ing Government  had  brought  to 
trial  and  convicted,  received  a  free 
pardon  and  were  set  at  liberty. 
Finally,  the  bill  suspending  the 
Habeas  Corpus  Act  was  not  renew- 
ed, and  Ireland'  enjoyed  once  more 
all  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the 
British  Constitution. 

The  return  expected  for  these 
concessions  was — that  disaffection 
to  the  Imperial  Government  should 
cease ;  that  priests  and  peopleshould 
combine  to  show  themselves  worthy 
of  still  further  favours;  and  that, 
waiting  patiently  on  the  known 
goodwill  of  a  strong  Cabinet 
and  a  Liberal  House  of  Com- 
mons, the  country  should  find  rest. 
What  has  been  the  result?  Not 
within  the  memory  of  man  has  Ire- 
land been  in  such  a  state  of  uni- 
versal disquiet.  The  overthrow  of 
the  Church,  while  it  infuriated  the 
Protestants,  was  treated  by  Koman 
Catholics,  both  of  the  clergy  and  the 
laity,  as  an  incident  to  be  sneered 
at.  What  do  the  priests  care  for 
the  confiscation  of  a  property  in  the 
fragments  of  which  they  are  not 
allowed  to  participate?  What 
do  the  laity  gain  by  the  removal 
from  among  them  of  a  body  of  men 
who,  in  very  many  instances,  were 
the  sole  resident  gentry  throughout 
extensive  and  otherwise  savage  dis- 
tricts 1  The  release  of  a  few  of  the 
Fenian  prisoners  has  served  no 
other  purpose  than  to  stimulate  a 


demand  for  the  release  of  all  the 
rest,  whom  the  people  regard,  not 
as  guilty,  nor  even  as  deluded  men, 
but  as  true  patriots,  martyrs  in 
their  country's  cause.  Mr  Glad- 
stone is  assailed  with  remonstrances 
against  the  wrong  done  to  these 
good  men,  and  fierce  demands  for 
their  deliverance.  He  replies  meek- 
ly, declining,  it  is  true,  to  obey  the 
behests  of  the  remonstrants,  but 
discovering  in  the  language  of  their 
appeals  signs  of  loyalty  and  mode- 
ration which  are  quite  invisible  to 
all  the  world  besides.  Meanwhile 
monster  meetings  are  held  in  town 
and  country — green  banners  flutter 
in  the  breeze,  and  the  harp  without 
the  crown  becomes  the  emblem  of 
nationality,  and  repeal  of  the  Union 
is  demanded.  We  say  nothing  of 
the  extravagant  pretensions  put 
forth,  first  by  tenants  large  and 
small,  and,  by-and-by,  by  day-la- 
bourers. Fixity  of  tenure,  what- 
ever the  expression  may  mean,  is 
in  the  mouth  of  every  public 
speaker,  the  very  owners  of  the 
soil  not  venturing  to  say  or  write 
a  syllable  in  contravention  of  the 
absurdity. 

Mr  Gladstone  may  flatter  him- 
self into  the  persuasion  that  these 
things  are  comparatively  little  re- 
garded in  England.  He  may  be  so 
far  deluded  also  as  to  believe  that 
over  the  difficulties  raised  by  them 
in  Ireland  the  priests  will  carry  him. 
We  know  the  reverse.  The  election 
of  a  convicted  Fenian  to  represent 
Tipperary,  and  the  deep  humiliation 
which  was  requisite  to  save  Cap- 
tain Greville  Nugent  from  defeat 
in  Longford,  are  pregnant  with 
meaning.  When  the  son  of  a  peer, 
a  gentleman  of  large  possessions, 
is  forced  to  declare  himself  at  the 
hustings  the  mere  creature  of  the 
Popish  priests,  it  is  time  for  Pro- 
testant England  and  Scotland  to 
look  about  them.  When  the  Gov- 
ernment is  assuring  their  adher- 
ents that  one  of  their  first  great 
measures  will  be,  after  they  have 
carried  the  reform  of  the  laws 
affecting  land  in  Ireland,  to 


258 


The  Coming  Session 


[Feb. 


bring  in  a  bill  for  the  education 
of  the  whole  people  on  non-sec- 
tarian principles,  it  is  no  great 
token  of  their  chances  of  carrying 
the  priesthood  along  with  them, 
that  the  latter  demand  the  substi- 
tution for  the  present  unsectarian 
national  system  in  Ireland  of  one 
which  shall  throw  the  education 
of  the  people  entirely  into  their 
hands.  Again,  this  "  elaborate  bill 
for  dealing  with  the  land  in  Ire- 
land," of  what  nature  is  it  to  be  1 
Has  Mr  Bright  inoculated  his 
chief  with  his  idea  for  purchasing 
and  redistributing  the  estates  of 
the  Protestant  gentry;  or  are  all 
the  landowners  in  the  kingdom, 
•whatever  their  religious  persuasion 
may  be,  to  surrender  their  property 
with  or  without  compensation  ] 
As  to  leases,  courts  of  arbitration, 
and  so  forth,  we  do  not  under- 
stand that  any,  except  a  few  enthu- 
siastic doctrinaires,  believe  in  the 
possibility  of  such  arrangements, 
or  their  utility,  if  created.  The 
pleasant  case  between  Sir  John 
Young  and  the  family  of  the  de- 
ceased Presbyterian  minister,  is 
almost  as  rich  a  specimen  of  the 
Irish  mode  of  looking  at  matters 
of  this  sort  as  the  bolder  proceed- 
ings of  the  maiden  lady's  tenant, 
who  demurs  to  the  decisions  of  his 
own  referee,  and  insists  upon  hold- 
ing his  land  on  his  own  terms.  Ire- 
land !  Ireland  alone  will  break  this 
wretched  Government  down,  or  we 
very  much  deceive  ourselves.  They 
talk  of  peace  !  They  let  slip  the 
dogs  of  war.  What  was  once  the 
Established  Church  is  falling  to 
pieces,  as  we  predicted  that  it 
would  do.  The  clergy  and  the 
people  agree  only  in  this,  their 
common  indignation  against  the 
Government  which  has  robbed 
them.  The  Presbyterians  like- 
wise are  beginning  to  find  out 
how  grossly  they  were  deceived 
and  mocked  to  Their  own  hurt. 
Among  them,  not  less  than  among 
the  Roman  Catholics,  the  desir- 
ableness of  separating  from  Eng- 
land altogether  is  spoken  about. 


Meanwhile  murders  grow  more 
plentiful  and  bold  from  day  to  day. 
The  police,  baffled  and  powerless, 
will  soon  cease  to  be  trustworthy. 
It  is  by  the  troops  alone  that  Ire- 
land is  held.  How  long  will  the 
authors  of  all  this  confusion  be 
sustained  in  power,  either  by  the 
House  of  Commons  or  by  their  con- 
stituencies 1 

Again  Mr  Gladstone,  not  con- 
tent to  outrage  and  exasperate 
whole  bodies  of  persons,  has  man- 
aged, in  the  administration  of  Irish 
affairs,  to  bring  the  Irish  Govern- 
ment into  contempt,  and  to  do 
wrong  to  individuals.  Was  ever 
such  conduct  heard  of  before  as 
that  which  had  to  do  with  the  pro- 
cession of  the  apprentice  boys  in 
Deny,  and  the  dismissal  of  Mr 
Madden  from  the  magistracy? 
The  'prentice  boys  were  warned 
against  holding  their  annual  com- 
memoration, and  troops  were  pour- 
ed into  the  city  to  prevent  it. 
At  the  last  hour  a  proclamation 
came  out,  assenting  to  all  that  the 
'prentices  had  required ;  and  not 
they  alone,  but  the  Fenians  also, 
marched  through  the  town  with 
their  bands  and  banners,  while  the 
Queen's  troops  stood  idly  looking 
on,  with  arms  in  their  hands.  After 
this,  who  can  be  expected  to  pay 
the  smallest  regard  to  the  law,  if 
only  it  run  counter  to  his  own  hu- 
mours] Meanwhile  Mr  Madden, 
a  respectable  and  singularly  quiet 
country  gentleman,  who  never  in 
his  life  attended  a  political  gather- 
ing, nor  took  any  public  part  in 
opposing  the  Ministry,  is  dismis- 
sed rudely  from  the  commission 
of  the  peace,  and  deprived  of  his 
rank  of  deputy-lieutenant,  for  no 
other  cause  than  that  he  declines 
to  act  as  sheriff  of  a  county  under 
a  Government  which  he  cannot 
trust.  Doubtless  this  case  among 
others  will  be  inquired  into  when 
Parliament  meets,  and  the  excuse 
set  up  will  probably  be,  that  the 
authorities  mistook  him  for  his 
brother.  But  what  will  the  coun- 
try say  to  a  Government  which  is 


1870.] 


The  Coming  Session. 


259 


capable  of  such  a  blunder,  yet 
fails,  when  the  mistake  is  discover- 
ed, to  undo  its  own  wrong  1 

It  is  not,  however,  Mr  Glad- 
stone's Irish  policy  alone  that  will 
show  in  a  different  light,  when 
sifted,  from  that  which  his  admirers 
of  the  press  strive  to  throw  over  it. 
As  we  took  occasion  not  long  ago 
to  point  out,  the  condition  of  the 
working  classes  in  England  was 
never  more  deplorable  than  it  is 
now.  Everywhere  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts, as  well  as  in  London  and 
the  great  seats  of  industry,  there  is 
a  universal  cry  that  the  people  are 
starving.  Men  able  and  willing 
to  work  cannot  find  employment, 
while  capital,  though  abundant, 
lies  idle  for  lack  of  enterprises  on 
which  to  use  it.  Let  no  one  sup- 
pose that  the  cry  for  a  system  of 
reciprocity  in  dealing  with  foreign 
nations  is  one  got  up  for  a  pur- 
pose, and  therefore  sure  to  die  out. 
Rightly  or  wrongly  the  operatives 
are  fast  becoming  imbued  with  the 
persuasion  that  their  interests  are 
sacrificed,  in  order  that  the  rich 
may  enjoy  their  luxuries  at  a  cheap 
rate;  and  Mr  Gladstone,  who  claims 
the  credit  of  having  been  the  main 
instrument  of  establishing  Free- 
Trade  in  the  country,  may  find,  ere 
many  weeks  pass,  that  his  popu- 
larity is  on  the  wane.  In  like  man- 
ner, the  savings  effected  at  the 
Admiralty  and  in  the  War  Office 
seem  to  come  exclusively  out  of  the 
pockets  of  the  poor.  The  shutting 
up  of  the  Woolwich  Dockyard,  the 
discharge  of  workmen  from  those 
of  Chatham,  and  Portsmouth,  and 
Sheerness, — these  things  may  be 
wise  in  themselves,  but  they  are 
not  calculated  to  make  friends  of 
the  people  who  suffer  from  them. 
The  money  expended  in  carrying 
Mr  Childers  through  his  cruises, 
and  repairing  the  damage  done  to 
the  fleet  in  the  course  of  them, 
would  have  kept  some  hundreds  of 
labourers  at  work  for  weeks.  As 
to  the  army  reductions,  these,  as 
far  as  we  are  able  to  understand 
them,  go  to  this — that  every  corps 


in  the  service  is  to  be  reduced,  so 
far  as  the  non-commissioned  officers 
and  privates  are  concerned,  to  a 
skeleton,  while  the  full  comple- 
ment of  officers,  by  far  the  most 
expensive  part  of  the  machine,  is 
to  be  kept  up. 

Nor  are  these  the  only  moves 
in  connection  with  both  army  and 
navy  of  which  the  tendency  is  as 
bad,  as  the  proceedings  themselves 
will  startle  even  such  as  fail  to  see 
whither  they  are  carrying  us.  The 
Horse  Guards,  it  appears,  like  the 
Protestant  Church  in  Ireland,  must 
cease,  as  a  national  institution,  to 
exist;  and  the  Commander-in-Chief, 
transferred  to  the  office  in  Pall 
Mall,  will  become  a  mere'  head  of  a 
department  under  the  Secretary  of 
State  for  War.  Now  this,  if  it 
come  to  pass,  will  be  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  formal  reversal  of 
the  decision  at  which  the  Parlia- 
ments which  succeeded  the  great 
Civil  War,  one  after  another,  ar- 
rived. The  Commander-in-Chief, 
occupying  a  room  in  the  War  Office, 
and  taking  all  his  instructions  from 
the  Secretary  of  State,  will  cease  to 
be  what  he  has  heretofore  been — 
the  medium  of  communication  be- 
tween the  Queen  and  her  army. 
All  appointments  will  henceforth 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  Minister ;  all 
promotions  settled  according  to  his 
pleasure  ;  and  the  army,  which  has 
heretofore  been  the  army  of  the 
Crown,  will  become  the  army  of  the 
Parliament.  Indeed,  the  change 
will  go  even  farther  than  this :  "The 
judgment  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, we  are  assured,  is  on  all  mat- 
ters of  far  greater  weight  than  the 
judgment  of  the  House  of  Lords." 
According  to  the  will  of  the  House 
of  Commons  the  Secretary  of  State 
must  therefore  rise  or  fall ;  and  so, 
by  a  very  obvious  process,  the  army 
becomes  the  servant  neither  of  the 
Crown  nor  of  Parliament,  but  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  Now, 
looking  to  the  course  into  which 
public  affairs  are  falling  ;  consider- 
ing the  class  which  must  hereafter 
exercise  the  greatest  influence  in 


260 


The  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


returning  members  to  the  House  of 
Commons  ;  accepting  it  as  highly 
probable  that  we  shall  soon  have 
manhood  suffrage  with  the  ballot — 
professedly  to  ward  off,  in  point  of 
fact  to  invite  and  aggravate,  cor- 
ruption,— who  will  any  longer  be 
able  to  rely  upon  the  loyalty  of  the 
troops  themselves  in  the  event  of  a 
popular  commotion  being  by  any 
cause  created  1  At  this  moment, 
indeed,  the  troops  will  do  their 
duty,  if  any  sad  occasion  should 
arise  of  using  them  to  quell  distur- 
bances. But  suppose  the  distur- 
bance to  be  agreeable  to  the  Min- 
ister— the  Minister  being  the  crea- 
ture of  the  classes  which  nomi- 
nate the  House  of  Commons — what 
then  1  A  democratic  movement  is 
got  up.  It  has  been  declared  at 
Birmingham  and  in  Hyde  Park 
that  "  the  barbaric  pomp  of  royalty  " 
is  out  of  date ;  or  a  popular  Min- 
ister, say  some  President  of  the 
Board  of  Trade,  has  enunciated  his 
determination  to  bring  in  a  Land 
Bill  for  England  and  Scotland  as 
well  as  for  Ireland  ;  or  possibly  the 
same  or  some  other  member  of  the 
Cabinet  may  proclaim  that  a  House 
of  Lords  is  worse  than  useless,  and 
must  be  abolished  :  the  sovereign, 
of  course,  in  such  a  case  as  one  or 
other  of  these,  will  at  once  dismiss 
her  Ministers,  and  in  the  event  of 
an  attack  upon  life  and  property 
in  the  capital,  will  require  her 
troops  to  act.  But  will  this  be 
possible  ?  No.  The  Minister  of 
War,  who  is  now  supreme,  takes 
care  to  send  every  soldier  out  of 
London  before  the  time  comes  for 
trying  his  own  strength  against  the 
strength  of  the  Crown.  And  the 
Commander-in-Chief ,  who,  while  yet 
representing  the  Crown,  had  it  in 
his  power  to  take  the  Queen's  plea- 
sure, and  withhold  a  dangerous 
order,  as  he  has  become  nothing 
else  than  a  clerk  in  the  War  Office, 
so  he  can  neither  originate  nor  pre- 
vent anything,  except  as  his  master 
shall  require.  Let  us  speak  out 
frankly  and  openly  upon  so  grave 
a  question  before  it  be  settled. 


The  suppression  of  the  office  of 
Commander-in-Cbief,  and  the  ab- 
sorption of  all  direct  control  over 
the  army  by  a  civilian  Minister  who 
holds  office  only  at  the  pleasure  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  will  be  the 
severest  blow  that  has  been  struck 
at  the  monarchical  principle  in  this 
country  since  the  times  of  the  Long 
Parliament.  We  cannot  persuade 
ourselves  that  either  House  of  Par- 
liament is,  as  yet,  ripe  for  so  very 
serious  an  inroad  on  the  Constitu- 
tion. It  is  impossible  to  believe 
that  the  Crown  will  submit  to  be 
so  degraded  without  appealing 
against  its  Ministers  to  the  Legis- 
lature— and  if  the  Legislature  fail 
it,  against  the  decision  of  the  pre- 
sent House  of  Commons  to  the 
country. 

Meanwhile  the  aspect  of  affairs, 
both  as  regards  our  relations  with 
the  United  States  and  in  reference 
to  the  feeling  which  has  sprung  up, 
and  is  continually  becoming  more 
bitter,  in  the  colonies,  presents  little 
to  assure  Mr  Gladstone  of  the  con- 
tinued support  of  the  country.  Lord 
Clarendon's  dissection  of  the  bill 
of  indictment  brought  against  him 
by  the  new  American  minister  is, 
indeed,  perfect.  Mr  Motley  has 
not  a  leg  to  stand  upon,  and  he 
knows  it.  But,  though  the  wolf 
had  very  little  reason  in  the  com- 
plaint which  he  brought  against  the 
lamb,  he  was  but  the  more  earnest 
in  avenging  an  alleged  wrong,  be- 
cause it  had  no  existence.  The 
insolent  protest  of  the  American 
Foreign  Office  partakes  largely  of 
the  character  which  JEsop  infused 
into  the  wolfs  complaint ;  and  if 
common  report  is  to  be  credited, 
it  will  be  followed,  if  possible,  by 
kindred  results.  The  rebellion  at 
the  Red  River  Settlement,  and 
the  petition  of  the  inhabitants  of 
British  Columbia  to  be  annexed, 
are  very  significant  facts.  Mr  Bright 
and  Mr  Gladstone,  who  equally  ab- 
hor war,  will,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
let  both  of  these  colonies  drift  from 
us.  They  will  say  that  the  loss  is  a 
mere  sentimental  grievance ;  where- 


1870.] 


The,  Coming  Session. 


261 


as  to  retain  them,  money  and  life 
must  be  sacrificed  largely.  Be  it 
so.  But  woe  to  the  empire  which 
begins  to  abandon  its  extremities 
rather  than  put  the  centre  to  in- 
convenience. Rome  withered  at  the 
heart  before  her  offshoots  drifted  off 
from  her.  The  first  colony  that  sepa- 
rates from  us,  like  a  feather  thrown 
up  into  the  air,  will  let  the  whole 
world  see  whither  we  are  tending. 
If  we  surrender  one,  be  it  ever  so 
worthless,  on  the  demand  of  any 
other  power,  then  the  sooner  we 
cease  to  sing  "Rule,  Britannia"  the 
better.  Now  we  do  not  believe 
that  the  people  of  England  are  as 
yet  prepared  for  these  things.  It 
strikes  us,  on  the  contrary,  that  the 
vast  importance  of  our  transmarine 
territories  is  just  beginning  to 
be  felt  and  acknowledged  by  the 
masses.  These  colonisation  so- 
cieties springing  up  everywhere, 
show  that  at  length  the  suffer- 
ing poor,  and  the  rich  who  feel 
for  them,  understand  how  alone 
the  ills  of  over-population  are  to 
be  remedied.  The  suffering  poor, 
therefore,  and  the  rich  who  feel  for 
them,  cannot  be  expected  to  ap- 
prove a  policy  which  shall  give  an 
impulse  to  a  movement  so  eminent- 
ly calculated  to  rob  them  and  their 
children  of  their  inheritance.  Mr 
Gladstone  and  Lord  Granville  may 
pretend  to  hold  the  remonstrances 
of  colonial  deputations  light.  We 
are  mistaken  if  they  will  not  find, 
when  the  season  of  difficulty  arises 
to  them,  that  colonists  and  the 
friends  of  colonists  have  more  in- 
fluence in  Great  Britain  than  they 
dreamed  of. 

And  now,  while  all  these  clouds 
are  gathering  round  them,  we  have 
not  only  the  newspapers  assever- 
ating that  a  Liberal  Government, 
with  Mr  Gladstone  at  its  head,  is 
a  necessity,  but  we  have  Mr  Bright 
upon  the  stump,  gathering  round 
him  his  friends  in  Birmingham, 
and  speaking  to  them  no  more  as 
the  teacher  of  the  people,  but  as  the 
Minister  of  the  Crown.  Mr  Bright's 
recent  speeches  have  hardly,  as  it 


seems  to  us,  received  full  justice 
either  from  the  'Times'  or  the 
'Standard.'  The  'Times'  under- 
takes, of  course,  to  account  favour- 
ably for  his  change  of  tone.  He  has 
been  taught  by  experience.  He 
knows  now  what  the  difficulties  real- 
ly are  that  stand  in  the  way  of  the 
very  best-intentioned  Government. 
The  '  Standard,'  on  the  contrary, 
will  not  allow  to  the  popular  orator 
one  iota  of  merit.  It  considers  his 
first  address,  during  his  recent 
visit  to  Birmingham,  to  be  as 
mischievous  as  any  that  he  ever 
uttered;  and  of  the  others  it 
speaks  contemptuously.  We  have 
read  all  his  appeals  to  his  consti- 
tuents and  admirers  differently. 
He  is  guarded  rather  in  the  lan- 
guage in  which  he  clothes  his 
thoughts  than  in  the  thoughts 
themselves.  He  has  not  changed 
a  single  opinion.  But  being  a 
member  of  a  Cabinet  in  which 
there  are  still  those  who  differ  from 
him  on  every  subject,  toto  ccelo,  he 
avoids  discussions  on  which  he 
could  not  enter  without  bringing 
confusion  into  the  Government. 
Mr  Bright,  in  spite  of  his  some- 
what fulsome  laudation  of  the  indi- 
vidual sovereign,  is  precisely  what 
he  ever  was — a  democrat  to  the 
backbone.  His  hatred  of  the 
House  of  Lords  he  scarcely  takes 
the  trouble  to  disguise  at  Birming- 
ham, any  more  than  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  The  landed  gentry 
are  odious  in  his  eyes ;  and  he 
tells  his  people  that  the  great  mea 
sure  of  last  session  has  effected  all 
that  its  authors  intended  it  to 
effect,  because  he  sees  or  imagines 
that  its  ultimate  results  will  be  the 
downfall  of  everything  like  mon- 
archical institutions  throughout  the 
empire.  What  good  can  a  gentle- 
man of  his  peculiar  views  see  in  a 
regularly  constituted  Church,  whe- 
ther its  organisation  go  up  from  the 
kirk-session  to  the  General  Assem- 
bly, or  from  the  minister  and  his 
churchwardens  to  the  Episcopate  or 
the  Papacy,  to  command  respect] 
He  has  been  trained  from  infancy 


262 


TJic  Coming  Session. 


[Feb. 


to  treat  religion  as  a  sentiment, 
and  the  need  of  discipline  in  a 
Church,  to  be  enforced  by  laws,  and 
of  officers  especially  appointed  to 
explain  and  carry  them  into  effect, 
as  entirely  out  of  place  in  the  inter- 
course of  men  with  their  Creator. 
In  his  view,  therefore,  the  sever- 
ance of  the  Church  from  the  State 
in  Ireland  is  a  step  in  the  right 
direction.  It  has  effected  all  that 
for  the  present  he  desired  to  gain 
from  it.  It  has  at  least  shaken 
men's  belief  in  the  moral  obliga- 
tion of  the  State  to  foster  the 
religious  principle  in  the  people. 
Mr  Bright  has,  we  suspect,  made 
a  mistake  in  all  this.  It  may 
go  down  in  a  hall  crammed  with 
Birmingham  operatives,  who  take 
no  trouble  to  analyse  the  declara- 
tion, and  might  not  be  able  if 
they  did  to  catch  its  true  drift. 
But  instructed  Churchmen,  whether 
they  be  Anglicans,  Presbyterians, 
or  Roman  Catholics,  are  differently 
circumstanced.  In  their  mutual 
dislike  to  each  other,  they  may  de- 
cline to  look  beyond  the  end  imme- 
diately achieved  ;  but  they  cannot, 
when  they  come  to  consider  the 
matter,  fail  to  perceive  that  there 
is  a  still  sterner  issue  in  the  back- 
ground. Again,  Mr  Bright  deceives 
himself  if  he  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  the  nonsense  which  he  talked 
on  the  subject  of  reciprocity  will 
have  any  other  effect  than  to  con- 
firm the  advocates  of  that  commer- 
cial system  in  their  error,  if  an 
error  it  be.  They  will  tell  him,  in 
reply,  that  they  deprecate  the  im- 
position of  duties  on  the  raw  mate- 
rial ;  that  they  would  object  to 
customs  on  the  importation  of  cot- 
ton, as  much  as  on  the  importation 
of  corn  and  cattle  ;  and  are  averse 
to  tax  the  export  of  wool  or  grain. 
But  if  France  persists  in  taxing  our 
fabrics,  then  are  we  bound  to  de- 
fend ourselves  by  taxing  hers ;  of 
which  the  effect  will  be,  that  what- 
ever England  is  capable  of  produc- 
ing, the  English  people  will  purchase 
at  a  moderate  rate  ;  while  those 
who  cannot  do  without  foreign 


fabrics,  and  are  rich  enough  to  buy 
them,  can  do  so.  As  to  the  argu- 
ment which  turns  upon  increased 
house-rent,  and  so  forth,  there  is  no 
weight  in  it  whatever.  Rents  were 
not  what  they  are  now,  while  as 
yet  only  native  masons,  bricklayers, 
and  carpenters,  built  the  houses. 
They  will  scarcely  rise  above  their 
present  level  if  we  re  vert  to  this  same 
good  custom  ;  and  should  they  rise, 
men  in  constant  employ  will  be 
better  able  to  pay  six  or  seven 
shillings  a-week  for  their  rooms, 
than  men  out  of  work  entirely,  or 
only  employed  by  fits  and  starts, 
are  able  to  pay  five  shillings. 

On  the  whole,  then,  it  appears  to 
us,  that  the  coming  session  is  just 
as  likely  to  shake,  weaken,  and  de- 
stroy the  present  Government  as 
to  insure  to  it  a  long  lease  of  power. 
Ireland  is  in  a  state  of  volcano.  No 
land  law  that  the  heart  of  man 
can  devise  will  be  sufficient  to 
change  its  condition  in  that  re- 
spect. The  priests  insist  upon  such 
a  fixity  of  tenure  for  the  tenants  as 
is  clearly  incompatible  with  the 
rights  of  property  in  the  nominal 
landowner.  The  working  men  de- 
mand that  they  shall  not  be  for- 
gotten, and  seem  to  point  to  a  re- 
currence to  the  old  tribal  system. 
Can  we  imagine  for  a  moment  that 
a  British  Parliament  will  sanction 
either  wrong,  or  anything  at  all  ap- 
proaching to  it?  The  priests  de- 
mand that  they  shall  become  the 
sole  recognised  instructors  of  the 
Irish  people.  Will  either  the  Man- 
chester Education  League,  or  the 
Education  Union  of  England,  or 
the  National  Society,  or  the  Gene- 
ral Assembly  of  Scotland,  assent  to 
this1?  The  Irish  people — for  we 
grieve  to  say  that  recent  events 
have  tended  to  bring  more  than 
Fenians  to  this  state  of  mind — are 
becoming  more  and  more  convinced 
every  day  that  Ireland  will  never 
prosper  till  she  re-establish  a  Legis- 
lature of  her  own.  Is  it  to  be  cre- 
dited that  Parliament  will  sanction 
the  setting  up  two  governing  bodies 
within  the  same  monarchy,  and  that, 


1870.] 


The  Coming  Session. 


263 


too,  after  the  experience  of  seventy 
years  of  union  1  Meanwhile  the 
colonists  claim  to  have  their  views 
represented  by  a  delegation  in  Lon- 
don of  their  own  body.  What  is 
this  except  a  Colonial  Parliament, 
if  not  possessing  powers  co-exten- 
sive with  that  which  sits  in  West- 
minster, at  all  events  qualified  and 
authorised  to  advise,  and  it  may  be 
restrain,  that  body  ?  And  for  rous- 
ing the  spirit  which  thus  works, 
Mr  Gladstone  knows  that  he  alone 
is  responsible.  Well,  we  are  in 
God's  hands.  If  it  be  His  will 
to  destroy  this  great  constitutional 


monarchy  we  cannot  help  it.  But 
we  venture  to  hope  better  things, 
even  though  the  realisation  of  the 
dream  in  which  we  indulge  may 
imply  the  expulsion  from  office  of 
our  "inevitable  Prime  Minister." 
Let  us  wait  and  see  whether  self- 
denial,  regard  for  truth,  wisdom, 
and  a  genuine  love  of  country  may 
not  co-operate  to  bring  men  of 
moderate  opinions  together,  to  the 
discomfiture  and  rout  of  those 
who  seem  bent  on  sacrificing  all 
that  is  worth  living  for  both  in 
England  and  Ireland  to  their  own 
wild  ambition. 


264  Rhymed  Verse  in  English  Comedy.  [Feb. 

UPON   THE    EMPLOYMENT   OF   RHYMED   VERSE   IN   ENGLISH   COMEDY. 
TO  THE  EDITOR  OF   '  BLACKWOOD's  MAGAZINE.' 

TORQUAY,  Jan.  20, 1870. 

SIR, — In  his  Preface  to  the  comedy  of  the  '  PLAIDEURS,'  Racine  ob- 
serves that  "  people  in  general  pay  no  heed  to  the  intention  or  the  dili- 
gence of  authors,"  and  complains  "  that  the  work  he  had  written  for 
amusement  had  been  examined  as  if  it  were  a  tragedy ;  so  that  even 
those  most  inclined  to  be  diverted  were  afraid  de  ri avoir  pas  ri  dans  les 
regies"  Alas  !  I  have  not  written  the  '  PLAIDEURS ; '  but,  judging  by 
certain  comments  on  the  little  comedy  I  have  written,  I  feel  that  I  ought 
so  far  to  have  imitated  the  illustrious  author  of  the  *  PLAIDEURS,'  as  to 
have  explained  the  nature  of  my  design  in  a  preface.  If  you  can  cour- 
teously spare  me  a  brief  space  in  your  columns,  I  would  fain  repair  that 
omission. 

However  trivial  my  work  in  itself,  the  inquiries  it  suggests  can  scarcely 
be  without  interest  and  importance  to  genuine  students  of  our  literature 
— viz.,  1st,  Whether  our  language  will  admit  of  a  versified  rhythm  especi- 
ally appropriate  to  the  Comic  Muse?  and  2dly,  If  so,  whether  such  rhythm 
should  be  sought  in  the  metre  employed  by  Moliere  ?  Many  years  ago, 
when  I  was  encouraged  to  direct  my  thoughts  towards  compositions  in- 
tended for  stage  representation,  conversing  with  some  not  undistinguished 
literary  friends,  the  remark  was  made,  that  our  comedy,  so  rich  in  its 
department  of  prose,  had  hitherto  found  no  measure  in  verse  readily 
available  for  the  mirth  or  the  satire  in  which  the  poetry  of  comedy 
mainly  consists  ;  that  our  blank  verse,  the  noblest  of  all  forms  for  tragic 
diction,  and  lending  poetic  elevation  or  grace  to  the  mixed  drama  of 
sentiment  and  romance,  is  singularly  ill  adapted  to  the  playfulness  of 
comic  dialogue.  It  is  truly  said  by  the  critic  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  a  too  nattering  review  of  'Walpole7  in  the  last  number  of  your  Maga- 
zine :  "  That  Shakespeare  judged  blank  verse  an  inappropriate  vehicle 
for  comedy,  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  his  comic  business  is  almost  invari- 
ably transacted  in  prose,  that  most  of  his  comic  characters  never  speak 
verse  at  all,  and  that  others,  who  do  speak  it,  descend  to  prose  in  comic 
scenes."  Yet  if  we  are  to  boast  of  a  Comic  Muse,  it  would  seem  that  she 
ought  to  have  some  sort  of  poetic  measure  which  she  would  not  be  called 
upon  to  forsake  the  moment  she  entered  her  rightful  province  of  humour 
and  wit.  The  comedy  of  the  ancients  is  a  comedy  of  verse.  In  the 
course  of  the  above-mentioned  discussion,  reference  was  naturally  made 
to  Moliere,  and  to  the  advantage  for  the  surprise  of  repartee  and  the 
point  of  epigram  which  his  employment  of  rhyme  had  bestowed  on  his 
dialogue.  The  question  then  no  less  naturally  arose,  "Whether  the  metre 
employed  by  Moliere  was  not  of  all  measures  the  best  adapted  to  comic 
poetry  1  and  some  amongst  us  contended  that  English  prosody  was  even 
better  adapted  than  French  to  the  colloquial  usages  of  the  twelve-feet 
couplet — admitting  of  easier  anapaestic  flow,  and  greater  variety  of  caesura 
and  cadence.  The  very  objections  urged  against  the  employment  of  such 
metre  in  tragic  dialogue  seemed  to  us  arguments  in  favour  of  its  appli- 
cation to  comic.  The  Englishman  or  the  German  most  hostile  to 
the  rhyme  of  Corneille  would  often  be  the  first  to  acknowledge  the 
merits  of  rhyme  in  Moliere.  The  result  of  our  discussion  was  a  general 
agreement  that  the  experiment  of  such  a  metrical  form  for  comic  expres- 
sion would  be  well  worth  trying,  and  if  only  partially  successful  in  the 
first  instance,  might  hereafter  be  taken  up  and  improved  by  some  great 


1S70.]  Rhymed  Verse  in  English  Comedy.  265 

comic  poet,  and  furnish  in  his  hands  no  mean  additional  ornament  to 
our  dramatic  literature. 

It  however  seemed  to  us  all  that  certain  conditions  for  the  introduction 
of  the  rhymed  measure  into  English  comic  dialogue  were  indispensable — 
Firstly,  That  it  should  not  be  employed  in  a  comedy  intended  to  depict 
the  special  manners  and  humours  of  our  own  day.  It  is  a  just  rule  in 
criticism  that  when  a  dramatic  author  would  avail  himself  of  vehicles  of 
expression  foreign  to  our  colloquial  usages,  he  should  withdraw  our 
attention  from  our  daily  associations,  and  trust  to  that  wonderful  ductility 
with  which  the  imagination  lends  itself  to  unfamiliar  forms  provided 
they  be  not  forcibly  contrasted  by  familiar  terms  and  surroundings  ;  and 
we  pretty  generally  agreed  that  the  age  of  Pope  and  Swift,  the  age  par 
excellence  of  English  satirists,  furnishes  perhaps  the  most  favourable 
period  in  which  a  satirical  comedy  in  rhyme  may  seek  its  characters  and 
hazard  the  novelty  of  its  form.  Secondly,  We  concurred  in  the  principle 
that  the  dramatis  persona?  invented  should  seek  to  illustrate  those 
general  types  of  comedy  which  are  not  confined  to  one  nation  or  to  one 
time;  poetic  forms  being  best  adapted  to  those  broad  and  lasting  distinc- 
tions which  are  called  typical — such  as  Moliere  borrows  from  the  Latin 
comedians  as  they  borrowed  from  the  Greek — while  prose  is  the  fitter 
mode  of  expression  (and  so  in  his  prose  comedies  Moliere  appeared  to 
deem)  for  those  individual  eccentricities  and  humours  which  cannot  be 
fairly  classed  under  the  head  of  cosmopolitan  types,  but  belong  to  the 
manners  of  a  peculiar  date  or  locality.  Verse,  for  instance,  would  be 
sadly  misapplied  in  conveying  literally  the  sort  of  drollery  which  be- 
longs to  the  dialect  of  a  Yorkshire  countryman  or  the  slang  of  a  London 
cockney.  In  the  first  case,  comedy  is  extracted  from  generals  which 
arc  nearly  always  typical,  and  best  expressed  by  the  poetry  which  con- 
stitutes the  common  language  of  human  nature ;  in  the  last,  it  is 
extracted  from  particulars  which  are  special  and  individualised,  and  to 
whose  peculiarities  prose  best  gives  the  partial  and  fleeting  realism  that 
confines  itself  to  the  manners  of  the  day.  I  need  not  enlarge  on  this 
distinction — it  is  familiar  to  every  man  acquainted  with  the  rudiments 
of  criticism. 

Well  then,  sir,  out  of  this  conversation,  at  the  remote  date  of  which  I 
speak,  grew  the  germ  of  this  little  comedy  of  '  Walpole.'  At  that  time, 
wishing  to  see  if  I  could  hit  off  some  slight  outline  of  the  results  at  which 
I  and  others,  far  better  critics  of  dramatic  art  than  I  pretend  to  be,  had 
arrived,  should  the  experiment  of  rhymed  comedy  be  adventured — the 
scene  between  Walpole  and  Blount  as  it  stands  in  my  play,  Act  ii. 
Scene  ii.,  was  written.  It  was  approved  by  the  friends  I  have  referred 
to  as  conformable,  so  far  as  it  went,  and  however  inadequately,  to 
tho  conditions  of  art  in  which  we  had  all  concurred.  I  then 
received  urgent  solicitations  to  extend  the  scene  to  a  drama  to  be 
placed  on  the  stage.  Various  circumstances,  however,  combined 
to  withdraw  my  attention  altogether  from  such  an  experiment,  until 
last  year,  having  some  leisure  on  my  hands,  and  reconsidering  the  col- 
lateral and  prospective  interests  in  comic  art  which  were  suggested  by 
tho  inquiries  with  which  I  have  commenced  this  intrusion  on  your  pages, 
— viz.,  whether  the  English  language  can  admit  to  the  Comic  Muse  a 
Muse-like  measure  distinct  from  prose  on  the  one  hand,  and  tragic  rhythm 
on  the  other — in  a  word,  peculiar  to  herself — and  whether,  if  so,  she  can 
find  any  measure  so  good  as  that  in  which  the  verse  of  Moliere  has  ren- 
dered the  verse  of  Plautus  and  Terence, — I  resolved  to  finish  a  work 
which,  though  so  slight  in  itself,  I  cannot  allow  to  be  undeserving  of  fair 
examination  as  to  the  principles  it  embodies  and  the  hints  it  may  suggest. 


266  Rhymed  Verse  in  English  Comedy.  [Feb. 

Poetic  rhythm,  whether  it  be  rhymed  or  unrhymed,  necessitates  stretch 
of  intellect  in  the  writer.  Even  in  the  gayer  forms  of  comedy,  it  neces- 
sitates the  terseness  which  comes  from  thoughtful  labour.  Compare  the 
prose  comedy  of  Moliere  to  the  poetic,  and  what  man  capable  of  literary 
judgment  will  not  acknowledge  the  infinite  superiority  which  the  obliga- 
tions of  versified  rhythm  confer  on  the  poetic  comedy  over  the  prose, 
when  composed  by  the  same  author,  not  only  in  epigrammatic  expression, 
but  in  succinctness  of  plot,  in  liveliness  of  character,  in  playfulness  of 
satire,  in  elevation  of  sentiment  1  It  is  quite  true  that  the  introduction 
of  rhyme  into  our  comedy  is  an  innovation.  But  innovation  is  origi- 
nality, and  originality  does  not  necessarily  imply  a  defect  in  art. 

There  was  a  time,  not  very  long  before  that  of  Shakespeare,  when  blank 
verse  was  an  innovation,  and  had  that  Stranger  from  abroad  been  at  once 
denounced  as  at  variance  with  preconceived  associations  of  English 
rhythm,  who  shall  say  whether  the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare  (if  discard- 
ing the  rhyme  of  the  Mysteries),  would  not  have  been  written  in  prose  ? 

I  must  hasten  to  a  conclusion.  I  hold  that  everything  in  literature 
should  endeavour  to  be  that  which  it  pretends  to  be — that  a  thing  which 
calls  itself  an  oration  should  not  be  an  essay ;  that  a  thing  which  calls 
itself  a  novel  should  not  be  a  sermon ;  and  therefore,  in  writing  the  thing 
which  calls  itself  a  comedy,  I  have  endeavoured,  quite  apart  from  the 
artistic  question  whether  it  should  or  should  not  be  written  in  verse,  to 
consult  the  laws  of  comic  construction  in  plot,  situation,  and  effect. 

If  I  decline  to  place  on  the  stage  a  comedy  thus  composed  for  repre- 
sentation, the  reason  is  sufficiently  obvious.  Every  habitual  playgoer 
knows  that  the  immediate  fate  of  a  play  on  the  boards  depends  much 
more  on  the  actors  than  it  does  on  the  author. 

I  am  assured  by  friends  much  better  acquainted  than  myself  with  the 
practical  state  and  condition  of  our  stage,  that,  however  justly  admired 
our  living  actors  may  be  in  parts  to  which  they  are  accustomed,  yet  that 
which  is  technically  called  Dressed  Comedy  has  become  too  obsolete  for 
their  study,  and  that  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  find  in  any  single 
theatre  three  performers  to  whose  talents  the  principal  parts  in  Walpole 
would  be  congenial  or  suited.  The  objection  against  performing  a  play 
which  can  find  no  appropriate  performers  would  apply  to  my  piece, 
whether  written  in  prose  or  verse ;  but  of  course  it  applies  with  addi- 
tional force  where  there  is  an  imperative  necessity  for  that  niceness  of 
expression  which  all  rhythmical  forms  demand. 

In  consistency  with  my  faith  in  the  soundness  of  my  experiment,  I  do 
but  follow  the  example  of  all  prudent  experimentalists  in  declining  to 
accept  conditions  for  trying  it  glaringly  hostile  to  all  fairness  of  test. 

I  am  obliged,  therefore,  for  the  present,  to  leave  this  work  to  be  con- 
sidered by  readers  merely  as  a  comic  poem,  of  a  kind  in  which  there  is 
no  previous  example  in  the  English  language,  but  serving,  despite  all 
that  may  be  said  in  depreciation  of  the  first  experimentalist,  to  direct 
the  minds  of  those  who  come  after  him  to  a  field  capable  of  affording  no 
inadequate  returns  to  the  pains  bestowed  upon  its  culture. 

THE  AUTHOK  OF  'WALPOLE.' 


1870.] 


Postscript  to  "Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators. 


267 


POSTSCRIPT  TO   "LORD   BYRON  AND   HIS  CALUMNIATORS.' 


SINCE  the  publication  of  our  Janu- 
ary number  Mrs  Stowe's  long-pro- 
mised volume  has  made  its  appear- 
ance. Those  who  expected  that  it 
would  contain  any  further  evidence 
as  to  the  charge  brought  against 
Lord  Byron  and  his  sister  will  be 
disappointed.  We  have  perused  it 
carefully,  and  not  one  particle  is  to 
be  found.  On  the  contrary,  Mrs 
St  owe  appears  to  glory  in  the  in- 
faatine  faith  with  which  she  re- 
ceived Lady  Byron's  astounding 
assertions.  "  Of  course,"  she  says, 
"  /  did  not  listen  to  this  story  as  one 
wJio  was  investigating  its  worth.  1 
received  it  as  truth."  "  The  whole 
consultation  was  upon  the  assump- 
tion that  she  had  at  her  command 
such  proofs  as  could  not  be  ques- 
tioned" (p.  166). 

What  these  proofs  were  Mrs 
Stowe  never  inquired  either  during 
L:idy  Byron's  life  or  since  her 
death  ;  and  she,  with  much  naivete, 
expresses  her  surprise  at  finding 
that  any  of  Lady  Byron's  "friends, 
trustees,  and  family"  are  alive, 
arid  her  "  astonishment  at  hearing 
that  her  papers  are  in  their  hands  " 
(p.  127).  Can  language  be  strong 
enough  to  express  the  reprobation 
wliich  must  be  felt  by  every  one 
w  10  has  one  particle  of  honesty, 
truth,  or  charity  in  his  nature,  for 
a  woman  who  could  publish  so 
horrible  and  revolting  a  story  on 
such  a  foundation?  The  blind 
devotion  of  Mrs  Stowe  for  her  idol 
appears  to  make  her  incapable  of 
seeing  the  atrocity  of  the  charge 
she  has  brought  against  Mrs 
Loigh.  She  says,  apologetically, 
"  Lord  Byron,  if  we  look  at  it  right- 
ly, did  not  corrupt  Mrs  Leigh  more 
than  he  did  the  whole  British  pub- 
fa"  \  (p.  222.)  Shades  of  our  grand- 
mothers and  great  aunts !  were 
ye  all  Myrrhas,  Tamars,  and 
daughters  of  LoU  Is  this  the 
conception  entertained  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic  as  to  English 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLII. 


society,  or  is  it  mere  midsummer 
madness  1  Mrs  Stowe  does  not 
dispute  the  genuineness  of  Lady 
Byron's  letters  to  Mrs  Leigh  pub- 
lished in  the  *  Quarterly,'  but  ac- 
counts for  them  by  the  superhuman 
charity  of  the  writer  which  enabled 
her  not  only  to  leave  her  husband 
and  his  sister  to  indulge  their 
criminal  inclinations  in  the  draw- 
ing-room undisturbed  by  her  pre- 
sence (p.  159)  whilst  she  offered 
up  prayers  on  their  behalf  in  her 
bedroom,  but  after  receiving  his 
repeated  bold  avowal  that  the  con- 
nection had  existed  in  time  past, 
that  it  should  continue  in  time  to 
come,  and  that  she  must  submit 
to  it  (p.  159,  160) — these  are  the 
very  words  of  Mrs  Stowe — to  re- 
gard the  partner  of  his  crime  as  "her 
confidante  and  friend,"  and  "  as  a 
most  abused  and  innocent  woman  " 
(p.  195).  Such  charity  is  certainly 
supernatural,  and  we  can  only  ac- 
count for  Mrs  Stowe's  belief  in  its 
existence  on  the  supposition  that 
she  holds  the  doctrine  of  "  credo 
quia  impossibile." 

Much  of  Mrs  Stowe's  book  is  de- 
voted to  a  eulogy  of  Truth  which 
forcibly  reminds  us  of  Mr  Chad- 
band's  discourse  in  *  Bleak  House ' 
on  the  same  subject,  delivered  over 
the  unhappy  "  Tom  All-alone."  But 
when  Mrs  Stowe  has  occasion  to 
practise  the  virtue  she  commends, 
there  is  a  sad  shortcoming.  We  will 
give  one  instance.  At  p.  37  Mrs 
Stowe  quotes  the  testimony  of  a 
Mrs  Mimms,  whom  she  describes 
as  "the  confidential  waiting-maid 
who  went  with  Lady  Byron  on  her 
wedding -journey,  .  .  .a 
venerable,  respectable  old  person, 
quite  in  possession  of  all  her  senses 
in  general,  and  of  that  sixth  sense 
of  propriety  in  particular,  which 
appears  not  to  be  a  common  virtue 
in  our  days."  Mrs  Stowe  then 
proceeds  in  the  following  words  : 
— "  As  her  testimony  is  important, 


268       Postscript  to  "  Lord  Byron  and  his  Calumniators."      [Feb.  1870. 


we  insert  it  here,  with  a  descrip- 
tion of  her  person  in  full,"  p.  37. 
After  this  exordium,  what  does  the 
reader  suppose  that  Mrs  Stowe 
does?  She  carefully  omits  from 
Mrs  Mimms's^  narrative  the  follow- 
ing passage  : — "  She  was  present 
when  they  (Lord  and  Lady  Byron) 
arrived  at  that  mansion  (Halnaby 
Hall)  later  on  in  the  day,  and  saw 
them  alight  from  the  carriage. 
What  was  the  condition  of  Lady 
Byron  at  that  moment  ?  Mrs 
Mimms  says  she  was  buoyant 
and  cheerful  as  a  bride  should  be, 
and  kindly  and  gaily  responded  to 
the  greetings  of  welcome  which 
poured  upon  her  from  the  pretty 
numerous  group  of  servants  and 
tenants  of  the  Milbanke  family  who 
had  assembled  about  the  entrance 
to  the  mansion.  Fletcher,  who  was 
the  only  servant  who  accompanied 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  from  Sea- 
ham  to  Halnaby,  and  who  of  course 
sat  upon  the  box,  informed  Mrs 
Mimms  that  a  similar  scene  had 
occurred  at  Darlington  at  the  hotel 
when  they  changed  horses."  No 
doubt  Mrs  Stowe  did  not  expect 
that  any  one  would  take  the  trouble 
to  look  up  the  file  of  the '  Newcastle 
Chronicle '  in  which  Mrs  Mimms's 
narrative  originally  appeared,  and 
thought  that  this  scandalous  sup- 
pressio  veri  would  escape  detec- 
tion. And  why  did  she  make  it  1 
Simply  because  this  passage  con- 
clusively disposes  of  the  absurd 
slanders  of  Miss  Martineau  as  to 
what  occurred  on  that  occasion,  re- 
peated by  Mrs  Stowe  at  page  287 
of  the  present  volume  !  "  Oh,  my 
friends  ! "  (to  quote  from  the  well- 
known  discussion  before  alluded 
to)  "  when  that  hardened  heathen 


told  us  a  story  of  a  cock  and  of  a 
bull  and  of  a  lady,  was  that  the 
Terewth  ?  No,  my  friends,  no  !  " 

The  rest  of  Mrs  Stowe's  volume 
is  devoted  to  the  bitterest  vituper- 
ation of  Lord  Byron, — 

"His    father,   mother,   body,    soul,    and 
muse;" 

of  English  society  in  general ;  of 
ourselves  in  particular  (especially 
of  the  characters  who  appear  in  the 
'Noctes,'  and  the  writer  of  the 
article  on  the  Countess  Guiccioli's 
book  in  our  July  number  last  year) ; 
and  of  all  who  do  not  accept  Lady 
Byron  as  a  divinity  to  be  wor- 
shipped with  blind  devotion,  and 
Mrs  Stowe  as  her  prophetess. 

We  must  in  justice  say  that  Mrs 
Stowe  gives  evidence  of  her  sin- 
cerity by  the  powerful  appeal  which 
she  makes  to  those  who  have  the 
custody  of  Lady  Byron's  papers  for 
their  publication.  In  this  we 
heartily  concur.  We  know  ex 
certissima  scientid  that  there  is 
in  existence  a  mass  of  the  most 
valuable  correspondence,  the  publi- 
cation of  which  is  the  only  com- 
pensation which  can  now  be  made 
for  the  destruction  of  Lord  Byron's 
memoirs.  We  say  with  equal  con- 
fidence that  such  a  publication 
would  prove  conclusively  the  jus- 
tice of  Lord  Broughton's  estimate 
of  the  character  of  Lord  Byron,*  and 
the  utter  impossibility  of  there 
being  the  slightest  foundation  for 
Mrs  Stowe's  horrible  story;  and 
we  believe  that  those  who  have  the 
papers  alluded  to  in  their  posses- 
sion are  only  restrained  from  mak- 
ing them  public  by  a  feeling  of 
forbearance  towards  the  memory  of 
Lady  Byron. 


*  '  Remarks  on  the  Exclusion  of  Lord  Byron's  Monument  from  Westminster 
Abbey.' 


Printed  by  William  Blackwood  <k  Sons,  Edinburgh* 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUKGH    MAGAZINE. 


DCLIII. 


MAECH  1870. 


VOL.  CVII. 


J  0  H  N. — P  ART     V. 


CHAPTER   XTV. 


MR  CREDITORS  bank  was  in  the 
High  Street  of  Camelford — a  low- 
roofed,  rather  shabby-looking  office, 
with  dingy  old  desks  and  counters, 
at  which  the  clerks  sat  about  in 
corners,  all  visible  to  the  public, 
and  liable  to  constant  distraction. 
The  windows  were  never  cleaned, 
on  principle,  and  there  were  some 
iron  bars  across  the  lower  half  of 
them.  Mr  Crediton's  own  room 
was  inside — you  had  to  pass  through 
the  office  to  reach  it;  andthebanker, 
when  he  chose  to  open  his  door,  was 
visible  to  the  clerks  and  the  public  at 
the  end  of  the  dingy  vista,  just  as 
the  clerks,  and  the  public  entering 
at  the  swing-door,  and  sometimes 
the  street  outside,  were  to  him.  The 
office  was  a  kind  of  lean-to  to  the 
Louse,  which  was  much  loftier, 
more  imposing,  and  stately ;  and 
Mr  Crediton's  room  communicated 
with  his  dwelling  by  a  dark  pas- 
sage. The  whole  edifice  was  red 
brick,  and  recalled  the  age  of  the 
early  Georges,  or  even  of  their  pre- 
decessor Anne — a  time  when  men 
were  not  ashamed  of  their  business, 
but  at  the  same  time  did  it  unpre- 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIII. 


tendingly,  and  had  no  need  during 
office  hours  of  gilding  or  plate-glass. 
The  house  had  a  flight  of  steps  up 
to  it  almost  as  high  as  the  top  of 
the  office  windows,  and  a  big  iron 
horn  to  extinguish  links,  and  other 
traces  of  a  moderate  antiquity.  Up 
to  these  steps  Kate  Crediton's 
horse  would  be  led  day  after  day, 
or  her  carriage  draw  up,  in  very 
sight  of  the  clerks  behind  their 
murky  windows.  They  kept  their 
noses  over  their  desks  all  day,  in 
order  that  a  butterfly  creature,  in 
all  the  brilliant  colours  of  her  kind, 
should  flutter  out  and  in  in  the 
sunshine,  and  take  her  pleasure. 
That  was  perhaps  what  some  of 
them  thought.  But,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  don't  believe  many  of  them 
thought  so.  Even  Mr  Whichelo, 
the  head  clerk,  whose  children  were 
often  ailing,  and  who  had  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  to  make  both  ends 
meet,  smiled  benign  upon  Kate. 
Had  she  been  her  own  mother,  it 
might  have  been  different ;  but 
she  was  a  creature  of  nineteen,  and 
everybody  felt  it  was  natural.  The 
clerks,  with  their  noses  at  the 
u 


270 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


grindstone,  and  her  father  sombre 
in  the  dingy  room,  working  hard 
too  in  his  way — all  to  keep  up  the 
high-stepping  horses,  the  shining 
harness,  the  silks  and  velvets,  and 
the  high  supremacy  of  that  thing 
like  a  rosebud  who  sat  princess 
among  them, — after  all,  was  it  not 
quite  natural  ]  What  is  the  good  of 
the  stem  but  to  carry,  and  of  the 
leaves  and  thorns  but  to  protect, 
the  flower  1 

But  it  may  be  supposed  that 
John  Mitford's  feelings  would  be 
of  a  very  strange  description  when 
he  found  himself  dropped  down  in 
Mr  Crediton's  office,  as  if  he  had 
dropped  from  the  skies.  He  was 
the  junior  clerk,  and  did  not  know 
the  business,  and  his  perch  was 
behind  backs,  not  far  from  one  of 
the  windows  from  which  he  could 
see  all  Kate's  exits  and  entrances. 
He  saw  the  public,  too,  coming  and 
going,  the  swing-door  flashing  back 
and  forward  all  day  long,  and  on 
Saturdays  and  market-days  caught 
sometimes  the  wondering  glances 
of  country  folks  who  knew  him. 
He  sat  like  a  man  in  a  dream, 
while  all  these  things  went  on 
around  him.  How  his  life  had 
changed  !  What  had  brought  him 
here  1  what  was  to  come  of  it  1 
were  questions  which  glided  dream- 
ily through  John's  brain  from  time 
to  time,  but  he  could  give  no  an- 
swer to  them.  He  was  here  instead 
of  at  Fanshawe  Regis  ;  instead  of 
serving  the  world  and  his  gene- 
ration, as  he  had  expected  to  do, 
he  was  junior  clerk  in  a  banker's 
office,  entering  dreary  lines  of 
figures  into  dreary  columns.  How 
had  it  all  come  about  1  John  was 
stupefied  by  the  fall  and  by  the 
surprise,  and  all  the  overwhelming 
dreary  novelty ;  and  accordingly  he 
sat  the  day  through  at  first,  and 
did  what  he  was  told  to  do  with  a 
certain  apathy  beyond  power  of 
thinking  ;  but  that  was  a  state  of 
mind,  of  course,  which  could  not 
last  for  ever.  Yet  even  when  that 
apathy  was  broken,  the  feeling  of 
surprise  continued  to  surmount  all 


other  feelings.  He  had  taken  this 
strange  step,  as  he  supposed,  by  his 
own  will;  nobody  had  forced  or 
even  persuaded  him.  It  was  his 
own  voluntary  doing ;  and  yet  how 
was  it  1  This  question  floated  con- 
stantly, without  any  power  on  his 
part  to  answer  it,  about  his  uneasy 
brain. 

He  was  close  to  Kate,  sitting 
writing  all  day  long  under  a  roof 
adjoining  the  very  roof  that  shel- 
tered her,  with  herself  before  his 
eyes  every  day.  For  he  could  not 
help  but  see  her  as  she  went  out 
and  in.  But  still  it  was  doubtful 
whether  there  was  much  comfort  in 
those  glimpses  of  her.  Mr  Credi- 
ton  had  not  been  unkind  to  him  ; 
but  he  had  never  pretended,  of 
course,  to  be  deeply  delighted  with 
the  unexpected  choice  which  his 
daughter  had  made.  "  If  I  con- 
sent to  Kate's  engagement  with 
you,"  he  had  said,  "  it  must  be 
upon  my  own  conditions.  It  is 
likely  to  be  a  long  time  before  you 
can  marry,  and  I  cannot  have  a  per- 
petual philandering  going  on  before 
my  eyes.  She  might  like  it,  per- 
haps, for  that  is  just  one  of  the 
points  upon  which  girls  have  no 
feeling  ;  but  you  may  depend  upon 
it,  it  would  be  very  bad  for  you, 
and  I  should  not  submit  to  it  for 
a  moment.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  not  to  see  her,  but  it 
must  be  only  at  stipulated  times. 
Thus  far,  at  least,  I  must  have  my 
own  way."  John  had  acquiesced 
in  this  arrangement  without  much 
resistance.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
reasonable,  comprehensible.  Per- 
petual philandering  certainly  would 
not  do.  He  had  to  work — to  ac- 
quire a  new  trade  foreign  to  all  his 
previous  thoughts  and  education 
— to  put  himself  in  the  way  of 
making  money  and  providing  for 
his  wife ;  and  he  too  could  see 
as  well  as  her  father  that  to  be 
following  her  about  everywhere, 
and  interrupting  the  common  busi- 
ness of  life  by  idle  love-making, 
however  beatific  it  might  be,  was 
simply  impossible.  To  be  able 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


271 


to  look  forward  now  and  then  to 
the  delight  of  her  presence  —  to 
make  milestones  upon  his  way  of 
the  times  in  which  he  should  be  per- 
mitted to  see  her,  and  sun  himself 
in  her  eyes, — with  that  solace  by 
the  way,  John  thought  the  time 
would  pass  as  the  time  passed  to 
-Jacob — as  one  day;  and  he  ac- 
cordingly assented,  almost  without 
reluctance. 

But  he  did  not  know  when  he 
consented  thus  to  the  father's  condi- 
tions that  Kate  would  be  flashing  be- 
fore him  constantly  under  an  aspect 
30  different  from  that  in  which  he 
had  known  her.  Her  engagement, 
though  it  made  such  an  overwhelm- 
ing difference  to  him,  made  little 
difference  to  Kate.  She  had  come 
home  to  resume  her  usual  life — a 
life  not  like  anything  that  was 
familiar  to  him.  Poor  John  had 
never  known  much  about  young 
ladies.  He  had  never  become 
practically  aware  of  the  place  which 
amusement  holds  in  such  conditions 
of  existence — how,  in  fact,  it  be- 
comes the  framework  of  life  round 
which  graver  matters  gather  and 
entwine  themselves ;  and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  he  fully  made  the 
discovery,  if,  indeed,  he  did  ever 
make  it.  Society  could  scarcely  be 
said  to  exist  in  Fanshawe  Regis ; 
and  those  perpetual  ridings  and 
drivings  and  expeditions  here  and 
there — those  dinners  and  dances — 
those  afternoon  assemblages — the 
music  and  the  chatter,  the  va  et 
:>ient,  the  continual  flutter  and 
movement,  confounded  the  young 
man.  He  tried  to  be  glad  at  first 
that  she  had  so  much  gaiety,  and 
j'elt  very  sorry  for  himself,  who  was 
shut  out  from  all  share  in  it.  And 
then  he  got  a  little  puzzled  and  per- 
plexed. Did  this  sort  of  thing  go 
on  for  ever1?  Was  there  never  to 
be  any  break  in  it1?  Kate  herself 
unconsciously  unfolded  to  him  its 
perennial  character  without  the  re- 
motest idea  of  the  amazement  she 
was  exciting  in  his  mind.  So  far 
as  John's  experience  went,  a  dance, 
or  even  a  dinner-party,  or  a  croquet- 


party,  or  a  picnic,  were  periodical 
delights  which  came  at  long  inter- 
vals, but  they  were  the  common 
occupations  of  life  to  Kate.  He 
felt  that  he  could  have  lived  and 
worked  like  Jacob  for  twice  seven 
years,  had  his  love  been  living  such 
a  life  as  Rachel  did  by  his  side — 
going  out  with  the  flocks,  tending 
the  lambs,  drawing  water  at  the 
fountain,  smiling  shy  and  sweet 
at  him  from  the  tent-door.  These 
were  the  terms  in  which  his  imagi- 
nation put  it.  Had  he  seen  Kate 
trip  by  the  window  as  his  mother 
did  with  her  little  basket,  or  trip 
back  again  with  a  book,  after  his 
own  ideal  of  existence,  his  heart 
would  have  blessed  her  as  she 
passed,  and  he  himself  would  have 
returned  to  his  ledger  and  worked 
twice  as  hard,  and  learned  his  duties 
twice  as  quickly ;  but  to  see  her 
flash  away  from  the  door  amid  a 
cavalcade  of  unknown  riders — to 
see  her  put  into  her  carriage  by 
some  man  whom  he  longed  to  kick 
on  the  spot — to  watch  her  out  of 
sight  going  into  scenes  where  his 
imagination  could  not  follow  her, 
was  very  hard  upon  John.  And 
thus  to  see  her  every  day,  and  yet 
never,  except  once  a -week  or  so, 
exchange  words  with  her  !  Against 
his  will,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  ex- 
ertions, this  sense  of  her  contin- 
ual presence,  and  of  her  unknown 
friends,  and  life  which  was  so  close 
to  him,  and  yet  so  far  from  him, 
absorbed  his  mind.  When  he 
should  have  been  working  his  office 
work  he  was  thinking  where  could 
she  have  gone  to-day?  When  he 
ought  to  have  been  awakening  to 
the  interests  of  the  bank,  he  was 
brooding  with  a  certain  sulkiness 
quite  unnatural  to  him  over  the 
question,  who  that  man  could  be 
who  put  her  on  her  horse  1  It  is 
impossible  to  describe  how  all  this 
hindered  and  hampered  him,  and 
what  a  chaos  it  made  of  his  life. 

And  even  Kate  herself  found  it 
very  different  from  what  she  had 
anticipated.  She  sent  in  a  servant 
for  him  several  times  at  first ;  and 


272 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


once,  when  she  had  some  little 
errand  in  the  town,  had  the  au- 
dacity to  walk  into  the  bank  in  her 
proper  person  and  call  her  lover 
from  his  desk.  "  Please  tell  Mr 
Mitford  I  want  him,"  she  said, 
looking  Mr  Whichelo  full  in  the 
face,  with  an  angelical  blush  and 
smile ;  and  when  he  came  to  her, 
Kate  turned  to  him  before  all  the 
clerks,  who  were  watching  with  a 
curiosity  which  may  be  imagined. 
"  Oh  John,"  she  said,  "  come  with 
me  as  far  as  Paterson's.  It  is  mar- 
ket-day, and  I  don't  like  to  walk 
alone."  Of  course  he  went,  though 
he  had  his  work  to  do.  Of  course 
he  would  have  gone  whatever  had 
been  the  penalty.  The  penalty  was 
that  Mr  Crediton  gave  Kate  what 
she  called  "  a  dreadful  scold."  "  It 
was  like  a  fishwoman,  you  know," 
she  confided  to  John  afterwards. 
"  I  could  not  have  believed  it  of 
papa ;  but  I  suppose  when  people 
are  in  a  passion  they  are  all  alike, 
and  don't  mind  what  they  say." 

"  It  is  because  he  grudges  you  to 
me,"  said  poor  John,  with  a  sigh, 
"  and  I  don't  much  wonder;"  upon 
which  Kate  clasped  her  two  pretty 
hands  on  his  arm,  and  beguiled 
him  out  of  all  his  troubles.  This 
was  on  one  of  the  Sunday  evenings 
which  it  was  his  privilege  to  spend 
with  her.  Mr  Crediton  was  old- 
fashioned,  and  saw  no  company  on 
Sundays,  and  that  was  the  day  on 
which  John  was  free  to  come  to 
spend  as  much  of  it  as  he  pleased 
with  his  betrothed.  At  first  he  had 
begun  by  going  to  luncheon,  and  re- 
maining the  whole  afternoon  in  her 
company  ;  but  very  soon  it  came  to 
be  the  evening  only  which  was 
given  up  to  him.  Either  it  was 
that  Mr  Crediton  made  himself 
disagreeable  at  luncheon,  or  that 
he  thrust  engagements  upon  Kate, 
reminding  her  that  she  had  pro- 
mised to  read  to  him,  or  copy  let- 
ters for  him,  or  some  altogether 
unimportant  matter.  Mr  Crediton, 
though  he  was  so  much  the  best 
off  of  the  party  that  he  had  thus 
the  means  of  avenging  himself,  was 


not  without  grievances  too ;  in- 
deed, had  he  been  consulted,  he 
would  probably  have  declared  him- 
self the  person  most  aggrieved. 
His  only  child  was  about  to  be 
taken  from  him,  and  her  society 
was  already  claimed  by  this  name- 
less young  man,  without  any  par- 
ticular recommendation,  whom  in 
her  caprice  she  preferred.  The 
Sunday  afternoons  had  been  the 
banker's  favourite  moment ;  he 
had  nothing  to  do,  and  his  doors 
were  shut  against  society,  and  his 
child  was  always  with  him.  No 
wonder  that  he  used  all  the  means 
in  his  power  to  drive  back  the 
enemy  from  that  sacred  spot. 

And  Mr  Crediton  had  means  in 
his  power, — unlike  Mrs  Mitford, 
who  sat,  more  alone  than  he,  by 
her  bedroom  window  all  the  hours 
when  she  was  not  at  church, 
and  wiped  noiselessly  again  and 
again  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes. 
John's  mother  suffered  more  from 
this  dreary  change  than»words  could 
say.  She  had  not  the  heart  to  sit 
down-stairs  except  when  it  was 
necessary  for  that  outline  of  family 
life  consisting  of  prayers  and  meals, 
which,  to  Dr  Mitford's  mind,  filled 
up  all  possible  requirements.  Mrs 
Mitford  did  not  tell  her  husband 
nor  any  one  what  she  was  think- 
ing. There  seemed  no  longer  any 
one  left  in  the  world  who  cared 
to  know.  And  she  could  not  pun- 
ish Kate  as  Mr  Crediton  could 
punish  John.  Probably  she  would 
not  have  done  it  if  she  could,  for 
to  punish  Kate  would  have  been  to 
punish  him  too  ;  but  oh,  she  some- 
times thought  to  herself,  if  her 
horse  had  only  run  away  with  her 
before  somebody  else's  door,  this 
might  never  have  been  ! 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  this  pretty 
young  lady  and  that  first  caprice 
for  the  subjugation  of  John  which 
came  into  her  mind  before  she  had 
seen  him,  in  the  leisure  of  her  con- 
valescence, had  affected  the  friends 
of  both  in  anything  but  a  happy 
way.  Indeed  nobody  except  per- 
haps Kate  herself  got  any  good  out 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


273 


of  the  new  bond.  To  her,  who 
at  the  present  moment  was  not 
called  upon  to  make  any  sacrifice 
or  give  up  anything,  the  possession 
of  John,  as  of  some  one  to  fall  back 
upon,  was  pleasant  enough.  She 
had  all  her  usual  delights  and  plea- 
sures, lived  as  she  had  always 
lived,  amused  herself  as  of  old,  was 
the  envy  of  her  companions,  the 
ringleader  in  all  their  amusements, 
the  banker's  only,  much-indulged, 
fortunate  child ;  and  at  the  same 
time  she  had  John  to  worship  her 
on  those  Sunday  evenings  which 
once  had  been  rather  dull  for  Kate. 
When  Mr  Crediton  dozed,  as  he 
sometimes  did  after  dinner,  or  when 
he  was  busy  with  the  little  private 
pieces  of  business  he  used  to  give 
himself  up  to  on  Sunday  evenings, 
there  was  her  lover  ready  to  bow 
down  before  her.  It  was  the  cream 
and  crown  of  all  her  many  enjoy- 
ments. Everybody  admired,  petted, 
praised,  and  was  good  to  Kate,  and 
John  adored  her.  She  looked  for- 
ward to  her  Sunday  ramble  round 
the  old-fashioned  garden,  some- 
times in  the  dark,  sometimes  in  the 
moonlight,  with  an  exquisite  sense 
of  something  awaiting  her  there 
which  had  a  more  subtle,  penetrat- 
ing, delicious  sweetness  than  all  the 
other  sweets  surrounding  her.  And 
she  felt  that  he  was  happy  too  as 
soon  as  she  had  placed  her  little 
hand  on  his  arm — and  forgot  that 
there  was  anything  in  his  lot  which 
could  make  him  feel  that  he  had 
bought  his  happiness  dearly.  Kate 
was  young,  and  knew  nothing  about 
life,  and  therefore  was  unconsciously 
selfish.  She  was  happy,  without 
any  drawback  to  her  happiness ; 
and  so,  naturally  and  as  a  matter 
of  course,  she  took  him  to  be,  for- 
getting that  he  had  purchased  that 
hour  on  the  Sunday  evenings  by 
the  sacrifice  of  all  the  prejudices 
and  all  the  habits  and  prospects 
and  occupations  of  his  life.  This 
unconsciousness  was  one  from 
which  she  might  awaken  any  day. 
A  chance  word  might  open  her  eyes 
to  it,  and  show  her,  to  her  own 


disgust  and  confusion,  the  im- 
mense price  he  was  paying  for  so 
transitory  a  delight ;  but  at  pre- 
sent nothing  had  awakened  such  a 
thought  in  her  mind,  and  she  was 
the  one  happy  among  the  five  most 
intimately  concerned.  Next  after 
Kate  in  contentment  with  the  new 
state  of  affairs  was  Dr  Mitford,  who 
saw  a  prospect  of  a  very  satisfactory 
"settlement  in  life"  for  his  son, 
though  he  did  not  feel  any  very 
great  satisfaction  in  the  prelimin- 
aries. It  was  a  pain  to  him,  though 
a  mild  one,  that  John  had  aban- 
doned the  Church  and  become  a 
clerk  in  a  banker's  office.  It  was  a  ' 
pain,  and  a  little  humiliation  too, 
for  everybody  in  Fanshawe  Regis, 
and  even  the  neighbouring  clergy- 
men, shook  their  heads  and  were 
very  sorry  to  hear  it,  and  wounded 
Dr  Mitford's  pride.  But,  after  all, 
that  was  a  trifling  drawback  in 
comparison  with  the  substantial 
advantage  of  marrying  so  much 
money  as  was  represented  by  Kate 
Crediton.  "  And  fond  of  her  too/' 
he  would  say  to  himself  in  his 
study  when  he  paused  in  one  of  his 
articles  and  thought  it  over.  But 
yet  the  articles  were  interrupted  by- 
thinking  it  over  as  they  had  never 
been  used  to  be.  It  gave  him  a 
passing  twinge  now  and  then,  but 
it  was  he  who  suffered  the  least 
after  Kate. 

As  for  Mr  Crediton,  there  was  a 
certain  sullen  wrath  in  his  mind 
which  he  seldom  suffered  to  have 
expression,  yet  which  plagued  him 
like  a  hidden  wound.  To  think  that 
for  this  lout,  this  country  Jad,  his 
child  should,  as  it  were,  have  jilted 
him,  made  light  of  all  his  wishes, 
shown  a  desire  to  separate  herself 
from  him  and  the  life  which  he  had 
fenced  round  from  every  care,  and 
made  delightful  with  every  indulg- 
ence that  heart  could  desire.  He 
had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  contrive 
pleasures  for  her,  and  to  surround 
her  with  everything  that  was  bril- 
liant and  fair  like  herself.  She 
was  more  like  a  princess  than  a 
banker's  daughter,  thanks  to  his 


274 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


unchanging,  unremitting  thought- 
fulness  ;  and  this  was  how  she  had 
rewarded  him  the  very  first  oppor- 
tunity she  had.  Mr  Crediton  was 
very  sore  and  wroth,  as  fathers 
are  sometimes.  Mothers  are  miser- 
able and  lonely  and  jealous  often 
enough,  heaven  knows !  but  the 
fathers  are  wroth  with  that  inex- 
tinguishable wonder — how  the  love- 
making  of  some  trumpery  young  man 
should,  in  a  day  or  two  or  a  week 
or  two,  obliterate  their  deeper  love 
and  all  the  bonds  of  nature — which 
lies  as  deep  in  the  heart  as  does  the 
young  impulse  which  calls  it  forth, 
Mr  Crediton  was  angry,  not  so 
much,  except  at  moments,  with 
Kate,  as  with  the  world,  and  na- 
ture, and  things  in  general — and 
John.  He  could  not  cross  or 
thwart  his  child,  but  he  would 
have  been  glad  in  his  heart  if  some- 
thing had  happened  to  the  man 
whom  his  child  loved.  Such  sen- 
timents are  wicked,  and  they  are 
very  inconsistent — but  they  exist 
everywhere,  and  it  would  be  futile 
to  deny  them ;  and  the  consequence 
was,  that  Mr  Crediton  was  much 
less  happy  after  his  daughter's  en- 
gagement, and  put  up  with  it  by 
an  effort;  and,  while  John  had  his 
moment  of  delight  on  those  Sunday 
evenings,  was,  for  his  part,  anything 
but  delighted.  It  even  made  him 
less  good  a  man.  He  sat  and 
fretted  by  himself,  and  found  it 
very  difficult  to  occupy  his  mind 
with  any  other  subject.  It  vexed 
him  to  think  of  his  Kate  thus  hang- 
ing on  a  stranger's  arm.  Of  course 
he  had  always  known  that  she 
must  marry  some  time,  but  he 
had  thought  little  of  it  as  an  ap- 
proaching calamity;  and  then  it  had 
appeared  certain  that  there  would 
be  a  blaze  of  external  advantage, 
and  perhaps  splendour,  in  any 
match  Kate  could  make,  which 
perhaps,  prospectively  at  least, 
would  lessen  the  blow.  If  it  had 
exalted  her  into  the  higher  circles 
of  the  social  paradise,  he  felt  as  if 
the  deprivation  to  himself  would 
have  been  less  great.  But  here 


there  was  nothing  to  make  amends 
— no  salve  to  his  wounded  tender- 
ness. Poor  John  !  Mr  Crediton 
had  the  justice  now  and  then  to 
feel  that  John  was  paying  a  hard 
price  for  his  felicity.  "  Serve 
-the  fellow  right,"  he  said,  and 
almost  hated  him ;  and  pondered, 
with  a  sourd  sense  of  cruelty  and 
wrong-doing,  how  he  might  be  got 
rid  of  and  removed  out  of  the  way. 
As  for  Mrs  Mitford  she  was 
simply  unhappy,  without  hoping 
to  mend  matters,  or  thinking  any 
more  than  she  could  help  about  the 
cause.  She  had  lost  her  boy.  To 
be  sure  it  is  what  most  mothers 
have  to  look  forward  to ;  but  she, 
up  to  the  very  last,  had  been  flat- 
tering herself  that  she  should  not 
be  as  most  mothers.  All  had  been 
so  carefully  devised  to  keep  him  at 
home,  to  secure  to  him  the  life 
which,  in  her  soul,  she  believed  to 
be  the  one  which  would  suit  him 
best.  The  change  was  so  sudden 
and  so  great,  that  it  stupefied  her 
at  first.  She  had  to  prepare  him  for 
going  away,  him  whom  all  his  life 
she  had  been  preparing  to  stay  in 
his  natural  home,  to  repeat  and 
improve  his  father's  life,  to  carry 
out  and  develop  her  own  ;  she  had 
to  make  up  her  mind  to  live  alto- 
gether without  him,  she  who  had  ex- 
pected not  only  his  society  to  make 
her  happy,  but  his  aid  to  make 
something  of  her  work.  It  was  she 
who  had  been  for  all  these  years  the 
real  spiritual  head  of  Fanshawe 
Regis.  Dr  Mitford  had  done  the 
"  duty,"  and  had  preached  the  ser- 
mons, but  every  practical  good  in- 
fluence, every  attempt  to  mend  the 
rustic  parish,  to  curb  its  characteris- 
tic vices,  or  develop  its  better  quali- 
ties, had  come  from  his  wife.  And 
she  had  laboured  on  for  years  past, 
with  the  conviction  that  her  son 
would  perfect  everything  she  be- 

fan  ;  that  he  would  bring  greater 
nowledge  to  it,  and  a  more  per- 
fectly trained  mind,  and  all  the  su- 
perior understanding  which  such 
humble  women  hold  to  be  natural 
to  a  man.  When  she  had  to  give 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


275 


up  this  hope,  it  seemed  to  her  at 
first  as  though  the  world  had  come 
to  an  end.  What  was  the  use  of 
doing  anything  more,  of  carrying 
on  the  plans  which  must  now  die 
with  her  ]  The  next  new  curate 
would  probably  care  nothing  about 
her  schemes,  and  even  might 
set  himself  to  thwart  her,  as  new 
curates  sometimes  do  when  a  cler- 
gywornan  is  too  active  in  a  parish. 
And  she  was  sick  of  the  world  and 
everything  in  it.  The  monotony 
of  her  life,  from  which  all  the  colour 
seemed  to  have  died  out  in  a  mo- 
ment, suddenly  became  apparent  to 
her,  and  all  the  failures,  and  ob- 
structions, and  hindrances  which 
met  her  at  every  side.  What  could 
she  do,  a  weak  woman,  she  said 
to  herself,  against  all  the  powers  of 
darkness  as  embodied  in  Fanshawe 
Regis  1  Would  it  not  be  best  to 
resign  the  unprofitable  warfare  and 
sink  back  into  quiet,  and  shut  out 
the  mocking  light  ?  Wherever  she 
went  the  people  asked  her  questions 
about  Mr  John.  Was  he  not  to  be 
a  clergyman  after  all  ?  Was  it  along 
o'  his  lass  that  wouldn't  let  him 
do  as  he  wished  ?  What  was  it  1 
Mrs  Mitford  came  home  with  her 
heart  wearied  by  such  inquiries, 
and  sick  with  disappointment  and 
misery.  And  she  would  go  up  to 
the  room  in  which  he  was  born,  and 
cry,  and  say  to  herself  that  she  never 
never  could  encounter  such  inqui- 
ries again.  And  oh,  haw  dreary  it 
was  sitting  down-stairs  for  the  few 
moments  which  necessity  and  Dr 
Mitford  required,  in  those  summer 
nights  when  the  moths  were  flying 
by  scores  in  at  the  open  window, 
and  dimness  reigned  in  all  the  cor- 
ners, and  the  lamp  shone  steady 
and  clear  on  the  table  !  In  all  the 
obscurity  round  her,  her  son  was 
not  lurking.  He  was  not  ready  to 
step  in  by  the  open  window  as  he 
had  done  so  often.  He  was  with 
Kate  Crediton,  giving  up  his  whole 
heart  and  soul  to  her ;  and  his  fa- 
ther and  mother  rang  for  the  ser- 


vants, and  had  prayers,  as  though 
they  had  never  had  any  children. 
What  a  change,  what  a  change  it 
was  !  Mrs  Mitford  knew  that  it  was 
impossible  to  thwart  providence, 
let  its  plans  be  ever  so  unsatis- 
factory ;  but  oh,  -she  said  to  herself, 
why  did  not  Kate's  accident  happen 
close  to  the  Huntleys,  or  to  any 
house  but  hers  ?  Other  boys  were 
not  so  romantic,  not  so  tender-heart- 
ed ;  and  other  mothers  had  heaps  of 
children,  and  could  not  brood  over 
the  fortunes  of  every  individual 
among  them,  as  Mrs  Mitford,  with 
an  ache  of  helpless  anger  at  herself, 
knew  that  she  brooded  over  John;s. 
But  all  was  in  vain.  She  could  not 
mend  matters  now.  She  could  not 
mend  her  own  bleeding,  aching 
heart.  And  after  all  it  was  best 
to  go  back  to  her  work,  whatever 
might  come  of  it,  and  do  her  best. 
She  could  bear  anything,  she 
thought,  but  those  Sunday  nights — 
moments  which  had  once  been  so 
sweet,  and  were  now  so  solitary. 
She  said  not  a  word  to  any  one, 
and  tried  hard  to  keep  herself 
from  thinking ;  and  she  wrote  kind, 
cheerful  little  letters  to  her  boy, 
who,  for  his  part,  was  so  very  good 
in  writing  regularly — so  unlike 
most  young  men,  as  she  told  the 
people.  But  after  she  had  finished 
those  cheery,  pleasant,  gossiping 
letters,  with  all  the  news  of  the 
parish  in  them,  Mrs  Mitford  would 
sit  down  and  have  a  good  cry.  Oh 
what  a  change  there  was  !  how 
silent  the  house  was,  how  ghostly 
the  garden  where  she  was  always 
thinking  she  heard  his  step !  The 
servants  came  in  and  went  out 
again,  and  the  father  and  the  mother 
would  sit  together  softly  without  a 
word,  as  if  they  had  no  child.  Thus 
it  will  be  seen  that,  of  all  concern- 
ed, it  was  Mrs  Mitford  who  suffered 
most ;  but  that  none  were  satisfied, 
or  felt  the  slightest  approach  of  any- 
thing like  happiness  in  the  new 
state  of  affairs,  unless,  indeed,  it 
might  be  Kate. 


276 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


CHAPTER  XV. 


There  is  nothing  so  hard  in  hu- 
man experience  as  to  fit  in  the  ex- 
ceptional moments  of  life  into  their 
place,  and  bring  them  into  a  cer- 
tain harmony  with  that  which  sur- 
rounds them ;  and  in  youth  it  is 
very  hard  to  understand  how  it  is 
that  the  exceptional  can  come  only 
in  moments.  When  the  superlative 
either  of  misery  or  happiness  arrives, 
there  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  an 
imaginative  mind  as  to  descend 
from  that  altitude  and  allow  that 
the  commonplace  must  return,  and 
the  ordinary  resume  its  sway.  And 
perhaps,  more  than  any  other  crisis, 
the  crisis  of  youthful  passion  and 
romance  is  the  one  which  it  is  most 
difficult  to  come  down  from.  It  has 
wound  up  the  young  soul  to  an  ex- 
altation which  has  scarcely  any  par- 
allel in  life ;  even  to  the  least 
visionary,  the  event  which  has  hap- 
pened— the  union  which  has  taken 
place  between  one  heart  and  an- 
other— the  sentiment  which  has  con- 
centrated all  beauty  and  lovable- 
ness  and  desirableness  in  one  being, 
and  made  that  being  his — is  some- 
thing too  supreme  and  dazzling 
to  fall  suddenly  into  the  light  of 
common  day.  John  Mitford  was 
not  matter  of  fact,  and  the  situa- 
tion to  him  was  doubly  exciting. 
It  was  attended,  besides,  by  the 
disruption  of  his  entire  life ;  and 
though  he  would  readily  have  ac- 
knowledged that  the  rest  of  his  ex- 
istence could  not  be  passed  in  those 
exquisite  pangs  and  delights — that 
mixture  of  absolute  rapture  in  being 
with  her,  and  visionary  despair  at 
her  absence — which  had  made  up 
the  story  of  his  brief  courtship ; 
yet  there  was  in  him  a  strong  un- 
expressed sense  that  the  theory  of 
life  altogether  must  henceforward 
be  framed  on  a  higher  level — that 
a  finer  ideal  was  before  him,  higher 
harmonies,  a  more  perfect  state  of 
being ;  instead  of  all  which  dreams, 
when  he  came  to  himself  he  was 
seated  on  a  high  stool,  before  a  desk, 


under  the  dusty  window  of  Mr 
Crediton's  bank,  with  the  sound  of 
the  swinging  door,  and  the  voices 
of  the  public,  and  the  crackle  of 
notes,  and  the  jingle  of  coin  in  his 
ears,  and  a  tedious  trade  to  learn, 
in  which  there  seemed  to  him  no 
possible  satisfaction  of  any  kind. 
He  had  said  that  a  clergyman's  was 
the  only  work  worth  doing,  with 
the  sense  that  it  was  the  only  work 
for  mankind  in  which  a  man  could 
have  any  confidence.  He  had  said 
so,  while  in  the  same  breath  he 
had  expressed  his  want  of  absolute 
belief  ;  and  the  one  sentiment  had 
not  affected  the  other.  But  here 
he  found  himself  in  a  sphere  where 
it  did  not  matter  to  any  one  what 
he  believed — where  he  was  utterly 
out  of  the  way  of  influencing  other 
people's  thoughts — and  had  none  of 
that  work  within  reach  which  seems 
almost  indispensable  to  men  of  his 
training — work  which  should  affect 
his  fellow-men.  So  long  as  he  knew 
what  two  and  two  make,  that 
seemed  to  be  all  the  knowledge 
that  was  required  of  him.  With 
a  sense  of  surprise  which  almost 
stupefied  him,  he  found  that  all 
the  careful  education  of  his  life  was 
as  nought  to  him  in  his  new  sphere. 
If  it  did  not  harm  him — which 
sometimes  he  thought  it  did — at 
least  it  was  totally  useless.  The 
multiplication  table  was  of  more 
use  than  Homer  or  Virgil ;  and 
John's  mind  was  the  mind  of  a 
scholar,  not  of  an  active  thinker, 
much  less  doer.  He  was  the  kind 
of  man  that  dwells  and  lingers 
upon  the  cadence  of  a  line  or  the 
turn  of  a  sentence  —  a  man  not 
always  very  sure  which  were  thS 
most  real — the  men  and  women 
in  his  books,  or  those  he  pushed 
against  in  the  public  ways.  "  We 
are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made 
of."  Fancy  a  man  with  such  words 
in  his  mouth  finding  himself  all  at 
once  a  dream  among  dreams,  gaz- 
ing vaguely  over  a  counter  at  the 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


277 


public,  feeling  himself  utterly  in- 
capable of  any  point  of  encounter 
with  that  public  such  as  his  educa- 
tion and  previous  training  suggest- 
ed, except  in  the  way  of  counting 
out  money  to  them,  or  adding  up 
the  sums  against  them.  What  a 
wonderful,  wonderful  change  it 
was  !  And  then  to  come  down  to 
this  from  that  exaltation  of  love's 
dream — to  jump  into  this,  shiver- 
ing as  into  an  ice-cold  bath,  out  of 
all  the  excitement  of  youthful  plans 
and  fancies,  visions  of  the  nobler 
existence,  ecstasy  of  first  betrothal ! 
The  shock  was  so  immense  that  it 
took  away  his  breath.  He  sat  all 
silent,  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet 
and  bitter  fancy  for  days  together, 
and  then  got  his  hat  and  walked 
back  to  the  shabby  little  rooms 
he  had  taken  on  the  outskirts  of 
Crediton,  stupefied,  and  not  know- 
ing what  he  was  about.  What  was 
he  to  do  when  he  got  there  ?  He 
ate  his  badly-cooked  and  painfully- 
homely  meal,  and  then  he  would 
sit  and  stare  at  his  two  candles 
as  he  stared  at  the  public  in  the 
bank.  He  did  not  feel  capable  of 
reading — what  was  the  good  of 
reading1?  Nothing  that  he  had 
within  his  reach  could  be  of  any 
use  to  him  in  his  new  career,  and 
his  mind  was  not  in  a  fit  condition 
for  resuming  any  studies  or  seek- 
ing out  any  occupation  for  itself. 
When  Kate  made  inquiries  into  his 
life  on  the  Sunday  evenings,  he 
found  it  very  difficult  to  answer 
her.  What  could  he  say?  There 
was  nothing  in  it  which  was  worth 
describing,  or  which  it  would  have 
given  her,  he  thought,  anything  but 
pain  to  know. 

"  But  tell  me,  have  you  nice  rooms 
— is  there  a  nice  woman  to  look  after 
you?"  Kate  would  say.  "If  you 
don't  answer  me  I  shall  have  to  go 
and  see  them  some  day  when  you 
are  at  the  bank.  I  will  say  you  are 
my — cousin,  or  something.  Or  per- 
haps if  I  were  to  tell  the  truth," 
she  added,  softly,  with  her  favour- 
ite trick,  almost  leaning  her  head 
against  his  arm,  "  it  would  interest 


her,  and  she  would  take  more 
pains." 

"  And  what  would  you  say  if  you 
said  the  truth?"  said  foolish  John. 
Poor  fellow !  this  was  all  he  had 
for  his  sacrifice,  and  naturally  he 
longed  for  his  hire,  such  as  it  was. 

"  I  should  say,  of  course,  that 
you  were  a  nearer  one  still,  and  a 
dearer  one,"  said  Kate,  with  a  soft 
little  laugh;  "what  else?  but  oh, 
John,  is  it  not  very  different? 
That  dear  Fanshawe  Regis,  and 
your  mother,  and  everything  you 
have  been  used  to.  Is  it  not  very, 
very  different?"  she  cried,  expect- 
ing that  he  would  tell  her  how  much 
more  blessed  were  his  poor  lodgings 
and  close  work  when  brightened  by 
the  hope  of  her. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  different,"  he 
said,  in  a  dreamy,  dreary  tone.  The 
summer  was  stealing  on  ;  it  was 
August  by  this  time,  and  the  days 
were  shortening.  And  it  was  al- 
most dark,  as  dark  as  a  summer 
night  can  be,  when  they  strayed 
about  the  garden  in  the  High 
Street,  which  was  so  different  from 
the  Rectory  garden.  There  were 
few  flowers,  but  at  the  farther  end 
some  great  lime-trees,  old  and  vast, 
which  made  the  gravel-path  look  like 
a  woodland  road  for  twenty  paces 
or  so.  She  could  not  see  his  face  in 
the  dark,  but  there  was  in  his  voice 
something  of  that  inflection  which 
promised  a  flattering  end  to  the 
sentence.  Kate  was  a  little  chilled, 
she  did  not  know  why. 

"But  you  don't — grudge  it?"  she 
said,  softly.  "Oh,  John,  there  is 
something  in  your  voice — you  are 
not  sorry  you  have  done  so  much  ? 
— for  nothing  but  me  ?  " 

"  Sorry  ! "  he  said,  stooping  over 
her — "  sorry  to  be  called  into  life 
when  I  did  not  know  I  was  liv- 
ing !  But,  Kate,  if  it  were  not  for 
this,  that  is  my  reward  for  every- 
thing, I  will  not  deny  that  there  is  a 
great  difference.  I  should  have 
been  working  upon  men  the  other 
way  ;  and  one  gets  contemptuous  of 
money.  Never  mind,  I  care  for 
nothing  while  I  have  you." 


278 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


"  I  never  knew  any  one  that 
was  contemptuous  of  money,"  said 
Kate,  gravely ;  "  people  here  say 
money  can  do  everything.  That 
is  why  I  want  you  to  be  rich." 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  holding  her 
close  to  him,  "  you  don't  under- 
stand, and  neither  did  I.  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  be  rich.  How 
should  I,  a  clerk  in  a  bank  1  Your 
father  does  not  show  me  any  fa- 
vour, and  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
he  should.  Who  am  I,  that  I 
should  try  to  steal  his  child  from 
him  1  Since  I  have  been  here, 
Kate,  there  are  a  great  many  things 
that  I  begin  to  understand " 

"  What  ? "  she  said,  as  he  paused ; 
raising  in  the  soft  summer  dark 
her  face  to  his. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  what  a 
gulf  there  is  between  you  and  me ! " 
he  said  ;  "  and  how  natural  it  was 
that  your  father  should  be  vexed. 
And  then,  Kate — don't  let  it  grieve 
ou,  darling — how  very  very  un- 


yoi 
lik 


cely  it  is  that  I  shall  ever  be  the 
rich  man  you  want  me  to  be.  I 
thought  when  we  spoke  of  it  once 
that  anything  you  told  me  to  do 
would  be  easy  j  and  so  it  would,  if 
it  was  definite — anything  to  bear — 
if  it  was  labouring  night  and  day, 
suffering  tortures  for  you " 

Here  Kate  interrupted  him  with 
a  little  sob  of  excitement,  holding 
his  arm  clasped  in  both  her  hands : 
"  Oh,  John,  do  I  want  you  to  suf- 
fer?" she  cried.  "You  should 
have  everything  that  was  best  in 
the  world  if  it  was  me " 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  to  grow 
rich — I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
know,"  said  John,  with  a  sigh. 
Up  to  this  moment  he  had  re- 
strained himself  and  had  given 
no  vent  to  his  feelings,  but  when 
the  ice  was  once  broken  they 
allj  burst  forth.  The  two  went 
on  together  up  and  down  under 
the  big  lime-trees,  she  gazing  up 
at  him,  he  bending  down  to  her, 
as  they  had  done  in  the  old  garden 
at  Fanshawe  when  he  confided  his 
difficulties  to  her.  He  had  thrust 
off  violently  that  series  of  difficul- 


ties, abandoning  the  conflict,  but 
only  to  let  a  new  set  of  difficulties 
seize  upon  him  in  still  greater 
strength  than  the  former.  And  the 
whole  was  complicated  by  a  sense 
that  it  was  somehow  her  doing, 
and  that  a  complaint  of  them  was 
next  to  a  reproach  of  her.  But 
still  it  was  not  in  nature,  his  mouth 
being  thus  opened,  that  John  could 
refrain. 

"I  seem  to  be  always  complain- 
ing," he  said — "  one  time  of  circum- 
stances, another  time  of  myself  ;  for 
it  is  of  myself  this  time.  Many  a  fel- 
low would  be  overjoyed,  no  doubt, 
to  find  himself  in  the  way  of  making 
his  own  fortune,  but  you  can't 
think  how  little  good  I  am.  I 
suppose  I  never  was  very  bright. 
If  you  will  believe  me,  Kate,  not 
only  shall  I  never  make  any  for- 
tune where  your  father  has  placed 
me,  but  I  am  so  stupid  that  I 
cannot  see  how  a  man  may  rise 
out  of  such  a  position,  nor  how  a 
fortune  is  to  be  made." 

"  But  people  do  it,"  said  Kate, 
eagerly ;  "  one  hears  of  them  every 
day.  Of  course  I  don't  know  how. 
It  is  energy  or  something — making 
up  their  minds  to  it ;  and  of  course 
though  papa  may  look  cross  he 
must  be  favourable  to  you.  John, 
you  know  he  must.  If  I  thought 
he  was  not,  I  should  make  him — 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  not 
make  him  do " 

"  You  must  not  make  him  do 
anything,"  said  John.  "  You  may 
be  sure  I  don't  mean  to  give  in — I 
shall  try  my  best,  and  perhaps  there 
may  be  more  in  me  than  I  think. 
I  suppose  it  is  seeing  you,  and 
being  so  far  apart  from  you,  that 
is  the  worst.  Except  to-night — if 
the  Sundays  came,  say  three  times 
in  a  week " 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like 
that,"  said  Kate  ;  "  but  seriously, 
you  know,  don't  you  like  to  see 
me — are  you — jealous  ? "  she  asked, 
with  a  little  laugh.  The  talk  had 
been  too  grave  for  her,  and  she 
was  glad  to  draw  it  down  to  a 
lower  sphere. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


279 


"  If  I  were,"  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  glow  of  passion,  "  I  should 
go  away.  I  have  never  faced  that 
idea  yet ;  but  if  I  were — jealous, 
as  you  say " 

"What?"  she  cried,  with  the 
curiosity  of  her  kind,  clinging  to 
him  in  the  fondest  proximity,  yet 
half  pleased  to  play  with  her  keen 
little  dagger  in  his  heart. 

"That  would  be  the  end,"  he 
said,  with  a  long-drawn  breath. 
And  a  thrill  of  excitement  came  over 
Kate  which  was  more  pleasurable 
than  otherwise.  Had  she  really 
stirred  him  up  to  the  height  of  a 
grcmde  passion  ?  It  was  not  that 
she  meant  to  be  cruel  to  John. 
Bat  such  an  opportunity  does  not 
come  in  everybody's  way.  She 
could  not  help  wondering  suddenly 
how  he  would  feel  under  the  trial, 
and  how  his  sufferings  would  show 
themselves.  As  for  his  going 
away,  she  did  not  put  much  faith 
in  that.  He  would  be  very  un- 
happy, and  there  would  be  a  cer- 
tain satisfaction  in  the  sight  of  his 
torments.  Kate  did  not  say  this 
in  words,  nor  was  she  conscious  of 
meaning  it ;  but  in  the  mere  levity 
of  her  power  the  thought  flashed 
through  her  mind.  For,  to  be  sure, 
it  would  only  be  for  a  moment 
that  she  would  let  him  suffer. 
When  she  had  enjoyed  that  evi- 
dence of  her  own  supremacy,  then 
she  would  overwhelm  him  with 
kindness,  prove  to  him  how  foolish 
he  was  ever  to  doubt  her,  give  her- 
self to  him  without  waiting  for 
anybody's  leave.  But  in  the  mean 
time  that  strange  curiosity  to  see 
how  far  her  power  went  which  is 
at  the  bottom  of  so  much  cruelty 
ran  through  her  mind.  It  all  went 
and  came  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
passing  like  the  lightning,  and  when 
she  answered  him,  poor  John  had 
no  idea  what  a  sudden  gleam  of 
suggestion  had  come  over  her,  or 
how  far  her  imagination  had  gone 
in  the  time. 

"  But  there  is  not  going  to  be  an 
end,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  coax- 
ing voice.  "  And  you  will  put  up 


with  it,  and  with  papa,  and  with  a 
great  many  things  we  don't  like — 
won't  you  ]  for  the  sake  of  a  poor 
little  girl  who  is  not  worth  it.  Oh, 
John  !  you  know  you  committed 
yourself  to  all  that  when  you  saved 
my  life." 

John  was  nothing  loath  to  commit 
himself  now  to  anything  she  asked 
of  him;  and  as  they  strayed  on  under 
the  dark  rustling  lime-trees,  with 
nobody  within  sight  or  sound,  and 
the  darkness  enclosing  them,  utter 
content  came  over  the  young  man's 
mind.  After  all,  was  not  this  hour 
cheaply  purchased  by  all  the  tedium 
and  all  the  disgusts  of  common  life  ? 
And  even  the  common  life  looked 
more  endurable  in  this  sweet  gloom 
which  was  full  of  Kate's  soft 
breathing,  and  the  soft  rustle  of 
her  dress,  and  sense  of  her  pre- 
sence. She  was  so  close  to  him, 
leaning  on  his  arm,  and  yet  he 
could  see  nothing  but  an  outline  of 
her  by  his  side.  It  was  thus  she 
had  been  by  him  on  the  night 
which  decided  his  fate — a  shadow- 
woman,  tender,  clinging,  almost 
invisible.  "  Kate,  Kate,"  he  said, 
out  of  his  full  heart,  "  I  wonder  if 
you  are  a  little  witch  leading  me 
astray,  for  it  is  always  in  the  dark 
when  I  <can't  see  you  that  you  are 
good  to  me.  When  we  go  in  you 
will  be  kind  and  sweet,  but  you 
will  be  Miss  Crediton.  Are  we 
shadows,  you  and  I  ?  or  are  you 
Undine  or  Lorelei  drawing  me  to 
my  fate  ] " 

"  You  foolish  fellow,"  said  Kate ; 
"  how  could  I  be  Undine  and 
not  a  drop  of  water  nearer  than 
Fanshawe  Regis  1  Don't  you  see 
that  when  we  go  in  papa  is  there  1 
You  would  not  like  me  to  write 
up  in  big  letters — "  I  have  gone 
over  to  the  enemy — I  don't  belong 
to  you  any  longer."  You  know 
John,  it  would  be  true.  I  am  not 
his  now,  poor  papa,  and  he  is  so 
fond  of  me;  but  you  would  not 
like  me  to  put  that  on  a  flag  and 
have  it  carried  before  me ;  you 
would  not  be  so  cruel  to  papa  1 " 

"  I  am  a  poor  mortal,"  said  John, 


280 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


"  I  almost  think  I  could  be  cruel. 
If  you  are  not  his,  are  you  mine  1 
Say  so,  you  little  Queen  of  Shadows, 
and  I  will  try  to  remember  it  and 
comfort  my  heart." 

"Whose  else  should  I  be?" 
whispered  Kate.  And  the  lover's 
satisfaction  attained  for  a  moment 
to  that  point  of  perfection  which 
lasts  but  for  a  moment.  His  heart 
seemed  to  stop  beating  in  that 
ineffable  fulness  of  content.  He 
took  her  into  his  arms  in  the  soft 
summer  darkness — two  shadows  in 
a  world  of  shadow.  Everything 
around  them,  everything  before 
them,  was  dim  with  mist.  Nothing 
could  be  more  uncertain  than  their 
prospects,  a  fact  which  John,  at 
least,  had  begun  to  realise  fully. 
The  whole  scene  was  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  words  which  were  so 
often  in  his  heart.  Uncertain  gusts 
of  balmy  wind,  now  from  one 
quarter,  now  from  another,  agitat- 
ed the  trees  overhead.  The  faint 
twilight  of  the  skies  confused  all 
outlines — the  darkness  under  the 
trees  obliterated  every  living  thing 
— little  mysterious  thrills  of  move- 
ment, of  the  leaves,  of  the  air,  of 
invisible  insects  or  roosted  birds, 
were  about  them.  We  are  such  stuff 
as  dreams  are  made  of.  But  amid 
these  shadows  for  one  moment 
supreme  satisfaction  and  delight 
filled  the  mind  of  John  at  least. 

Mr  Crediton  was  in  the  drawing- 
room  all  alone  when  they  went  in. 
Had  he  been  prudent  he  would 
have  gone  to  his  library,  as  he 
usually  did,  and  spared  himself  the 
sight  j  but  this  night  a  jealous  curi- 
osity had  possessed  him.  To  see 
his  child,  who  had  been  his  for  all 
these  years,  come  in  with  dazzled, 
dazzling  eyes,  and  that  'soft  blush 
on  her  cheek,  and  her  arm,  even  as 
they  entered  the  room,  lingering 
within  that  of  her  lover,  was  very 
hard  upon  him.  Confound  him  ! 
he  said  in  his  heart,  although  he 
knew  well  that  but  for  John  he 
would  have  had  no  child.  He 
rioted  the  change  which  came  over 
Kate — that  change  which  chilled 


her  lover,  and  went  through  him 
like  a  blast  from  the  snow-hills — 
without  any  pleasure,  almost  with 
additional  irritation.  She  is  not 
even  frank,  as  she  used  to  be,  he 
said  to  himself.  She  puts  on  a 
face  to  cheat  me,  and  to  make  me 
believe  I  am  something  to  her 
still ;  and  it  might  almost  be  said 
that  Mr  Crediton  hated  the  young 
fellow  who  had  come  between  him 
and  his  child. 

"  It  is  such  a  lovely  evening, 
papa,"  said  Kate,  "  we  could 
scarcely  make  up  our  minds  to 
come  in.  It  is  not  the  country, 
of  course;  but  still  I  am  fond 
of  our  garden.  Even  at  Fan- 
shawe  I  don't  think  there  are 
nicer  trees." 

"  Of  course  the  perfection  of 
everything  is  at  Fanshawe,"  he 
said,  with  a  sudden  sharpness 
which  changed  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  the  room  all  in  a  moment; 
"but  I  think  it  is  imprudent  to 
stay  out  so  late,  and  it  is  damp, 
and  there  is  no  moon.  I  thought 
you  required  a  moon  for  such 
rambles.  Please  let  me  have  a 
cup  of  tea." 

"  We  did  very  well  without  a 
moon,"  said  Kate,  trying  to  keep 
up  her  usual  tone;  but  it  was  not 
easy,  and  she  went  off  with  a  sub- 
dued step  to  the  tea-table,  and  had 
not  even  the  courage  to  call  John 
to  her,  as  she  generally  did.  Oh, 
why  didn't  papa  stay  in  his  own 
room  ?  she  said  to  herself.  It  is 
only  one  night  in  the  week,  and  he 
should  not  be  so  selfish.  But  she 
took  him  his  tea  with  her  own 
hand  and  tried  all  she  could  to 
soothe  him.  "You  have  got  a 
headache,  papa,"  she  said,  tender- 
ly, putting  down  the  cup  on  the 
table  by  him,  and  looking  so 
anxious,  so  ingenuous,  and  inno- 
cent, that  it  was  hard  to  resist 
her. 

"  I  have  no  headache,"  he  said ; 
"  but  I  am  busy.  Don't  take  any 
notice,  occupy  yourselves  as  you 
please,  without  any  thought  of 
me." 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


281 


This  speech  was  produced  by 
a  sudden  compunction  and  sense 
of  injustice.  It  was  a  sacrifice  to 
right,  and  yet  he  was  all  wrong  and 
set  on  edge.  He  thought  that  Kate 
should  have  perceived  that  this  ami- 
ability was  forced  and  fictitious ; 
but  either  she  was  insensible  to  it, 
or  she  did  not  any  longer  care  to 
go  deeper  than  mere  words.  She 
kissed  his  forehead  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  kindest  mood,  and  said, 
"  Poor  papa ! — tbanks.  It  is  so  kind 
of  you  to  think  of  us  when  you  are 
suffering."  To  think  of  them ! 
when  she  must  have  known  he  was 
wishing  the  fellow  away.  And 
then  Kate  retired  to  the  tea-table, 
which  was  behind  Mr  Crediton, 
and  out  of  sight,  and  he  saw  her 
beckon  to  John  with  a  half-imper- 
ceptible movement.  The  young 
man  obeyed,  and  went  and  sat  be- 
side her,  and  the  sound  of  their 
voices  in  low -toned  conversation, 
with  little  bursts  of  laughter  and 
soft  exclamations,  was  gall  and 
wormwood  to  the  father.  It  was 
all  "  that  fellow,"  he  thought :  his 
Kate  herself  would  never  have 
used  him  so  ;  and  it  was  all  his 
self-control  could  do  to  prevent 
him  addressing  some  bitter  words 
to  John.  But  the  fact  was,  it  was 
Kate's  doing  alone  —  Kate,  who 
was  less  happy  to-night  than  usual, 
but  whom  his  tone  had  galled  into 
opposition.  "  No/'  she  was  whis- 
pering to  John,  "  you  are  not  to  go 
away — not  unless  you  want  to  be 
rid  of  me.  Papa  ought  to  be  brought 
to  his  senses — he  has  no  right  to 
be  so  cross  ;  and  I  am  not  going 
to  give  in  to  him."  This  was  the 
nature  of  the  conversation  which 
was  going  on  behind  Mr  Crediton's 
back.  He  did  not  hear  it,  and  yet 
it  gave  him  a  furious  sense  of  re- 
sentment, which  expressed  itself  at 
last  in  various  little  assaults. 

"  Have  the  goodness  not  to  whis- 
per, Kate,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
it  sets  my  nerves  on  edge.  Speak 
out,';  an  address  which  had  the 
effect  of  ending  all  conversation 
between  the  lovers  for  a  minute  or 


two.  They  sat  silent  and  looked 
at  each  other  till  Mr  Crediton  spoke 
again.  "  I  seem  unfortunately  to 
act  upon  you  like  a  wet  blanket," 
he  said,  with  an  acrid  tone  in  his 
voice.  "  Perhaps  you  would  rather 
I  went  away." 

At  this  Kate's  spirit  was  roused. 
"  Papa,  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
done  to  displease  you,"  she  said, 
coining  forward.  "If  I  am  only 
to  see  him  once  in  the  week,  surely 
I  may  talk  to  him  when  he  comes." 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  ob- 
jected to  your  talk,"  said  Mr  Cre- 
diton, restraining  his  passion. 

"  Not  in  words,"  said  Kate,  now 
fairly  up  in  arms ;  "  but  it  is  not 
just,  papa.  It  makes  John  unhap- 
py and  it  makes  me  unhappy.  He 
has  a  right  to  have  me  to  himself 
when  he  comes.  You  cannot  for- 
get that  we  are  engaged.  I  never 
said  a  word  when  you  insisted  on 
once  a-week,  though  it  was  a  disap- 
pointment ;  but  you  know  he  ought 
not  to  be  cheated  now." 

All  this  time  John  had  been 
moving  about  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room,  at  once  angry  to  the  verge 
of  violence,  and  discouraged  to  the 
lowest  pitch.  He  had  cleared  his 
throat  and  tried  to  speak  a  dozen 
times  already.  Now  he  came  for- 
ward, painfully  restraining  himself. 
"  I  ought  to  speak,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  say  any- 
thing. Mr  Crediton  cannot  expect 
me  to  give  up  willingly  the  only 
consolation  I  have." 

"  It  is  time  enough  to  speak  of 
giving  up  when  any  one  demands  a 
sacrifice,"  said  Mr  Crediton,  taking 
upon  him  suddenly  that  superiority 
of  perfect  calm  with  which  a  mid- 
dle-aged man  finds  it  so  often  pos- 
sible to  confute  an  impatient  boy. 
"  I  am  sorry  that  my  innocent  re- 
marks should  have  irritated  you 
both.  You  must  school  me,  Kate," 
he  added,  with  a  forced  smile, 
"  what  I  am  to  do  and  say." 

And  then  he  went  to  his  room, 
with  a  sense  that  he  had  won  the 
victory.  And  certainly,  if  a  victory 
is  won  every  time  the  other  side  is 


282 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


discomfited,  such  was  the  case  at 
this  moment.  John  did  not  say 
anything — did  not  even  come  to  be 
comforted,  but  kept  walking  up  and 
down  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
It  was  Kate  who  had  to  go  to  him, 
to  steal  her  hand  within  his  arm, 
to  coax  him  back  to  his  usual  com- 
posure. And  it  was  a  process  not 
very  easy  to  be  performed.  She 
moved  him  quickly  enough  to  ten- 
der demonstrations  over  herself, 
which  indeed  she  had  no  objection 
to,  but  John  was  chilled  and  dis- 
couraged and  cast  down  to  the  very 
depths. 

"  He  was  only  cross,"  said  Kate ; 
"  when  he  is  cross  I  never  pay  any 
attention.  Something  has  gone 
wrong  in  business,  or  that  sort  of 
thing.  John,  dear,  say  you  don't 
mind.  It  is  not  me  that  am  mak- 
ing myself  disagreeable  :  it  is  only 
papa." 

Butjit  was  hard  to  get  John  to  re- 
spond. Notwithstanding  that  Mr 
Crediton  had  retired  and  left  the 
field  open,  and  that  Kate  did  all  in 
her  power  to  detain  him,  the  young 
man  left  her  earlier  than  usual,  and 
with  a  sufficiently  heavy  heart. 
Kate's  father  was  seeking  a  quarrel 
— endeavouring  to  show  him  the 
falseness  of  his  position,  and  make 
it  plain  how  obnoxious  he  was. 
John  walked  all  the  long  way  home 
to  his  little  lodgings,  which  were  at 
the  other  end  of  the  town,  contem- 


plating the  dim  Sunday  streets,  all 
so  dark,  with  glances  of  lamplight 
and  dim  reflections  from  the  wet 
pavement  —  for  in  the  mean  time 
rain  had  fallen.  And  this  was  all 
he  had  for  all  he  had  sacrificed. 
He  did  not  reckon  Kate  herself  in 
the  self-discussion.  She  was  worth 
everything  a  man  could  do  ;  but  to 
be  thus  chained  and  bound,  within 
sight,  yet  shut  out  from  her  —  to 
be  made  the  butt  of  another  man's 
jealous  resentment — to  have  a  seem- 
ing privilege,  which  was  made  into 
a  kind  of  torture  —  and  to  have 
given  his  life  for  this, — what  could 
he  say  even  to  himself  1  He  sat 
down  in  his  hard  arm-chair  and 

fazed  into  the  flame  of  his  two  can- 
les,  and  felt  himself  unable  to  do 
anything  but  brood  over  what  had 
happened.  He  could  not  read  nor 
turn  his  mind  from  the  covert  in- 
sult, the  unwilling  consent.  And 
what  was  to  come  of  it  1  John 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
when  he  came  to  that  part  of  the 
subject.  There  was  nothing  to  look 
forward  to — nothing  but  darkness. 
It  was  natural  that  she,  a  spoiled 
child  of  fortune,  should  smile  and 
trust  in  something  turning  up ;  but 
as  for  John,  he  saw  nothing  that 
could  turn  up  ;  and  in  all  the  world 
there  seemed  to  him  no  single  crea- 
ture with  less  hope  of  moulding  his 
future  according  to  his  wishes  than 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


This  moment  of  dismay,  how- 
ever, passed  over,  as  the  moments 
of  delight  did,  without  bringing 
about  any  absolute  revolution  in 
John's  life.  The  next  day  Mr 
Crediton  took  occasion  to  be  more 
than  ordinarily  civil,  repenting  of 
his  bad  humour,  and  Kate  stopped 
short  before  his  window  as  she 
rode  by  to  wave  her  hand  to  him. 
A  man  cannot  build  the  comfort 
of  his  life  permanently  on  such 
trifles ;  but  there  is  a  moment  when 
the  wave  of  a  girl's  hand  as  she 


passes  is  enough  to  strengthen  and 
exhilarate  his  heart.  So  the  crisis 
blew  over  as  the  others  had  done, 
and  the  routine  went  on.  John 
set  his  teeth,  and  confronted  his 
position  with  all  its  difficulties, 
making  a  desperate  effort.  A  wo- 
man might  bear  such  a  trial,  and 
live  through  it ;  but  it  is  hard  upon 
a  man,  when  he  is  no  longer  a  boy, 
to  be  called  upon  to  give  up  every- 
thing, to  change  the  entire  current 
of  his  occupations,  and  make  an 
unquestionable  descent  in  the  so- 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


283 


2ial  scale,  for  love,  without  even 
giving  him  its  natural  compensa- 
tions. An  imprudent  marriage  is 
a  different  thing,  for  there  the  con- 
sequences are  inevitable  when  once 
the  step  has  been  taken,  and  have 
to  be  borne,  will  he  nill  he.  But  to 
make  love  his  all — the  sole  object 
and  meaning  of  his  life — there  was 
in  this  a  certain  humiliation  which 
by  turns  overwhelmed  John's  for- 
titude and  courage.  To  give  up 
happiness  for  higher  aims  is  surely 
more  worthy,  more  noble,  more  fit, 
than  to  give  up  everything  else  for 
the  hope  of  happiness.  He  who 
had  made  himself  wretched  over 
the  stumbling-blocks  of  absolute 
belief  required  from  him  by  the 
Church,  was  not  likely  to  find  much 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  he  was 
abandoning  every  chance  of  a  use- 
ful life  for  the  sake  of  a  soft 
word,  a  rare  caress,  or  even,  to 
take  it  at  its  best,  for  the  chance  of 
eventual  selfish  personal  happiness. 
But  he  restrained  himself  as  best 
he  could,  and  settled  down  dogged- 
ly to  his  work,  trying  not  to  think 
of  it,  not  to  look  forward  to  the 
moments  which  were  supposed  to 
be  his  recompense,  and  were  at  the 
same  time  his  punishment.  It  was 
indeed  a  relief  to  him,  and  helped 
him  to  bear  his  burden  more  stead- 
ily when  the  annual  removal  of  the 
family  to  Fernwood  took  place, 
and  Kate  vanished  from  before  his 
eyes.  She  cried  when  she  parted 
with  him  that  last  Sunday,  and 
John  felt  a  serrement  du  cceur 
which  almost  choked  him ;  but 
still,  at  the  same  time,  when  it  was 
over  and  she  was  gone,  life  on  the 
whole  became  easier.  He  made  an 
effort  to  interest  himself  in  his 
brother  clerks,  and  enter  into  their 
life ;  but  what  was  a  humiliation  to 
John  was  to  them  such  a  badge  of 
superiority  that  he  could  make  but 
little  of  that.  He  was  Mr  Credi- 
ton's  future  son-in-law,  probably 
their  own  future  employer,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  young  men  around  him, 
who  accepted  his  advances  with  a 
deference  and  half-concealed  pride 


which  threw  John  back  again  upon 
himself.  He  had  no  equals,  no 
companions.  To  be  sure  there 
were  plenty  of  people  in  Camelford 
who  would  have  been  glad  to  re- 
ceive Dr  Mitford's  son,  but  he  had 
no  desire  for  the  ordinary  kind  of 
society.  And  it  is  not  to  be  de- 
scribed with  what  pleasure  he  saw 
Fred  Huntley,  a  man  whom  he  had 
never  cared  for  heretofore,  push 
open  the  swinging  door  of  the  bank, 
and  peer  round  the  place  with 
short-sighted  eyes.  "  Mr  Mitford, 
if  you  please,"  Fred  said,  perhaps 
rather  superciliously,  to  the  clerk 
who  was  John's  superior,  expecting, 
it  was  clear,  to  be  ushered  into 
some  secret  retirement  where  the 
principals  of  the  bank  might  be. 
When  John  rose  from  his  desk, 
Huntley  gazed  at  him  with  un- 
feigned astonishment.  "  What  ! 
you  here  ! "  he  said ;  and  opened 
his  eyes  still  wider  when  John 
turned  round  and  explained  to  Mr 
Whichelo  that  he  was  going  out, 
and  why.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  they  stick  ryou  at  a  desk  like 
that,  among  all  those  fellows  1 "  Fred 
said,  as  they  left  the  bank  together; 
which  exclamation  of  wonder  re- 
vived the  original  impatience  which 
use  and  wont  by  this  time  had 
calmed  down. 

"Exactly  like  the  other  fellows," 
said  John  ;  "and  quite  right  too, 
or  why  should  I  be  here  1 " 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  are — learn- 
ing—  the  business,"  said  Fred. 
"  Old  Crediton  must  mean  you  to 
be  his  successor.  And  that  is  great 
luck,  though  I  confess  it  would 
not  have  much  charm  for  me." 

"  It  is  very  well/'  said  John,  "  I 
have  nothing  to  complain  of.  If  I 
can  stick  to  it  I  suppose  I  shall 
earn  some  money  sooner  or  later, 
which  is  a  great  matter,  all  you 
people  say." 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  great  matter," 
said  Fred.  "  You  told  that  old  fellow 
you  were  going  out  in  a  wonderful 
explanatory  way,  as  if  you  thought 
he  mightn't  like  it.  Can't  you 
stay  and  have  something  with  me 


284 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


at  the  hotel  ?  I  have  to  be  here 
all  night,  much  against  my  will, 
and  I  should  spend  it  all  alone 
unless  you'll  stay." 

"  Thanks ;  it  does  me  good  to 
see  a  known  face.  I'll  stay  if 
you'll  have  me,"  said  John  ;  and 
then,  as  it  was  still  daylight,  they 
took  a  preparatory  stroll  about  the 
streets  of  Camelford.  The  inn  was 
in  the  High  Street,  not  very  far 
from  the  bank  and  the  Crediton 
mansion.  The  young  men  walked 
about  the  twilight  streets  talking 
of  everything  in  earth  and  heaven. 
It  was  to  John  as  if  they  had  met 
in  the  depths  of  Africa  or  at  a 
lonely  Indian  station.  He  had 
never  been  very  intimate  with 
Fred  Huntley,  but  they  were  of  the 
same  class,  with  something  like  the 
same  training  and  associations,  and 
the  exile  could  have  embraced  the 
new-comer,  who  spoke  his  own 
language,  and  put  the  same  mean- 
ing to  ordinary  words  as  he  did. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  he  even 
noticed  the  inquiring  way  in  which 
Huntley  looked  at  him,  the  half- 
questions  he  now  and  then  would 
put  sharply  in  the  midst  of  indif- 
ferent conversation,  as  if  to  take 
him  off  his  guard.  John  was  not 
on  his  guard,  and  consequently  the 
precaution  was  ineffectual ;  but 
after  a  while  he  observed  it  with  a 
curious  sensation  of  surprise.  It 
was  not,  however,  till  they  had 
dined,  and  were  seated  opposite  to 
each  other  over  their  modest  bottle 
of  claret,  that  they  fairly  entered 
upon  personal  affairs. 

"  Do  you  find  the  life  suit  you  ? " 
said  Fred,  abruptly.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon  if  I  am  too  inquisitive ; 
but  of  course  it  must  be  a  great 
change." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  suits  me 
particularly,"  said  John  ;  but  the 
glance  which  accompanied  the 
question  had  been  very  keen  and 
searching,  and  somehow,  without 
knowing  it,  a  sense  of  suspicion 
ran  through  him ;  "I  don't  sup- 
pose any  life  does  until  one  is 
thoroughly  used  to  it.  Routine  is 


the  grand  safeguard  in  everything 
— and  perhaps  more  than  in  any- 
thing else  to  a  clerk  in  a  bank." 

"  But  that  is  absurd,"  said  Fred. 
"  How  long  do  you  and  Mr  Credi- 
ton mean  to  keep  up  the  farce  1  a 
clerk  in  the  bank  betrothed  to  his 
daughter — it  is  too  good  a  joke." 

"  I  don't  see  the  farce,"  said 
John,  "and  neither,  I  suppose,  does 
Mr  Crediton  ;  he  is  not  given  to 
joking.  Now  tell  me,  Huntley,  be- 
fore we  go  any  further,  is  it  the 
dear  old  people  at  home  who  have 
asked  you  to  come  and  look  after 
me1?  was  it  —  my  mother1?  She 
might  have  known  I  would  tell  her 
at  first  hand  anything  there  was  to 
tell." 

At  this  speech  Fred  Huntley 
became  very  much  confused,  though 
he  did  not  look  like  a  man  to  be 
easily  put  out.  He  grew  red,  he 
cleared  his  throat,  he  shuffled  his 
feet  about  the  carpet.  "  Upon  my 
word  you  mistake,"  he  said;  "I 
have  not  seen  either  Mrs  Mitford 
or  the  Doctor  since  you  left." 

"  Then  who  has  sent  you  1 "  said 
John. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  grown 
mighty  suspicious  all  at  once.  Why 
should  any  one  have  sent  me  1  may 
not  I  look  up  an  old  friend  for 
my  own  pleasure  1  surely  we  have 
known  each  other  sufficiently  for 
that." 

"  You  might,"  said  John,  "  but 
I  don't  think  that  is  the  whole 
question,  and  it  would  be  best  to 
tell  me  at  once  what  you  want  to 
know — I  am  quite  willing  to  un- 
fold my  experiences,"  he  said,  with 
a  forced  smile ;  and  then  there  was 
a  pause 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said 
Fred  Huntley,  after  an  interval, 
with  an  attempt  at  jocularity,  "  that 
you  are  an  intensely  lucky  fellow. 
What  will  you  say  if  I  tell  you  that 
I  have  just  come  from  Fernwood, 
and  that  if  any  one  sent  me  it  was 
Kate  Crediton,  wishing  for  a  report 
as  to  your  health  and  spirits  — 
though  it  is  not  so  long  since  she 
has  seen  you,  I  suppose  1 " 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


285 


"Kate  Crediton?"  said  John, 
haughtily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon :  my  sisters 
are  intimate  with  her,  you  know, 
and  I  hear  her  called  so  fifty  times 
in  a  day — one  falls  into  it  without 
knowing.  Hang  it !  since  you  will 
have  it,  Mitford,  Miss  Crediton  did 
speak  to  me  before  I  left.  She 
heard  I  was  coming  to  Camel  ford, 
and  she  came  to  me  the  night  be- 
fore— last  night,  in  fact — and  told 
me  you  were  here  alone,  and  she 
was  uneasy  about  you.  I  wish 
anybody  was  uneasy  about  me.  She 
wanted  to  know  if  you  were  lonely, 
if  you  were  unhappy — half  a  hun- 
dred things.  I  hope  you  don't  ob- 
ject to  her  anxiety.  I  assure  you 
it  conveyed  a  very  delightful  idea 
of  your  good  fortune  to  me." 

"  Whatever  Miss  Crediton  chose 
to  say  must  have  been  like  her- 
self," cried  John,  trembling  with 
sudden  passion,  "and  no  doubt 
she  thought  you  were  a  very  pro- 
per ambassador.  But  you  must  be 
aware,  Huntley,  that  ladies  judge 
very  differently  on  these  points 
from  men.  If  you  please  we  will 
not  go  further  into  that  ques- 
tion." 

"  It  was  not  I  who  began  it,  I 
am  sure,"  said  Fred ;  and  another 
pause  ensued,  during  which  John 
sat  with  lowering  brows,  and  an 
expression  no  one  had  ever  seen  on 
his  face  before.  "  Look  here,  Mit- 
ford," said  Fred,  suddenly,  "  don't 
go  and  vex  yourself  for  nothing. 
If  any  indiscretion  of  mine  should 
make  dispeace  between  you — — " 

"  Pray  don't  think  for  a  moment 
that  such  a  thing  is  likely  to  hap- 
pen," said  John. 

"  Well— well— if  I  am  too  pre- 
sumptuous in  supposing  anything 
I  say  to  be  likely  to  move  you  ; " 
Huntley  went  on,  with  a  restrain- 
ed smile — "but  you  really  must 
not  do  Miss  Crediton  injustice 
through  any  clumsiness  of  mine. 
It  came  about  in  the  most  natural 
way.  She  was  afraid  there  had 
been  some  little  sparring  between 
her  father  and  yourself,  and  was 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIII. 


anxious,  as  in  her  position  it  was 
so  natural  to  be " 

"  Exactly,"  said  John.  "  Are  you 
on  your  way  home  now,  or  are  you 
going  back  to  Fern  wood  1  I  should 
ask  you  to  take  a  little  parcel  for 
me  if  you  were  likely  to  be  near 
Fanshawe.  How  are  the  birds  ?  I 
don't  suppose  I  shall  do  them 
much  harm  this  year." 

"  Oh,  they're  plentiful  enough," 
said  Huntley  ;  "  my  father  has  the 
house  full,  and  I  am  not  much  of 
a  shot,  you  know.  They  would  be 
charmed  to  see  you  if  you  would 
go  over  for  a  day  or  two.  I  mean 
to  make  a  run  to  Switzerland,  my- 
self. Vaughan  has  some  wonderful 
expedition  on  hand — up  the  Matter- 
horn,  or  something — and  I  should 
like  to  be  on  the  spot." 

"  Shall  you  go  up  with  him  1 " 
said  John. 

"  Not  I,  but  I  should  like  to  be 
at  hand  to  pick  up  what  remains 
of  him  if  he  comes  to  grief — and  to 
share  his  triumph,  of  course,  if  he 
succeeds,"  Fred  added,  with  a 
laugh — "  a  friend's  privilege.  Are 
you  going?— it  is  scarcely  ten 
o'clock." 

"  You  forget  I  am  a  man  of 
business  nowadays,"  said  John, 
with  an  uncomfortable  smile  ;  and 
then  they  stood  over  the  table, 
facing  but  not  looking  at  each 
other ;  a  suppressed  resentment  and 
excitement  possessing  one,  which 
he  was  doing  his  utmost  to  restrain 
— and  the  other  embarrassed,  with  a 
mixture  of  charitable  vexation  and 
malicious  pleasure  in  the  effect  he 
had  produced. 

"I'll  walk  with  you,"  said  Hunt- 
ley;  for  to  shake  hands  and  separate 
at  this  moment  would  have  been 
something  like  an  irredeemable 
breach — and  that,  for  two  men  be- 
longing to  the  same  county,  and  al- 
most the  same  set,  was  a  thing  to  be 
avoided.  John  had  not  sufficient 
command  of  himself  to  make  any 
effusive  reply,  but  he  did  not  ob- 
ject ;  and  presently  they  were  in 
the  street  walking  side  by  side  and 
discoursing  on  every  subject  except 


286 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


the  one  in  their  minds.  They  had 
not  walked  very  far,  however,  be- 
fore some  indefinable  impulse  made 
John  turn  back  to  cast  a  glance  at 
the  bank  —  the  scene  of  his  daily 
penance  —  and  the  vacant  house 
that  stood  beside  it.  They  were  a 
good  way  down  the  street,  on  the 
opposite  side.  He  gave  a  slight 
start,  which  his  companion  per- 
ceived, but  offered  no  explanation 
of  it.  "  Let  us  turn  back  a  little, 
I  have  forgotten  something,"  he 
said.  Huntley,  who  had  no  par- 
ticular interest  where  they  went, 
turned  as  he  was  desired,  and  was 
just  debating  with  himself  whether, 
all  the  due  courtesies  having  been 
attended  to,  he  might  not  go  into 
his  hotel  as  they  passed  it,  and 
leave  John  at  peace  to  pursue  his 
sullen  way.  But  it  occurred  to 
him  that  John  made  a  half-per- 
ceptible pause  at  the  door  of  the 
"Greyhound,"  as  if  inviting  nini 
to  withdraw,  and  this  movement 
decided  the  question.  "  Confound 
the  fellow !  I'm  not  going  to  be 
dismissed  when  he  pleases,"  Fred 
said  to  himself ;  and  so  went  on, 
not  knowing  where  he  went, 

"  I  thought  so ! "  cried  John,  sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  some  philoso- 
phical talk,  interrupting  Fred  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  he 
rushed  across  the  street  to  the 
bank,  to  his  companion's  utter  con- 
sternation. "  What  is  the  matter  1 " 
cried  Fred.  John  dashed  at  the 
closed  door,  ringing  the  bell  vio- 
lently, and  beating  with  his  stick 
upon  the  panels.  Then  he  called 
loudly  to  a  passing  policeman — 
"  Knock  at  the  house  ! "  he  cried. 
"Fire!  fire!  Huntley,  for  heaven's 
sake,  fly  for  the  engines ! — they  will 
let  me  in  and  not  you,  or  I  should 
go  myself — don't  lose  a  moment. 
Fire  !  fire  ! " 

"  But  stop  a  little,"  cried  Huntley 
in  dismay,  plucking  at  John's  arm ; 
and  what  with  the  sound  of  the 
knocking  and  the  peals  of  the  bell 
which  sounded  sepulchrally  in  the 
empty  place,  he  scarcely  could  hear 
his  own  voice.  "  Stop  a  moment — 


you  are  deceiving  yourself;  I  see 
no  signs  of  fire." 

"  You  run ! "  cried  John,  hoarsely, 
turning  to  the  policeman,  "  or  you 
— five  pounds  to  the  man  who  gets 
there  first !  Signs  !— Good  God !  the 
wretches  are  out.  We  must  break 
open  the  door."  And  he  beat  at 
it,  as  if  he  would  beat  it  in,  with 
a  kind  of  frenzy  ;  while  Huntley 
stood  stupefied  and  saw  two  or 
three  of  the  bystanders,  who  had 
already  begun  to  collect,  start  off 
with  a  rush  to  get  the  fire-engines. 
"  There's  nobody  in  the  house 
within,  sir,  or  else  I  can't  make 
'em  hear,"  said  the  policeman,  com- 
ing up  to  John  for  his  orders. 
"  Then  we  must  break  in,"  cried 
John.  "  There's  a  locksmith  in 
the  next  street  :  you  fly  and  fetch 
him,  my  good  fellow.  And  where 
shall  we  get  some  ladders  1  There 
is  a  way  of  getting  in  from  the 
house  if  we  were  once  in  the 
house." 

"  Not  to  make  too  bold,  sir," 
said  the  policeman,  "  I'd  like  to 
know  afore  breaking  into  folks' 
houses,  if  you  had  any  title  to  do 
the  like.  You're  not  Mr  Crediton, 
and  he  aint  got  no  son." 

John  drew  himself  to  his  full 
height,  and  even  then  in  his  excite- 
ment glanced  at  Huntley,  who 
kept  by  his  side,  irresolute  and 
ignorant,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 
"  I  am  closely  connected  with  Mr 
Crediton,"  he  said  ;  "  nobody  can 
have  a  better  right  to  look  after 
his  affairs ;  and  he  is  away  from 
home.  Get  us  ladders,  and  don't 
let  us  stand  parleying  here." 

The  policeman  looked  at  him  for 
a  moment,  and  then  moved  leisure- 
ly across  the  street  to  seek  the 
ladders,  while  in  the  mean  time 
the  two  young  men  stood  in  front 
of  the  blind  house  with  all  its 
shuttered  windows,  and  the  closed 
door  which  echoed  hollow  to  John's 
assault.  The  dark  front  so  jeal- 
ously bolted  and  barred,  all  dangers 
without  shut  out,  and  the  fiery 
traitor  within  ravaging  at  its  lei- 
sure, drove  John  wild,  excited  as 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


287 


he  was  to  begin  with.  "  Good 
heavens  !  to  think  we  must  stand 
here,"  he  said,  ringing  once  more, 
but  this  time  so  violently  that  he 
broke  the  useless  bell.  They  heard 
it  echo  shrilly  through  the  silent 
place  in  the  darkness.  "  Mr  White 
the  porter's  gone  out  for  a  walk 
— I  seed  him,"  said  a  boy  ;  "  there 
aint  no  one  there."  "  But  I  see 
no  signs  of  fire,"  cried  Fred.  Just 
then  there  came  silently  through 
the  night  air  a  something  which 
contradicted  him  to  his  face — a 
puff  of  smoke  from  somewhere, 
nobody  could  tell  where,  and  all 
at  once  through  the  freshness  of 
the  autumn  night  the  smell  of 
fire  suddenly  breathed  round  them. 
Fred  uttered  one  sharp  exclama- 
tion, and  then  stood  still,  con- 
founded. As  for  John,  he  gave 
a  spring  at  the  lower  window  and 
caught  the  iron  bar  and  swung 
himself  up.  But  the  bar  resisted 
his  efforts,  and  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  wait.  When  the  lad- 
ders were  at  last  visible,  moving 
across  the  gloom,  he  rushed  at  them 
without  taking  time  to  think,  and 
snatching  one  out  of  the  slow  hands 
of  the  indifferent  bearers,  placed  it 
against  the  wall  of  the  house,  while 
Fred  stood  observing,  and  was  up 
almost  at  the  sill  of  an  unshuttered 
window  on  the  upper  floor  before 
Huntley  could  say  a  word.  Then 
Fred  contented  himself  with  stand- 
ing outside  and  looking  on.  "  One 
is  enough  for  that  sort  of  work," 
he  said  half  audibly,  and  fell  into 
conversation  with  the  policeman, 
who  stood  with  an  anxious  coun- 
tenance beside  him.  "  I  hope  as  the 
gentleman  won't  hurt  himself," 
said  the  policeman.  u  I  hope  it's 
true  as  he's  Mr  Crediton's  relation, 
sir.  Very  excited  he  do  seem,  about 
not  much,  don't  you  think,  sir? 
And  them  engines  will  be  tearing 
down,  running  over  the  children 
before  a  man  knows." 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  not  much 
danger,  then  1 "  said  Fred. 

"  Danger!"    cried    the    man — 
"  Lord  bless  you  !  if  it  was  a  regu- 


lar fire  don't  ye  think  as  I'd  have 
noticed  it,  and  me  just  finished  my 
round  not  half  an  hour  since  1  But 
it's  hawful  negligent  of  that  fellow 
White.  I  knew  as  he'd  been  going 
to  the  bad  for  some  time  back,  and 
I'm  almost  glad  he's  catched ;  but 
as  for  fire,  sir " 

At  this  moment  another  puff  of 
smoke,  darker  and  heavier,  came  in 
a  gust  from  the  roof,  and  the  po- 
liceman putting  his  eye  to  the  key- 
hole, fell  back  again  exclaiming 
vehemently,  "  By  George !  but  it  is 
a  fire,  and  the  gentleman's  right," 
and  sprang  his  rattle  loudly.  The 
crowd  round  gave  a  half-cheer  of 
excitement,  and  up  full  speed  rat- 
tled the  fire-engines,  clearing  the 
way,  and  filling  the  air  with  clan- 
gour. At  the  same  moment  arrived 
a  guilty  sodden  soul,  wringing  his 
hands,  in  which  was  a  big  key. 
"  Gentlemen,"  he  cried,  "  I  take 
you  to  witness  as  I  never  was  out 
before.  It's  an  accident  as  nobody 
couldn't  have  foreseen.  It's  an  ac- 
cident as  has  never  happened  be- 
fore." "  Open  the  door,  you  ass ! " 
cried  Huntley ;  and  then  the  babel 
of  sounds,  the  gleams  of  wild  light, 
the  hiss  of  the  falling  water,  all 
the  confused  whirl  of  circumstance 
that  belongs  to  such  a  moment 
swept  in,  and  took  all  distinct  un- 
derstanding even  from  the  self-pos- 
sessed perceptions  of  Fred. 

As  for  John,  when  he  found  him- 
self in  the  silent  house  which  he  had 
entered  from  the  window,  he  had  no 
time  to  think  of  his  sensations.  He 
had  snatched  the  policeman's  lan- 
tern from  his  hand  ere  he  made  his 
ascent,  and  went  hastily  stumbling 
through  the  unknown  room,  and 
down  the  long,  echoing  stairs,  as 
through  a  wall  of  darkness ;  pro- 
jecting before  him  the  round  eye  of 
light,  which  made  the  darkness  if 
possible  more  weird  and  mystical. 
His  heart  was  very  sore ;  it  pained 
him  physically,  or  at  least  he 
thought  it  did,  lying  like  a  lump 
of  lead  in  his  breast.  But  he 
was  glad  of  the  excitement  which 
forced  his  thoughts  away  from  him- 


288 


John.— Part  V. 


[March 


self.     To    unbolt    the    ponderous 
doors  at  either  end  of  the  passage 
which  led  into  the  bank,  took  him 
what  seemed   an  age;    but  at  last 
he  succeeded  in  getting  them  open. 
A  cloud  of  smoke  enveloped  him 
as  he  went  in,  and  all  but  drove 
him    back.      He  burst  through   it 
with   a  confused   sense   of   flames 
and  suffocation,  and  blazing  sheets 
of   red,   that  waved  long  tongues 
towards  him  to  catch  him  as  he 
rushed  through   them ;    but,   not- 
withstanding,  he   forced  his   way 
into  Mr  Crediton's  room,  where  he 
knew  there  were  valuable  papers. 
He  thought  of  nothing  as  he  rushed 
through  the  jaws  of  death;  neither 
of  Kate,  nor  of  his  past  life,  nor 
of  his  home,  nor  of  any  of  those 
things  which  are  supposed  to  gleam 
upon  the  mind  in  moments  of  su- 
preme danger.    He  thought  only  of 
the  papers  in  Mr  Crediton's  room. 
Unconsciously  he  formed  an  idea 
of  the  origin  of  the  fire,  as,  panting, 
choked,  and  scorched,  he  gathered, 
without  seeing  them,  into  his  arms 
the  box  of  papers,  and  seized  upon 
everything  he  could  feel  with  his 
hands  upon  the  table.     He  could 
see  nothing,  for  his  eyes  were  sting- 
ing with  the  smoke,  and  scorched 
with  the  flames.     When   he    had 
grasped  everything  he  could  feel, 
with  his  senses    failing    him,   he 
pushed  blindly  for  the  door,  hoping, 
so  far  as  he  had  wit  enough  to  hope 
anything,  that  he  might  reach  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  be  able  to 
unloose  its  fastenings  before  he  gave 
way.     By  this  time   there   was  a 
roaring  of  the  fire  in  his  ears  ;  an 
insufferable  smell  of  burning  wood 
and  paint ;    all    his    senses    were 
assailed,  even  that  of  touch,  which 
recoiled    from    the    heated    walls 
against  which  he  staggered  trying 
to  find  the  door.    At  last  the  sharp 
pain  with  which  he  struck  violent- 
ly against  it,  cutting  open  his  fore- 
head, brought  him  partially  to  him- 
self.    He  half  -  staggered  half -fell 
into  the  passage,  dropping  upon  his 
knees,  for  his  arms  were  full,  and 
he  had  no  hand  to  support  himself 


with.     Then  all  at  once  a  sudden 
wild  gust  of  air  struck  him  in  the 
face  from  the  other  side ;  the  flames, 
with  (he  thought)  a  cry,  leaped  at 
him  from  behind,  and  he  fell  pros- 
trate, clasping  tight  the  papers  he 
had  recovered,  and  knew  no  more. 
It  was  half  an  hour  later  when 
Fred  Huntley,  venturing  into  the 
narrow  hall  of  the  burning  house 
after  the  first  detachment  of  firemen 
had   entered  with  their   hatchets, 
found  some   one    lying    drenched 
with  water  from  the  engines,  and 
looking  like  a  calcined  thing  that 
would  drop  to  powder  at  a  touch, 
against    the    wall.     The    calcined 
creature  moved  when  it  was  touch- 
ed, and  gave  signs  of  life ;  but  every 
one  by  this  time  had  forgotten  John 
in  the  greater  excitement  of  the 
fire  ;  and  it  had  not  occurred  to 
Huntley  even,  the  only   one  who 
knew  much  about  him,  to  ask  what 
had    become    of    him.      He    was 
dragged  out,  not  very  gently,  to  the 
steps  in  front ;   and  there,  fortun- 
ately for  John,  was  the  porter  who 
had  been  the  cause  of  all  the  mis- 
chief, and  who  stood  outside  wring- 
ing   his    hands,    and    getting    in 
everybody's  way.  "Look  after  him, 
you!"-  cried    Fred,    plunging    in 
again  to  the  heart  of  the  conflict. 
Some  of  the  clerks  had  arrived  by 
this    time,    and    were     anxiously 
directing  the  fire-engines   to   play 
upon   the   strong  room    in   which 
most  of  the  valuables  of  the  bank 
were  placed.    Fred  Huntley  was  not 
noticeably  destitute  of  courage,  but 
he  was  more  ready  to  put  himself 
in  the  front  when  the  pioneers  had 
passed    before,    and     there    were 
plenty  of  followers  to  support  him 
behind.     He  took  the  command  of 
affairs  while    John    lay  moaning, 
scorched,  and  drenched  on  the  wet 
step,  with  people  rushing  past  him, 
now  and  then  almost  treading  on 
him,   and  pain   gradually  rousing 
him  into  consciousness.     They  had 
tried  to  take  his  charge  from  him 
and  he  had  resisted,  showing  a  dawn 
of  memory.     When  the  water  from 
the  hose  struck  him  again  in  the 


1870.] 


John.— Part  V. 


289 


face,  lie  struggled  half  up,  and  sat 
and  looked  round  him.  "  Good 
Lord,  Mr  Mitf ord  ! "  said  Mr  Which- 
elo,  the  chief  cashier,  discovering 
him  with  consternation.  "  Take 
roe  somewhere/'  gasped  John ;  "  and 
take  care  of  these,"  holding  out 
his  innocent  booty.  Mr  Whichelo 
rushed  at  him  eagerly.  "  God  bless 
you!"  he  cried;  "it  was  that  I 
was  thinking  of.  How  did  you  get 
it  ]  have  you  been  in  the  fire  and 
the  flames  to  fetch  it,  and  saved  my 
character?"  cried  the  poor  man, 
hysterically.  "  Hold  your  tongue, 
and  take  me  somewhere ! "  cried 
John  ;  and  the  next  moment  his 
senses  had  once  more  forsaken 
him,  and  he  knew  nothing  about 
either  blaze  or  flame. 

The  after  incidents  of  the  night, 
of  which  John  was  conscious  only 
by  glimpses,  were — that  he  was  car- 
ried to  the  inn  opposite,  his  treasures 
taken  from  his  arms  and  locked 
carefully  away,  and  the  doctor 
brought,  who  examined  him,  and 
shook  his  head,  and  said  a  great 
deal  about  a  shock  to  the  nerves. 
John  was  in  one  of  his  intervals  of 
consciousness  when  this  was  said, 
and  raised  himself  from  the  strange 
distance  and  dreaminess  in  which 
he  seemed  to  be  lying.  "I  have 
had  no  shock  to  my  nerves,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  burnt  and  sore  and 
soaking,  that's  all.  Plaster  me  or 
mend  me  somehow."  And  this  effort 
saved  him  from  the  feverish  con- 
fusion into  which  he  was  falling. 
When  he  came  to  himself  he  felt 
that  he  was  indeed  sore  all  over, 
with  minute  burns  in  a  hundred 
places  about  his  person  ;  his  hair 
and  his  eyelashes  scorched  off,  and 
his  skin  all  blistered  and  burning. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  pain  which  kept 
him  in  full  possession  of  his  facul- 
ties for  all  the  rest  of  the  night. 
Then  he  felt  it  was  not  the  fire  he 
had  cared  for,  nor  the  possible  loss, 
but  only  the  pure  satisfaction  of 
doing  something.  When  they  told 


him  the  fire  was  got  under,  the 
strong  room  saved,  and  that  noth- 
ing very  serious  had  happened,  the 
news  did  not  in  the  least  excite 
him.  He  had  asked  as  if  he  was 
profoundly  concerned,  and  he  was 
scarcely  even  interested.  "Pain 
has  often  that  effect,"  he  heard  the 
doctor  say.  "  This  kind  of  irritat- 
ing, ever-present  suffering,  absorbs 
the  mind.  Of  course  he  cares. 
Tell  him  again,  that  the  news  may 
get  into  his  mind."  And  then 
somebody  told  him  again,  and  John 
longed  to  cry,  What  the  devil  is  that 
to  me  !  but  restrained  himself.  It 
was  nothing  to  him ;  and  the  burn- 
ing on  his  skin  was  not  much  :  it 
was  nothing  indeed  to  the  burning 
in  his  heart.  She  had  discussed 
with  another  matters  which  were 
between  themselves.  She  had  sent 
another  to  report  on  his  looks  and 
his  state  of  mind;  there  was  be- 
tween her  and  another  man  a  secret 
alliance  which  he  was  not  intended 
to  know.  The  blood  seemed  to  boil 
in  John's  veins  as  he  lay  tossing 
through  the  restless  night,  trying  in 
vain  to  banish  the  thought  from 
him.  But  the  thought,  being  in- 
tolerable, would  not  be  banished. 
It  lay  upon  him,  and  tore  at  him 
as  the  vultures  tore  Prometheus. 
She  had  discussed  their  engagement 
with  Fred  Huntley ;  taken  him  into 
her  confidence  —  that  confidence 
which  should  have  been  held  sacred 
to  another.  John  was  thrown  back 
suddenly  and  wildly  upon  himself. 
His  heart  throbbed  and  swelled  as 
if  it  would  break,  and  felt  as  if  hot 
irons  had  seared  it.  He  imagined 
them  sitting  together,  talking  him 
over.  He  even  framed  the  account 
of  this  accident  which  Huntley 
would  give.  He  would  be  at  her 
ear,  while  John  was  banished.  He 
denied  that  it  had  been  a  shock  to 
his  nerves  ;  and  yet  his  nerves  had 
received  such  a  shock  as  he  might 
never  recover  in  his  life. 


290 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


MISS  AUSTEN  AND  MISS  MITFOHD. 


IN  the  beginning  of  last  century, 
two  young  women  bearing  names 
which  are  now  as  familiar  as  the 
greatest  to  English  readers,  were 
making  themselves  very  pleasant 
to  their  surroundings  in  the  very 
heart  of  all  the  stillness  and  deco- 
rum of  rural  gentility.  They  both 
belonged  to  that  class  of  English 
gentry  with  a  clerical  tinge,  which 
is  in  some  respects  the  pleasantest 
class  to  be  met  with  in  the  little 
hierarchy  of  country  life.  They 
were  well  born  and  well  connected, 
with  a  modest  position  which  not 
even  poverty  could  seriously  affect, 
and  the  habit  from  their  childhood 
of  meeting  people  of  some  distinc- 
tion and  eminence,  and  of  feeling 
themselves  possessed  of  so  much 
share  in  the  bigger  business  of  the 
world  as  is  given  by  the  fact  of 
having  friends  and  relations  play- 
ing a  real  part  in  it.  No  educa- 
tional process  is  more  effectual  than 
this  simple  fact,  and  Jane  Austen 
and  Mary  Mitford  were  both  within 
its  influence.  They  were  both  well 
educated,  according  to  the  require- 
ments of  their  day,  though  the 
chances  are  that  neither  could  have 
passed  her  examination  for  entrance 
into  any  lady's  college,  or  had  the  re- 
motest chance  with  the  University 
Inspectors ;  and  it  is  not  unconso- 
latory  to  find,  by  the  illumination 
which  a  little  lamp  of  genius  here 
and  there  thus  throws  upon  the 
face  of  the  country,  that  women 
full  of  cultivation  and  refinement 
have  existed  for  generations  be- 
fore ladies'  colleges  were  thought 
of,  notwithstanding  the  universal 
condemnation  bestowed  upon  our 
old  -  fashioned  canons  of  feminine 
instruction.  Miss  Austen  was  a 
little  girl  in  the  parsonage  of  Ste- 
venton  in  Hertfordshire  when  Miss 
Mitford's  mother  lived  in  the  par- 
sonage of  Ashe  close  by.  There 
was  thus  even  a  link  of  local  con- 
nection between  them.  The  Mit- 


fords  were  the  finer  of  the  two 
families,  boasting  higher  connec- 
tions on  both  sides  of  the  house ; 
but  the  Austens  were  of  irreproach- 
able gentility,  with  offshoots  that 
kept  continually  increasing  the 
consequence  of  the  original  stem, 
adding  other  names  and  new  estates 
to  the  well-to-do  numerous  affec- 
tionate race.  It  became  a  kind 
of  clan  as  years  went  on,  a  thing 
which  not  unfrequently  happens 
in  the  second  or  third  generation 
to  the  descendants  of  a  consider- 
able family.  Austens  and  Leighs 
and  Knights,  all  originally  Austen, 
there  were  so  many  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  cousins  and  uncles  and 
nephews  among  them,  that  ordin- 
ary society  became  almost  unneces- 
sary to  the  prolific  race.  The  Mit- 
fords  were  different — their  relations 
were  grand  and  distant  ones,  to  be 
seen  only  now  and  then  on  a  splen- 
did expedition  which  counted  like 
an  era  in  a  life ;  and  theirs  was  the 
highly  concentrated,  intensified  ex- 
istence of  a  very  small  family  living 
entirely  for  each  other,  and  exhi- 
biting between  themselves  that 
ecstatic  adoring  love  which  it  is  so 
difficult  for  the  more  sober  por- 
tions of  the  world  to  understand, 
and  which  outsiders  are  so  apt  to 
smile  at. 

The  education  of  the  two  young 
women  of  genius  was  thus  differ- 
ent. Jane  Austen  grew  up  to  wo- 
manhood in  a  gentle  obscurity, 
one  of  many — her  individual  ex- 
istence lost  in  the  more  noisy 
claims  of  the  brothers,  whose  way 
in  the  world  has  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  so  much  thought;  while 
the  boys'  settlement  in  life,  their 
Oxford  successes,  their  going  to 
sea,  their  early  curacies,  and  prize- 
money,  filled  everybody's  mind. 
Jane,  it  is  evident,  gave  nobody 
any  trouble.  Even  her  elder  sister, 
Cassandra,  to  whom  she  was  spe- 
cially devoted,  had  a  story  which 


1870.] 


Miss  A  usten  and  Miss  Mitford. 


291 


must  have  thrilled  the  quiet  vicar- 
age.    She  was  betrothed  to  a  lover 
who  was  poor,  and  who  went  to 
the  West  Indies  to  push  his  for- 
tune— u to  make  the  crown  a  pound," 
and    there    died.     No  doubt   the 
maiden  widow,  who  remained  faith- 
ful to  him  all  her  life,  filled  up 
every  corner  vacant  from  the  boys 
in  the  tender  heart  of  Steventon 
vicarage  ;  and  Jane,  fair,  sprightly, 
and  sweet,  with  no  story,  no  grief, 
no  unfortunate  lover  or  unsettled 
position  to  give  her  affairs  a  facti- 
tious interest,  was  only  Jane  in  the 
affectionate  house — a  bright -eyed, 
light-footed  girl — one  of  the  crea- 
tures evidently  born  to  marry  and 
be  the  light  of  some  other  home. 
Nothing  can  be  more  amusing  and 
attractive  than  the  glimpses,  very 
brief  and  slight  as  they  are,  of  this 
girl,  through  the  much  trellis-work 
and    leafage    of    her  nephew  Mr 
Austen  Leigh's  biography  of  her. 
It  has  not,  indeed,  any  right  to  be 
called  a  biography ;  and  were  not 
the  writer  so  frank  and  humble  in 
his  consciousness  of  the  fact,  the 
critic  might  be  tempted  to  certain 
hackneyed  comments  on  the  com- 
mon blunder  of  book-making.    But 
Mr  Austen  Leigh   is  aware  of  his 
imperfections  and  disarms  us.  What 
he  does  is  to  paint  for  us  somewhat 
heavily  the  outside  of    the  house 
in  which  she  lived,  with  the  honey- 
suckle and  the  roses  climbing  in  at 
the  windows;  and,  as  we  look,  some- 
times a  pretty  shadow  will  cross  the 
curtain,  a  pleasant  face  look  out, 
a  voice  quite  unpretending  in   its 
sweetness  be  heard  singing  within. 
That  is  all :  hazel  eyes  and  natural 
curls  of  brown  hair — round  cheeks, 
a   trifle  too  round,  but   all  aglow 
with   the   clear,   sweet,   colour    of 
health  and  youth — a  figure  "  rather 
tall   and   slender,"    a   "step  light 
and  firm."     Not  Jane  Austen  only, 
but  hosts  of  sweet  women  besides 
her,  might  have  sat  for   the  pic- 
ture.    She  took  long  walks  with 
Cassandra,  sometimes  in  pattens, 
between    the     double     hedgerows 
through   the   green   Hertfordshire 


lanes.      If    Cassandra    had    been 
condemned  to  have  her  head  cut 
off,    their    mother  thought,   Jane 
would   have  offered  to   share   the 
punishment ;    and    next    to    Cas- 
sandra, the  sailor-boys  of  the  fam- 
ily seem  to  have  filled  her  heart. 
She  was  fond  of  knowing  all  about 
her  neighbours,   of  hearing  their 
gossip,  and  noting  their  ways,  and 
laughing  at  them  softly  with  that 
delicate    fun    which    dull    people 
never  find  out  or  understand.     She 
was  an  accomplished  needlewoman, 
great  in   satin   stitch,  giving  her 
friends    pretty   presents    of    fairy 
housewives,  filled  with  needles  and 
thread,  and  a  little  copy  of  verses 
in  the  tiny  pocket — and  was  not 
ashamed  to  spend  a  day,  as  young 
ladies  in   the   country    sometimes 
have  to  do,  over  some  piece  of  dress- 
making, accompanying  it  with  the 
merriest  talk.     How  pleasant  is  the 
picture  !     She  read,  too,  whatever 
was  going,  with  a  young  woman's 
natural  universal  appetite,  and  was 
delightful  to  the  eye  and  dear  to 
the  heart  of  all  the  Austens,  and  all 
the  Leighs,  and  all  Steventon.  When 
the  years  went  on,  and  this  sweet 
young  woman  became  aunt  Jane, 
the  change  was  so  soft  and  slight  as 
scarcely  to  count.     She  wore  a  cap 
over  the  pretty  brown  curls — not 
that  she  had  any  occasion   to   do 
so,  for  her  pleasant  life  was  only 
forty   years    long    altogether,   and 
such  bright-eyed  souls  in  the  soft 
serenity    of    maidenhood   do    not 
grow  old.     But  in   youth  and  in 
maturity  she  was  alike  fenced  from 
the  outer  world  by  troops  of  friends, 
called  only  bynames  of  love — sister, 
daughter,  aunt  —  all  her  life  sur- 
rounded by  every  kind  of  relation- 
ship, and  with  no  inducement  to 
come  down  from  her  pedestal  and 
go  out  into  the  bitter  arena  where 
the  strong  triumph  and  the  needy 
struggle,  except  that  prick  of  genius 
which  is  like  the  rising  of  the  sap 
in  the  trees,  or  the  bubble  of  the 
water  at  the  spring,  and  must  find 
utterance  somehow  in  sparkle,  or 
in  foliage,  or  in  song. 


292 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


Mary  Mitford  was  a  very  differ- 
ent being.  She  was  an  only  child, 
the  apple  of  their  eye  to  her  father 
and  mother — infinitely  precocious, 
and  encouraged  in  her  precocity — 
set  up  between  the  two  admiring 
foolish  people  who  had  given  her 
birth  as  an  idol  to  be  worshipped,  an 
oracle  whose  utterances  were  half 
inspired.  Her  education  was  the 
best  that,  according  to  ordinary 
rules,  could  be  procured.  She 
was  sent  to  school  in  London,  and 
encouraged  in  every  attempt  to  dis- 
tinguish herself  which  could  occur 
to  the  emulous  mind  of  a  school-girl; 
and  in  the  midst  of  her  little  strug- 
gles and  triumphs  appears  to  us  in 
her  schoolroom  writing  such  letters 
as  an  elderly  friend  might  have 
written  to  the  "  dear  darlings,"  who 
are  her  father  and  mother,  letting 
loose  her  youthful  opinion,  and 
giving  her  advice  in  the  most  aston- 
ishing way.  The  Mitfords  were 
rich  in  those  days,  or  at  least  they 
had  not  yet  finally  left  off  the  habit 
and  sense  of  being  rich ;  and  their 
daughter  did  everything  and  learn- 
ed everything  which  was  considered 
right  for  a  young  lady  of  family 
and  fashion  to  do.  And  the  per- 
fect freedom  of  the  intercourse  be- 
tween herself  and  her  parents,  join- 
ed, no  doubt,  to  a  certain  youthful 
confidence  in  her  own  judgment 
and  wisdom,  give  a  curious  inde- 
pendence and  air  of  maturity  to 
what  she  says.  At  fifteen  she  an- 
nounces her  preference  of  Pope's 
translation  of  Homer  to  Dryden's, 
with  all  the  energy  and  prompti- 
tude of  her  age.  "  Dryden  is  so 
fond  of  triplets  and  Alexandrines, 
that  it  is  much  heavier  reading  ; 
and  though  he  is  reckoned  a  much 
more  harmonious  versifier  than 
Pope,  some  of  his  lines/'  says  the 
young  critic,  "  are  so  careless,  that 
I  shall  not  be  sorry  when  I  have 
finished  it.  ...  I  am  now  read- 
ing that  beautiful  opera  of  Metas- 
tasio, '  Themistocles ; '  and  when  I 
have  finished  that,  I  shall  read  Tas- 
so's  '  Jerusalem  Delivered,'  "  she 
adds.  "  How  you  would  dote  on 


Metastasio,  my  sweet  Tod!"  (one 
of  her  names  for  her  father.)  "  I 
am  much  flattered,  my  darlings," 
she  writes,  a  little  later,  to  both  her 
parents,  "  by  the  praises  you  be- 
stowed on  my  last  letter,  though  I 
have  not  the  vanity  to  think  I  de- 
serve them.  It  has  ever  been  my 
ambition  to  write  like  my  darlings, 
though  I  fear  I  shall  never  attain 
their  style." 

This  amiable,  confident,  affection- 
ate, warm  -  hearted,  self  -  assured 
girl,  thus  entering  the  world  with 
many  of  the  faults  incident  to  the 
dangerous  position  of  an  only  child, 
was  born  a  letter-writer.  For  half 
a  century  after  this  she  continued 
to  pour  out  her  rash,  sudden  judg- 
ments, opinions  sometimes  sound 
and  sometimes  superficial,  and  out- 
bursts of  exaggerated  fondness 
chiefly  addressed  to  her  father,whom 
she  continued  until  his  death  to 
address  in  the  same  undignified 
way.  He  was  her  "  sweet  Tod," 
her  "  best  -  beloved  darling,"  her 
"  ittey  boy,"  the  recipient  of  a  great 
deal  of  good  advice,  and  now  and 
then  some  admonition,  but  always 
the  object  of  a  gushing  fondness, 
which  even  at  fifteen  must  have 
concealed  some  unconscious  half- 
contempt.  Her  letters  are  often 
amusing,  and  they  are  the  kind  of 
reading  which  quantities  of  people 
delight  in;  but  we  question  whether, 
after  all,  it  is  fair  to  a  dead  woman 
to  lay  bare  all  her  little  vanities, 
her  self-importance,  her  hasty  opin- 
ions, all  her  fluctuations  from  one 
fancy  to  another,  and  the  misfor- 
tunes which  have  given  shape  and 
colour  to  her  whole  life.  In  saying 
this,  we  do  not  mean  to  imply  that 
such  a  collection  of  letters  should  not 
be  printed.  The  public  has  to  be 
amused  at  all  costs,  and  we  can  well 
imagine  what  a  temptation  they 
must  have  been  to  an  executor.  But 
still  the  reader  cannot  choose  but  be 
struck  by  the  curious  disadvantage 
to  begin  with  in  which  poor  Miss 
Mitford  is  placed  by  her  fluent  pen, 
in  comparison  with  the  more  reti- 
cent woman  whose  name  we  have 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


293 


coupled  with  hers.  We  have  been 
so  often  told  that  the  faculty  of 
writing  letters  is  a  special  gift,  and 
one  of  the  most  charming  of  literary 
talents,  that  it  is  needless  to  say 
anything  more  on  so  hackneyed  a 
subject.  If  it  could  be  possible  to 
put  the  real  emotions  of  a  life  into 
such  letters  as  form  the  three  vol- 
umes now  before  us,  they  would 
no  doubt  be  of  infinite  interest  to 
all  readers.  But  that,  we  well 
know,  is  impossible  ;  for  perhaps 
no  man  nor  woman  does  ever  in 
his  or  her  life  write  more  than  a 
dozen  letters  which  are  wholly  in- 
spired by  any  vehement  reality  of 
sentiment.  Miss  Mitford  has  told 
us  a  great  deal  about  her  own  life 
in  the  pleasantest  way  in  the 
bits  of  autobiography  which  are 
scattered  through  her  works ;  and 
the  chief  interest  of  her  letters 
consists  in  the  further  revelations 
they  make  of  her  domestic  history. 
In  other  respects  they  are  not  re- 
markable. Distinguished  names, 
no  doubt,  occur  here  and  there 
throughout  their  course  ;  but  the 
most  well  known  persons  among 
her  correspondents  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  Mrs  Barrett  Browning,  with 
whom  she  became  intimate  in  the 
latter  part  of  her  life),  were  Haydon 
the  painter  and  Charles  Kemble. 
And  all  that  she  has  to  say  about 
others  is  her  own  enthusiastic  opin- 
ion of  the  moment, — her  womanish 
admiration  of  Whitbread's  fine  head 
and  natural  eloquence ;  her  half- 
doubting  admiration  of  Scott ;  her 
snatches  of  very  ordinary  literary 
gossip  about  Moore  and  Byron. 
A  sprinkling  of  well  known  names 
is  not  sufficient  to  give  to  a  long 
series  of  private  letters  any  title  to 
be  considered  a  contribution  to  the 
literary  history  of  the  time.  What 
intelligent  young  lady  of  the  pre- 
sent or  any  other  period  might  not 
write  to  her  correspondents  as  fol- 
lows : — "  Have  you  read  Southey's 
Life  of  Nelson  1  .  .  .  It  is  a 
work  which  I  earnestly  recommend 
to  you  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  of  biography  I  ever  met 


with."  Or  again:  "  I  never  can  read 
Miss  Edgeworth's  works  without 
finding  the  wonderful  predomin- 
ance of  the  head  over  the  heart. 
...  I  am  perfectly  well  inclined 
to  agree  with  you  in  attributing 
the  tiresome  parts  of  her  works  to 
her  prosing  father."  Or  again : 
"  Have  you  seen  my  Lord  Byron's 
ode?  and  are  you  not  shocked  at 
the  suicidal  doctrine  it  inculcates  ? 
He  will  finish  that  way  himself 
from  fair  weariness  of  life.  But 
true  courage  makes  a  different  end- 
ing." This  is  not  giving  us  any 
information  about  Southey,  or  By- 
ron, or  the  Edgeworths  ;  and  there 
is  certainly  nothing  in  the  notes 
themselves  to  entitle  them  to  the 
dignity  of  print. 

The  two  books  from  which  we 
are  to  draw  any  new  sparks  of 
light  that  may  be  in  them,  in  re- 
spect to  two  women  who  have  a 
special  claim  upon  the  interest  of 
their  country,  are  thus  without  any 
sound  raison  d'etre,  not  specially 
called  for,  not  conveying  very  much 
information  that  is  new  to  us.  But 
they  form  an  occasion  for  recollect- 
ing over  again,  in  one  case,  a  series 
of  works  which  have  found  for 
themselves  a  place  among  English 
classics  ;  and,  in  the  other,  a  great 
deal  of  genial,  pleasant  writing, 
— the  brightest,  sunshiny,  rural 
sketches  of  a  state  of  things  which 
is  daily  changing,  and  may  soon 
come  to  be  purely  historical.  Miss 
Mitford  has  no  right  to  a  place  in 
the  same  rank  with  Miss  Austen'; 
and  yet  there  are  qualities  in  her 
writings  superior  to  Miss  Austen's 
— a  breadth  and  atmosphere  im- 
possible to  the  greater  writer.  The 
one  recognises  a  big  world  about 
her,  even  though  she  only  draws  it 
within  the  limited  proportions  of 
'Our  Village'— a  world  full  of  dif- 
ferent classes — rich  and  poor,  small 
and  great ;  whereas  the  other  con- 
fines herself  to  a  class — the  class  of 
which  she  has  herself  the  most  per- 
fect knowledge — striking  out  with 
an  extraordinary  conscientiousness 
which  one  does  not  know  whether 


294 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mifford. 


[March 


to  call  self-will  or  self-denial,  every- 
thing above  and  everything  below. 
Lady  Catherine  de  Burgh  and  the 
housekeeper  at  Pemberly — conven- 
tional types  of  the  heaven  above 
and  the  abyss  below — are  the  only 
breaks  which  Miss  Austen  ever  per- 
mits herself  upon  the  level  of  her 
squirearchy  ;  while  Miss  Mitford's 
larger  heart  takes  in  all  the  Joes 
and  Pollys  and  Harriets  of  a  coun- 
try-side, and  makes  their  wooings 
and  jealousies  as  pleasant  to  us 
as  if  they  were  the  finest  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  To  be  sure,  Miss 
Austen's  ladies  and  gentlemen  are 
seldom  fine ;  but  they  are  all  to  be 
found  in  the  same  kind  of  house 
with  the  same  kind  of  surroundings. 
Their  poverties,  when  they  have 
any,  are  caused  in  a  genteel  way 
by  the  entail  of  an  estate,  or  by  the 
premature  death  of  the  father  with- 
out leaving  an  adequate  provision 
for  his  lovely  and  accomplished 
girls.  The  neglect  which  leaves  the 
delicate  heroine  without  a  horse  to 
ride,  or  the  injury  conveyed  in  the 
fact  that  she  has  to  travel  post 
without  a  servant,  is  the  worst  that 
happens.  If  it  were  not  that  the 
class  to  which  she  thus  confines 
herself  was  the  one  most  intimate- 
ly and  thoroughly  known  to  her, 
we '  should  be  disposed  to  consider 
it,  as  we  have  said,  a  piece  of  self- 
denial  on  Miss  Austen's  part  to 
relinquish  all  stronger  lights  and 
shadows;  but  perhaps  it  is  better 
to  say  that  she  was  conscientious 
in  her  determination  to  describe 
only  what  she  knew,  and  that  na- 
ture aided  principle  in  this  singu- 
lar limitation.  Of  itself,  however, 
it  throws  a  certain  light  upon  her 
character,  which  is  not  the  simple 
character  it  appears  at  the  first 
glance,  but  one  full  of  subtle  power, 
keenness,  finesse,  and  self-restraint 
— a  type  not  at  all  unusual  among 
women  of  high  cultivation,  especi- 
ally in  the  retirement  of  the  coun- 
try, where  such  qualities  are  likely 
enough  to  be  unappreciated  or 
misunderstood. 
.  Mr  Austen  Leigh,  without  mean- 


ing it,  throws  out  of  his  dim  little 
lantern  a  passing  gleam  of  light 
upon  the  fine  vein  of  feminine 
cynicism  which  pervades  his  aunt's 
mind.  It  is  something  altogether 
different  from  the  rude  and  brutal 
male  quality  that  bears  the  same 
name.  It  is  the  soft  and  silent  dis- 
belief of  a  spectator  who  has  to 
look  at  a  great  many  things  with- 
out showing  any  outward  discom- 
posure, and  who  has  learned  to 
give  up  any  moral  classification  of 
social  sins,  and  to  place  them  in- 
stead on  the  level  of  absurdities. 
She  is  not  surprised  or  offended, 
much  less  horror-stricken  or  indig- 
nant, when  her  people  show  vulgar 
or  mean  traits  of  character,  when 
they  make  it  evident  how  selfish 
and  self-absorbed  they  are,  or  even 
when  they  fall  into  those  social 
cruelties  which  selfish  and  stupid 
people  are  so  often  guilty  of,  not 
without  intention,  but  yet  without 
the  power  of  realising  half  the  pain 
they  inflict.  She  stands  by  and 
looks  on,  and  gives  a  soft  half- 
smile,  and  tells  the  story  with  an 
exquisite  sense  of  its  ridiculous 
side,  and  fine  stinging  yet  soft- 
voiced  contempt  for  the  actors  in 
it.  She  sympathises  with  the  suf- 
ferers, yet  she  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  be  sorry  for  them  ;  giving  them 
unconsciously  a  share  in  her  own 
sense  of  the  covert  fun  of  the 
scene,  and  gentle  disdain  of  the 
possibility  that  meanness  and  folly 
and  stupidity  could  ever  really 
wound  any  rational  creature.  The 
position  of  mind  is  essentially  fem- 
inine, and  one  which  may  be  readily 
identified  in  the  personal  know- 
ledge of  most  people.  It  is  the 
natural  result  of  the  constant, 
though  probably  quite  unconscious, 
observation  in  which  a  young  wo- 
man, with  no  active  pursuit  to  oc- 
cupy her,  spends,  without  knowing 
it,  so  much  of  her  time  and  youth. 
Courses  of  lectures,  no  doubt,  or 
balls,  or  any  decided  out-of-door 
interest,  interferes  with  this  invol- 
untary training ;  but  such  disturb- 
ances were  rare  in  Miss  Austen's 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


295 


day.  A  certain  soft  despair  of  any 
one  human  creature  ever  doing  any 
good  to  another — of  any  influence 
overcoming  those  habits  and  moods 
and  peculiarities  of  mind  which 
the  observer  sees  to  be  more  obsti- 
nate than  life  itself — a  sense  that 
nothing  is  to  be  done  but  to  look 
on,  to  say  perhaps  now  and  then  a 
softening  word,  to  make  the  best 
of  it  practically  and  theoretically, 
to  smile  and  hold  up  one's  hands 
and  wonder  why  human  creatures 
should  be  such  fools, — such  are  the 
foundations  upon  which  the  femi- 
nine cynicism  which  we  attribute 
to  Miss  Austen  is  built.  It  in- 
cludes a  great  deal  that  is  amiable, 
and  is  full  of  toleration  and  pa- 
tience, and  that  habit  of  making 
allowance  for  others  which  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  all  human  charity. 
But  yet  it  is  not  charity,  and  its 
toleration  has  none  of  the  sweet- 
ness which  proceeds  from  that 
highest  of  Christian  graces.  It  is 
not  absolute  contempt  either,  but 
only  a  softened  tone  of  general  dis- 
belief— amusement,  nay  enjoyment, 
of  all  those  humours  of  humanity 
which  are  so  quaint  to  look  at  as 
soon  as  you  dissociate  them  from 
any  rigid  standard  of  right  or 
wrong.  Miss  Austen  is  not  the 
judge  of  the  men  and  women  she 
collects  round  her.  She  is  not  even 
their  censor  to  mend  their  manners ; 
no  power  has  constituted  her  her 
brother's  keeper.  She  has  but  the 
faculty  of  seeing  her  brother  clearly 
all  round  as  if  he  were  a  statue, 
identifying  all  his  absurdities, 
quietly  jeering  at  him,  smiling 
with  her  eyes  without  committing 
the  indecorum  of  laughter.  In  one 
case  only,  so  far  as  we  can  recollect, 
in  the  character  of  Miss  Bates  in 
'  Emma,'  does  she  rise  beyond  this, 
and  touch  the  region  of  higher  feel- 
ing by  comprehension  of  the  natural 
excellence  that  lies  under  a  ludi- 
crous exterior.  It  is  very  lightly 
touched,  but  yet  it  is  enough  to 
show  that  she  was  capable  of  a 
tenderness  for  the  object  of  her 
soft  laughter — a  capability  which 


converts  that  laughter  into  some- 
thing totally  different  from  the 
gentle  derision  with  which  she  re- 
gards the  world  in  general.  Human- 
kind stands  low  in  her  estimation, 
in  short,  as  a  mass.  There  are  a  few 
pleasant  young  people  here  and 
there  to  redeem  it,  or  even  an  old 
lady  now  and  then,  or  in  the  back- 
ground a  middle-aged  couple  who 
are  not  selfish,  nor  vulgar,  nor  ex- 
acting. But  there  is  a  great  deal 
more  amusement  to  be  got  out  of 
the  mean  people,  and  to  them  ac- 
cordingly she  inclines. 

We  have  said  that  Mr  Austen 
Leigh  throws  a  little  feeble  light 
on  this  particular  of  the  great 
novelist's  character.  In  almost 
the  only  view  of  her  youth  which 
he  is  able  to  give  us,  he  tells  us  of 
"  an  old  copy-book  containing  sev- 
eral tales,"  childish  essays  at  com- 
position, which  were  "generally 
intended  to  be  nonsensical."  Her 
first  book  was  written  when  she 
was  twenty,  so  that  it  is  a  little 
difficult  to  divine  exactly  what  her 
biographer  means  when  he  speaks 
of  a  time  when  she  was  "  quite  a 
girl."  But  he  goes  on  to  inform  us 
of  "  another  stage  of  her  progress, 
during  which  she  produced  several 
tales  not  without  merit,  but  which 
she  considered  unworthy  of  publi- 
cation. .  .  .  Instead  of  pre- 
senting faithful  copies  of  nature," 
he  adds,  "  these  tales  were  generally 
burlesques,  ridiculing  the  impro- 
bable events  and  exaggerated  state- 
ments which  she  had  met  with  in 
sundry  silly  romances."  Such  a 
commencement  is  not  without  its 
significance.  A  girl  who  ridiculed 
improbable  events  and  exaggerated 
sentiments  between  the  ages  of  six- 
teen and  twenty,  must  already  have 
begun  to  learn  the  lesson  congenial 
to  her  temperament,  and  commenced 
that  amused,  indifferent,  keen-sight- 
ed, impartial  inspection  of  the  world 
as  a  -thing  apart  from  herself,  and 
demanding  no  excess  of  sympathy, 
which  is  characteristic  of  all  the 
work  of  her  life. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  how- 


296 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


ever,  that  our  opinion  of  Miss  Aus- 
ten or  her  work  is  lessened  by  this 
view  of  her  character.  A  fine 
poetical  enthusiasm  for  her  fellow- 
creatures,  and  belief  in  them,  might 
have  been  a  sentiment  for  which 
we  should  have  felt  greater  sym- 
pathy, as  in  itself  it  seems  more 
natural  and  congenial  to  the  early 
speculations  of  youth.  But  unfor- 
tunately enthusiasm  has  a  great 
tendency  to  make  itself  ridiculous 
in  its  earlier  manifestations,  and 
could  have  had  no  share  in  the 
production  of  such  a  book  as  '  Pride 
and  Prejudice/  or  the  charming, 
sprightly  pages  of  'Emma/  No- 
thing but  a  mind  of  this  subtle, 
delicate,  speculative  temper,  could 
have  set  before  us  pictures  which 
are  at  once  so  refined  and  so  trench- 
ant, so  softly  feminine  and  polite, 
and  so  remorselessly  true. 

If  contrast  be  expedient  to  bring 
out  the  full  force  of  individual 
character,  no  more  effectual  foil 
could  be  found  than  by  placing 
Mary  Mitford  by  Jane  Austen's 
side.  The  fat,  roundabout,  roly- 
poly  girl,  who  was  winning  prizes 
in  her  London  school,  and  chatter- 
ing to  her  "dear  darlings,"  and 
pouring  out  every  funny  little  ex- 
aggerated sentiment  and  clever 
little  bit  of  observation  that  was  in 
her,  with  the  most  charming  ab- 
sence of  humour,  when  the  pretty 
young  lady  in  the  Steventon  vicar- 
age had  begun  to  write  her  novels, 
was  as  full  of  enthusiasm  as  the 
other  was  destitute  of  it.  But  then 
her  enthusiasm  embraced  every- 
thing with  a  want  of  perspective 
as  amusing  as  her  own  utter  want 
of  any  perception  of  its  absurdity. 
Her  father  was  her  "  darling/'  but 
so  was  her  dog  and  her  owl,  and  a 
multiplicity  of  other  pets.  She 
finds  Whitbread,  whom  she  sees  at 
a  public  meeting,  to  be  "  exquisitely 
handsome — a  most  elegant  figure," 
said  the  ardent  girl,  "  and  a  voice 
which  I  could  listen  to  with  trans- 
port, even  if  he  spoke  in  an  un- 
known tongue  !  "  Her  friend  Miss 
Rowden's  poem,  "The  Pleasures 


of  Friendship,"  she  finds  equal  to 
"  the  celebrated  works  on  'Memory ' 
and  'Hope/"  and  its  descriptions 
are,  she  considers,  "exquisitely 
beautiful."  Whatever  she  loves 
becomes  by  an  instantaneous  pro- 
cess beautiful  to  her.  The  glamour 
of  the  poets  is  in  her  eyes.  The 
father  who  ruined  all  her  earthly 
prospects,  and  made  her  a  literary 
drudge  through  all  her  mature 
womanhood,  continues  to  receive 
the  same  worshipping  admiration 
and  love  from  her  after  all  the 
illusions  of  youth  were  dispelled, 
and  she  had  been  taught  to  esti- 
mate his  deficiencies  by  something 
approaching  a  just  standard.  The 
same  characteristics  accompany  her 
when  she  begins  her  most  liv- 
ing work,  the  pleasant  records  of 
*  Our  Village/  She  is,  like  her  more 
illustrious  companion,  a  spectator 
in  the  tranquil  breathing  scene  ; 
yet  what  a  difference  is  there  in  the 
spectatorship  !  While  Miss  Austen 
sees  only  the  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
the  genial  blue  eyes  of  the  younger 
woman  warm  in  a  kindly  sym- 
pathy over  all  the  world.  She 
spies  at  once,  not  the  gentry  at 
their  drawing-room  windows,  but 
the  cheerful  haymakers  in  the  field, 
the  women  standing  at  their  doors ; 
and  with  eyes  shining  with  fun, 
and  yet  tender  with  sympathy, 
stops  to  point  out  to  us  the  cobbler 
and  his  wife,  the  poor  shopkeeper 
overwhelmed  with  debt  and  care, 
the  pretty  Letty  or  Patty,  with  red 
eyes,  in  a  corner,  who  has  quar- 
relled with  her  lover.  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  world  is  a  world  twice  as 
full  as  Miss  Austen's.  It  is  indeed 
overflowing  with  life,  like  a  medi- 
eval picture — passengers  on  all  the 
ways,  market-carts  as  well  as  car- 
riages, and  Dame  Whittaker  with 
her  great  basket,  and  little  Harry 
on  the  dusty  path,  as  well  as  my 
lady  with  her  footman  behind  her, 
who  perhaps,  if  he  is  an  honest  lad, 
and  belongs  to  the  country-side, 
has  his  story  too.  And  though  the 
villagers  are  sometimes  tyrannical 
and  unjust,  and  very  cross  to  their 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


297 


young  people,  yet  there  is  always  a 
soft  place  in  their  hearts  somewhere 
or  other,  a  string  that  being  touched 
•will  discourse  gentler  music.  Miss 
Austen's  work  is  infinitely  more 
perfect ;  she  is  a  far  greater  artist, 
going  deeper  and  seeing  farther, 
but  her  world  is  not  such  a  plea- 
sant world  as  that  of  her  contem- 
porary. The  skies  are  often  leaden 
and  still  in  the  greater  picture,  but 
in  the  lesser  they  are  always  aglow 
with  sunshine  or  tumultuous  with 
real  clouds ;  there  is  always  a 
fresh  air  blowing,  and  the  cottage 
windows  shine,  and  the  surface  of 
the  earth  is  gay  with  flowers. 
Whether  it  is  peculiar  to  Berkshire 
or  to  Miss  Mitford  one  cannot 
quite  tell  ;  but  one  feels  it  must 
be  Berkshire,  every  detail  is  so 
true.  What  banks  of  violets,  what 
primroses  by  the  hedgerows,  what 
thickets  of  honeysuckle  and  rose  ! 
and  were  there  ever  such  geraniums 
as  those  in  the  garden,  which  is  so 
little  and  so  gorgeous,  and  so  care- 
fully tended,  where  our  friend  sits 
writing  hard  by,  and  her  handsome 
father,  with  his  lofty  white  head, 
and  all  his  sins  forgiven,  loafs  about 
in  the  sunshine,  complacently  con- 
scious of  having  spent  three  for- 
tunes ;  and  Ben  is  audible  in  the 
distance  grooming  the  white  pony, 
or  trim  Harriet  crosses  the  corner 
of  the  flower-beds  with  her  white 
apron  blazing  in  the  summer  bright- 
ness ?  The  picture  is  a  little  false, 
because,  if  we  could  look  under  the 
surface,  the  handsome  old  father  is 
a  worthless  personage  enough,  not- 
withstanding his  beauty;  and  his 
daughter,  as  she  writes,  has  a  sore 
heart,  and  does  not  know  how  the 
bills  are  to  be  paid,  and  is  weary 
beyond  description  of  drudging 
at  her  pen  all  day  long  for  daily 
bread.  Miss  Austen  would  set  it 
before  you  in  three  sentences,  so 
that  you  would  no  longer  see  any 
beauty  in  the  scene.  She  would 
impale  Dr  Mitford  with  a  keen 
sudden  touch  and  the  usual  smile 
in  her  eyes  ;  and  however  sensible 
she  was  of  his  daughter's  goodness, 


could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
letting  you  know  that  Miss  Mary 
was  fat  and  somewhat  gushing, 
and  thought  very  well  of  her  liter- 
ary fancy-work.  And  Ben  and 
Harriet  and  the  white  pony,  those 
half -seen  accessories,  which  give 
population  and  fulness  to  the 
other  sketch,  would  disappear  alto- 
gether from  Miss  Austen's  canvas, 
along  with  the  blazing  geraniums, 
and  all  the  soft  delicious  breathing 
of  the  more  fragrant  flowers.  It 
would  be  much  finer,  clearer,  dis- 
tinct as  daylight — a  thing  done  in 
aquafortis,  and  capable  of  outliving 
the  world  ;  but  for  our  poor  part, 
we  would  rather  have  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  sweet  flowery  picture,  with 
Ben's  suppressed  hiss  in  the  back- 
ground, and  all  the  painful  hu- 
manity underneath  suppressed  too, 
as  nature  commands  when  the  sun 
is  shining  and  all  the  world  is  gay. 
It  is  more  superficial,  and,  so  far  as 
art  is  concerned,  is  on  an  infinitely 
low  level,  and  yet  it  is  truer  to  all 
those  deep  instinctive  unities  which 
art  may  sometimes  ignore,  but 
which  nature  never  ignores. 

There  is  one  curious  feature  of 
personal  resemblance  in  the  lives 
of  the  two  women  thus  placed  be- 
fore us  which,  considering  their 
occupation,  is  noticeable  enough, 
and  which  at  the  same  time  gives 
a  very  flat  contradiction  to  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  fallacies.  Miss 
Austen  was  a  born  novelist,  and 
Miss  Mitford  a  teller  of  love-stories ; 
they  were  neither  of  them  recluses, 
nor  in  any  way  shut  out  from  the 
world.  The  first  was  pretty  and 
full  of  charm  ;  the  second,  though 
not  pretty,  yet  possessed  all  the 
attractions  which  a  sprightly  intelli- 
gence, and  sweet  temper,  and  most 
amiable  disposition  could  give. 
And  yet  there  is  not  the  ghost  of  a 
romancebelonging  to  eitherof  them. 
If  either  loved  or  was  beloved 
again,  she  must  have  done  it  in  ab- 
solute secrecy,  which  is  next  to  im- 
possible. In  the  face  of  the  popu- 
lar notion  that  love  is  the  chief 
occupation  of  a  woman's  life — or 


298 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mifford. 


[March 


let  us  say,  at  least,  of  a  young 
woman's  life — an  idea  which,  no 
doubt,  both  of  these  women  over 
and  over  again  promulgated — stands 
this  curious  fact :  Miss  Austen  and 
Miss  Mitford  were  surrounded  with 
other  affections  and  occupations — 
their  lives  were  full  and  showed 
no  lack ;  and  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  any  trace  of  that  (let  our  read- 
ers pardon  us  the  horrible  word) 
sexual  unrest  and  discontent  which, 
at  a  later  period,  found  a  startling 
revelation  in  the  works  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte,  and  have  since  been  re- 
peated ad  nauseam  in  many  inferior 
pages — in  the  productions  of  either. 
Through  all  the  voluminous  corre- 
spondence just  given  to  the  public 
by  Miss  Mitford's  executors,  and 
through  the  pleasanter  and  more 
concentrated  notes,  and  introduc- 
tions, and  reminiscences  in  which 
she  herself  gave  the  public  such 
indication  as  pleased  her  of  her 
own  life,  there  is  not  a  word  that 
suggests  a  lover ;  there  is  not  even 
a  recollection  such  as  calls  the  soft 
sigh,  which  is  more  pleasure  than 
pain,  and  the  tender  smile  of  grati- 
tude and  etherealised  vanity  from 
an  old  lady's  lips  when  a  name 
or  an  allusion  brings  before  her 
something  which  might  have  been. 
There  is  nothing  in  all  Mary  Mit- 
ford's much  utterance  which  conveys 
the  faintest  idea  that  anything 
could  ever  have  been,  except  her 
devotion  to  her  parents,  her  care  of 
them  as  if  she  had  been  the  parent 
and  they  the  children,  and  her 
warm-hearted  effusive  regard  for 
her  friends.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the 
want  may  be  accounted  for  in  her 
case  by  the  mere  fact  of  this  strange 
transposition  of  nature  which  made 
her  the  real  head  of  the  little 
family,  with  all  the  care  upon  her 
head,  and  all  the  work  to  do,  a 
combination  of  circumstances  en- 
tirely unfavourable  to  love-making 
— if  it  were  not  that  love-making  is 
one  of  those  perverse  things  which 
have  a  special  tendency  to  produce 
themselves  where  their  presence  is 
embarrassing,  and  where  they  are 


not  wanted.  But  not  even  the  fact 
that  a  love-story  would  have  been 
very  much  in  her  way,  and  add- 
ed greatly  to  her  embarrassments, 
seems  to  have  brought  that  climax 
of  youthful  experience  to  Miss  Mit- 
ford. In  Miss  Austen's  case  there 
was  nothing,  so  far  as  one  can  see, 
to  hinder  the  natural  romance.  She 
had  no  overwhelming  duties  upon 
her  head,  nothing  to  bind  her  to 
maidenhood,  no  tragical  necessities 
of  any  kind  to  damp  her  courage 
or  restrain  life  in  its  ordinary 
course.  Yet  all  her  biographer  can 
say  on  this  interesting  subject  is — 
"  Of  Jane  herself  I  know  of  no  tale 
of  love  to  relate."  Mr  Austen 
Leigh  quotes  from  one  of  her  re- 
viewers the  not  unnatural  idea 
that  in  depicting  the  hidden  and 
tenacious  love  of  one  of  her  he- 
roines, she  was  drawing  from  per- 
sonal recollection,  but  only  to  as- 
sure us  that  "  this  conjecture  was 
wide  of  the  mark.  She  did  not, 
indeed,  pass  through  life,"  he  adds, 
"  without  being  the  object  of  strong 
affection,  and  it  is  probable  that 
she  met  with  some  whom  she 
found  attractive  ;  but  her  taste  was 
not  easily  satisfied,  nor  her  heart 
to  be  lightly  won.  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  think  that  she  ever  felt  any 
attachment  by  which  the  happiness 
of  her  life  was  at  all  affected." 

We  are  thus  resolutely  denied  a 
love-tale  in  both  their  lives,  which 
is  hard.  Had  they  been  married 
women  whose  romance  had  ended 
naturally  in  the  commonplace  way, 
the  omission  would  have  been  less 
noteworthy ;  but  there  is  a  charm 
in  the  love  which  has  never  come 
to  anything — the  tender,  pathetic, 
sweet  recollection  laid  up  in  a  vir- 
gin life,  amid  the  faded  rose-leaves 
and  fallen  flowers  of  youth — which 
is  infinitely  sweet  and  touching, — 
more  touching  than  the  successful 
and  prosperous  can  ever  be.  This 
satisfaction,  however,  is,  we  repeat, 
denied  us.  There  is  no  such  soft 
secret  in  these  two  good,  and  plea- 
sant, and  beautiful  lives.  No  man's 
existence  could  be  more  entirely 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


299 


free  from  sentiment.  All  is  honest, 
and  moderate,  and  open  as  the  day. 
If  love  is  a  woman's  chief  business, 
then  here  were  two  very  sweet 
women  who  had  no  share  in  it.  It 
is  a  want,  but  we  have  no  right  to 
complain,  seeing  that  they  did  not 
shape  their  lives  to  please  us, 
though  they  have  shaped  various 
other  lines  of  existence  in  which 
the  deficiency  is  supplied.  Such  a 
question,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say, 
could  not  have  been  discussed  by 
a  contemporary;  but  the  critic  at 
this  distance  may  be  permitted  to 
regret  that  there  is  not  somewhere 
a  faded  bunch  of  violets,  or  some 
dead  forget-me-not,  to  be  thrown 
with  the  myrtle  and  the  bay  of 
their  country's  appreciation,  upon 
these  two  maiden  graves. 

Miss  Austen  began  her  literary 
work  at  so  early  an  age  that  its  ex- 
treme skill  and  refinement,  as  well 
as  the  peculiar  point  of  view  from 
which  she  regarded  the  world,  be- 
comes more  and  more  wonderful.  It 
is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  realise 
how  a  brain  of  one-aiid-twenty  could 
have  identified  such  a  family  as  the 
Bennets,  such  a  character  as  Mr 
Collins,  and  could  have  willingly 
filled  up  her  background  with  fig- 
ures such  as  those  of  the  female 
Bingleys.  Wickham,  Lady  Cathe- 
rine, and  the  rest.  Nothing  could 
be  more  lifelike,  more  utterly  real. 
The  household  is  not  described,  but 
rises  vividly  before  us  as  if  we  had 
visited  it  yesterday,  with  all  its 
rusticity  and  ignorance,  its  eager 
thirst  for  pleasure,  and  incapacity 
to  perceive  the  bad  taste  and  futil- 
ity of  its  own  efforts.  The  first 
wonder  that  occurs  to  us  is  how 
Jane  and  Elizabeth  should  have 
found  a  place  in  such  a  family. 
The  eldest  is  all  sweetness  and  grace 
and  beauty;  the  second  brightly 
intelligent,  quick  to  perceive,  and 
equally  quick  to  take  up  false  im- 
pressions, but  clever  and  affection- 
ate and  honest  to  the  highest  de- 
gree ;  while  every  one  else  in  the 
house  is  a  study  of  absurdity  and 
vulgarity  of  one  sort  or  another. 


Miss  Austen  had  too  much  genius  to. 
fall  into  the  vulgar  error  of  making 
her  heroes  and  heroines  all  perfect, 
and  relieving  them  against  a  back- 
ground of  unalloyed  villany;  but her 
actual  conception  of  the  world,  as 
shown  in  her  first  completed  work, 
is  not  much  less  elevated.  The  back- 
ground is  full,  not  of  villains,  but 
of  fools,  out  of  the  midst  of  whom 
the  heroes  and  heroines  rise  in  all 
the  glory  of  superior  talents  and 
more  elevated  character.  The  power 
that  is  spent  in  setting  forth  these 
fools — their  endless  variety — the  dif- 
ferent shapes  in  which  conceit,  and 
vanity,  and  selfishness,  and  vulgar 
ambition  display  themselves — the 
wonderful  way  in  which  they  amal- 
gamate and  enhance  each  other, 
now  and  then  rising  into  the  suc- 
cesses of  triumphant  cunning,  or 
sinking  to  pure  folly  once  more, — 
is  set  before  us  with  a  skill  which 
is  quite  marvellous.  It  is  all  so 
common — never  rising  above  the 
level  of  ordinary  life,  leaving  no- 
thing (so  think  the  uninstructed) 
to  imagination  or  invention  at  all 
— and  yet  what  other  hand  has  ever 
been  able  to  detach  such  a  group 
from  the  obscure  level  of  their  ordi- 
nary fate  ?  Mr  Collins,  for  instance, 
who  is  the  heir  of  Mr  Bennet's  en- 
tailed estate,  and  who,  with  a  cer- 
tain quaint  sense  of  justice  which 
enhances  his  self-importance,  comes 
prepared  to  propose  to  one  of  the 
daughters,  whom  he  is  obliged  to 
deprive  of  their  inheritance.  We 
give  so  much  explanation,  with  a 
certain  shame  at  the  very  possibil- 
ity that  Mr  Collins  should  want  a 
formal  introduction  to  any  portion 
of  the  British  public ;  but  yet  it 
is  true  that  the  young  ones  are  not 
so  well  up  in  the  relationships  of 
the  Bennets  as  we  could  wish  them 
to  be.  The  sublime  and  undisturb- 
ed complacence  of  his  arrival,  when 
he  compliments  Mrs  Bennet  on 
having  so  fine  a  family  of  daugh- 
ters, "  and  added  that  he  did  not 
doubt  her  seeing  them  all  in  time 
well  disposed  of  in  marriage,"  is 
inimitable.  "  I  am  very  sensible, 


300 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


madam,  of  the  hardship  to  my  fair 
cousins,"  he  says,  "  and  could  say 
much  on  the  subject,  but  I  am 
cautious  of  appearing  forward  and 
precipitate.  But  I  can  assure  the 
young  ladies  that  I  come  prepared 
to  admire  them.  At  present  I  will 
not  say  more,  but  perhaps  when  we 

are  better  acquainted "     When 

he  receives  Elizabeth's  refusal  to 
marry  him  with  undisturbed  com- 
placency, attributing  it  to  "your 
wish  of  increasing  my  love  by  sus- 
pense, according  to  the  usual  prac- 
tice of  elegant  females,"  the  situa- 
tion rises  to  one  of  the  most  genu- 
ine comedy,  and  our  only  regret  is 
that  Mr  Collins's  adventures  have 
never  been  adapted  for  the  stage. 

Miss  Austen  does  not  even  let  her 
victim  escape  her  when  he  is  mar- 
ried and  has  left  the  central  scene. 
She  pursues  him  to  his  home  with 
the  smile  growing  a  little  broader  in 
her  eyes.  "  Elizabeth  was  prepared 
to  see  him  in  all  his  glory  ;  and  she 
could  not  help  fancying  that  in  dis- 
playing the  good  proportions  of  his 
room,  its  aspect  and  its  furniture, 
he  addressed  himself  particularly 
to  her,  as  if  wishing  to  make  her 
feel  what  she  had  lost  in  refusing 
him."  His  pompous  assurance  that 
"he  has  no  hesitation  in  saying" 
that  his  goddess  and  patroness,  Lady 
Catherine,  will  include  his  cousin 
in  her  invitations  —  his  triumph 
when  the  party  is  asked  to  dinner 
• — the  pride  with  which  he  takes  his 
seat  at  the  foot  of  the  table  by  her 
ladyship's  command,  looking  "  as 
if  he  felt  that  life  could  furnish 
nothing  greater  " — the  "  delighted 
alacrity  "  with  which  he  carved  and 
ate  and  praised — his  game  at  cards 
with  his  august  patroness  after  din- 
ner, in  which  "  he  was  employed 
in  agreeing  to  everything  her  lady- 
ship said,  thanking  her  for  every 
fish  he  won,  and  apologising  if  he 
thought  he  won  too  many," — are 
all  so  many  touches  which  add  per- 
fection to  the  picture ;  and  when 
we  take  our  parting  glance  of  Mr 
Collins,  watching  the  country  road 
from  his  "  book-room,"  and  hasten- 


ing to  inform  his  wife  and  her 
friends  every  time  Miss  De  Burgh 
drives  by  in  her  phaeton,  we  feel 
that  the  power  of  consistent  re- 
morseless ridicule  can  no  further 
go.  There  is  not  a  moment's  fal- 
tering, nor  the  ghost  of  an  inclina- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  author  to 
depart  from  her  wonderful  concep- 
tion. He  stands  before  us  tall  and 
grave  and  pompous,  wrapt  in  a 
cloud  of  solemn  vanity,  servility, 
stupidity,  and  spitefulness,  but 
without  the  faintest  gleam  of  self- 
consciousness  or  suspicion  of  the 
ridiculous  figure  he  cuts ;  and  his 
author,  with  no  pity  in  her  heart, 
walks  round  and  round  him,  giving 
here  and  there  a  skilful  touch  to 
bring  out  the  picture.  It  is  amaz- 
ing in  its  unity  and  completeness 
— a  picture  perhaps  unrivalled,  cer- 
tainly unsurpassed,  in  its  way.  It 
is,  we  repeat,  cruel  in  its  perfec- 
tion. 

Whether  it  is  not  too  cruel  to 
make  the  wife  of  this  delightful  Mr 
Collins  share  so  completely  in  his 
creator's  estimate  of  him  is  a  differ- 
ent matter.  "  When  Mr  Collins 
could  be  forgotten  there  was  really 
a  great  air  of  comfort  throughout, 
and  by  Charlotte's  evident  enjoy- 
ment of  it  Elizabeth  supposed  he 
must  be  often  forgotten  "  —  the 
unflinching  narrative  goes  on. 
"  The  room  in  which  the  ladies  sat 
was  backward,  and  Elizabeth  at 
first  had  rather  wondered  that 
Charlotte  should  not  prefer  the 
dining-parlour  for  common  use — it 
was  a  better-sized  room  and  had  a 
pleasanter  aspect ;  but  she  soon 
saw  that  her  friend  had  an  excel- 
lent reason  for  what  she  did,  for 
Mr  Collins  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  much  less  in  his  own  apart- 
ment had  they  sat  in  one  equally 
lively;  and  she  gave  Charlotte 
credit  for  the  arrangement."  This 
is  rather  diabolical,  it  must  be 
owned,  and  there  is  a  calmness  of 
acquiescence  in  the  excellent  Char- 
lotte's arrangements  which  it  takes 
all  the  reader's  fortitude  to  sto- 
mach. It  is  possible  that  the  very 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


301 


youth  of  the  author  may  have  pro- 
duced  this  final  stroke  of  unex- 
ampled consistency  ;  for  youth  is 
always  more  or  less  cruel,  and  is 
slow  to  acknowledge  that  even  the 
most  stupid  and  arrogant  of  mortals 
has  his  rights. 

Mr  Collins,  however,  is  one  of 
the  most  distinct  and  original  por- 
traits in  the  great  gallery  of  fiction, 
and  we  accept  him  gladly  as  a  real 
contribution  to  our  knowledge  of 
humankind  ;  not  a  contribution 
certainly  which  will  make  us  more 
in  love  with  our  fellow-creatures, 
but  yet  so  lifelike,  so  perfect  and 
complete,  touched  with  so  fine  a 
wit  and  so  keen  a  perception  of  the 
ridiculous,  that  the  picture  once 
seen  remains  a  permanent  posses- 
sion. And  when  we  are  told  that 
the  Bennet  family,  with  all  its 
humours — the  father  who  is  so  good 
and  sensible,  and  yet  such  an  un- 
mitigated bear ;  the  mother  whom 
he  despises  and  ridicules  without 
hesitation,  even  to  his  heroine- 
daughters  who  accept  his  sarcastic 
comments  as  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world ;  the  stupid 
pompous  Mary,  the  loud  and  noisy, 
heartless  and  shameless  Lydia — are 
all  drawn  with  an  equally  fine  and 
delicate  touch,  we  have  not  a  word 
to  say  against  it.  We  acknowledge 
its  truth,  and  yet  we  rebel  against 
this  pitiless  perfection  of  art.  It 
•shocks  us  as  much  as  it  could  pos- 
sibly have  shocked  Mr  Darcy,  to 
allow  that  these  should  be  the  im- 
mediate surroundings  of  the  young 
•woman  whom  we  are  called  upon 
to  take  to  our  hearts.  We  blush 
for  the  daughter  who  blushes  for 
her  mother.  We  hate  the  lover 
who  points  out  to  her,  even  in  self- 
defence,  the  vulgarities  and  follies 
(  f  her  family.  A  heroine  must  be 
superior,  it  is  true,  but  not  so 
superior  as  this  ;  and  it  detracts 
( ver  so  much  from  the  high  quali- 
ties of  Elizabeth  when  we  see  how 
A  ery  ready  she  is  to  be  moved  by  a 
sense  of  the  inferiority  of  her  mother 
and  sisters,  how  ashamed  she  is  of 
their  ways,  and  how  thankful  to 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIII. 


think  that  her  home  will  be  at  a  dis- 
tance from  theirs. 

Curiously  enough,  it  would  seem 
that  Miss  Austen  herself  felt  for 
this  same  Elizabeth,  and  for  her 
alone,  the  enthusiasm  of  a  pa- 
rent for  a  child.  ' '  I  have  got 
my  own  darling  child  from  Lon- 
don," she  writes  to  her  sister, 
in  a  little  flutter  of  pleasure  and 

excitement.      "  Miss  B dined 

with  us  on  the  very  day  of  the 
book's  coming,  and  in  the  evening 
we  fairly  set  at  it  and  read  fully  half 
the  first  volume  to  her,  prefacing 
that  having  intelligence  from  Henry 
that  such  a  book  would  soon  ap- 
pear, we  had  desired  him  to  send  it 
as  soon  as  it  came  out ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  passed  with  her  unsuspected. 
She  was  amused,  poor  soul !  That 
she  could  not  help,  you  know,  with 
two  such  people  to  lead  the  way, 
but  she  really  does  seem  to  admire 
Elizabeth.  I  must  confess  that  I 
think  her  as  delightful  a  creature 
as  ever  appeared  in  print,  and  how 
I  shall  be  able  to  tolerate  those  who 
do  not  like  her  at  least  I  do  not 
know."  In  a  later  letter  she  adds 
— "  Fanny's  praise  is  very  gratify- 
ing. My  hopes  were  tolerably 
strong  of  her,  but  nothing  like  a 
certainty.  Her  liking  Darcy  and 
Elizabeth  is  enough ;  she  might 
hate  all  the  others  if  she  would." 
This  is  as  curious  a  piece  of  revela- 
tion as  we  know,  and  proves  that 
the  young  woman  who  had  just 
given  so  original  a  work  to  the 
world  was  in  reality  quite  unaware 
of  its  real  power,  and  had  set  her 
heart  upon  her  hero  and  heroine 
like  any  schoolgirl.  Our  beloved 
Mr  Collins,  upon  whom  the  specta- 
tor would  be  tempted  to  think  a 
great  deal  of  pains  and  some  pro- 
portionate anxiety  must  have  been 
expended,  evidently  goes  for  very 
little  with  his  maker.  It  is  her 
lovers  she  is  thinking  of,  a  common- 
place pair  enough,  while  we  are  full 
of  her  inimitable  fools,  who  are  not 
at  all  commonplace.  This  curious 
fact  disorders  our  head  a  little,  and 
makes  us  ponder  and  wonder  whe- 


302 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Hit  ford. 


[March 


ther  our  author  is  in  reality  the 
gentle  cynic  we  have  concluded  her 
to  be,  or  if  she  has  produced  all 
these  marvels  of  selfish  folly  una- 
wares, without  knowing  what  she 
was  doing,  or  meaning  anything  by 
it.  Genius,  however,  goes  a  great 
deal  deeper  than  conscious  meaning, 
and  has  its  own  way,  whatever  may 
be  the  intentions  of  its  owner ;  and 
we  but  smile  at  the  novelist's  strange 
delusion  as  we  set  aside  Elizabeth 
and  Darcy,  the  one  a  young  woman 
very  much  addicted  to  making 
speeches,  very  pert  often,  fond  of 
having  the  last  word,  and  prone  to 
hasty  j  udgments,  with  really  nothing 
but  her  prettiness  and  a  certain 
sharp  smartness  of  talk  to  recom- 
mend her ;  and  the  other  a  very 
ordinary  young  man,  quite  like 
hosts  of  other  young  men,  with 
that  appearance  of  outward  pride 
and  hauteur  which  is  so  captivating 
to  the  youthful  feminine  imagina- 
tion, though  it  must  be  admitted 
that  he  possesses  an  extraordinary 
amount  of  candour  and  real  hu- 
mility of  mind  under  this  exterior. 
It  is  curious  to  realise  what  a  shock 
it  must  have  given  to  the  feelings 
of  the  young  novelist  when  she 
found  how  little  her  favourite  pair 
had  to  do  with  the  success  of  their 
own  story,  and  how  entirely  her 
secondary  characters,  in  their  va- 
rious and  vivid  originality,  carried 
the  day  over  her  first. 

'  Sense  and  Sensibility/  which 
was  really  the  first  of  Miss  Austen's 
publications,  as  well  as  the  first 
production  of  her  youthful  brain, 
has  fewer  salient  points.  There  is 
nothing  in  it  that  can  approach 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  per- 
fection of  Mr  Collins.  The  Miss 
Steeles  are  simply  vulgar  and  dis- 
agreeable, and  we  can  scarcely  be 
grateful  for  the  vivid  drawing  of 
two  persons  whom  we  should  be 
sorry  ever  to  see  again,  and  who 
really  contribute  nothing  to  our 
amusement,  except  so  far  as  the 
fluttered  sensibilities  of  the  eldest 
in  respect  to  "  the  Doctor  "  are  con- 
cerned. No  doubt  the  foolishness 


of  Sir  John  Middleton,  who  is  so 
much  afraid  of  being  alone  that  the 
addition  of  two  people  to  the  popu- 
lation of  London  is  a  matter  of  de- 
light to  him ;  and  of  his  wife,  whose 
folly  is  concentrated  in  adoration  of 
her  children ;  and  Mrs  Palmer,  who 
laughs  loudly  at  her  husband's  in- 
solence, and  calls  heaven  and  earth 
to  witness  how  droll  he  is,— are 
amusing  enough  in  their  way  ;  but 
Marianne's  sensibility  is  not  amus- 
ing, and  we  find  it  utterly  impos- 
sible to  take  any  interest  in  her 
selfish  and  high-flown  wretchedness. 
Elinore's  sense  and  self-restraint, 
though  so  much  superior  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  are  scarcely  more  en- 
livening; and  the  heroes  are  about 
as  weak  specimens  of  the  genus 
hero  as  one  could  desire  to  see : 
that,  however,  would  be  immaterial 
but  for  the  absence  of  the  rich 
background  with  its  amazing  mul- 
tiplicity of  character ;  for  Shake- 
speare himself  cannot  always  con- 
fer interest  upon  his  jeune  premier, 
the  first  gentleman  of  the  story. 
The  same  criticism  may  be  applied 
to  *  Mansfield  Park,'  which  is  the 
least  striking  of  the  whole  series, 
and  though  full  of  detached  scenes, 
and  still  more  of  detached  sen- 
tences, quite  wonderful  in  their 
power  of  description,  is  dull  and 
lengthy  as  a  whole,  and  not  agree- 
able. 

But  Miss  Austen  is  herself  again 
when  she  comes  to  the  story  of 
1  Emma,'  which,  next  to  '  Pride 
and  Prejudice,'  is,  in  our  opinion, 
her  best  work.  *  Emma '  -was  the 
work  of  her  mature  mind.  She 
was  but  one-and-twenty  when  she 
created  Mr  Collins,  and  surrounded 
the  heroine  whom  she  regarded 
with  a  girl's  sympathy  with  so 
many  repulsive  and  odious,  yet 
perfectly-depicted,  characters.  Per- 
haps there  was  something  of  the 
inexperience  and  ignorance  of  youth 
in  this  device — the  natural  impulse 
to  exalt  the  favourite,  and  win  all 
the  more  love  for  her  by  encircling 
her  with  people  whom  it  was  impos- 
sible to  love.  Our  novelist  had  left 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


303 


her  youth  behind  her,  and  her  first 
home,  and  all  the  early  conditions 
of  her  life,  before  Emma  Wood- 
house  became  her  heroine ;  and 
there  is  a  sweetness  about  this  book 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  of 
the  others.  There  is  scarcely  one 
character  in  'Pride  and  Prejudice' 
for  whom  we  can  feel  any  kindly 
sympathy,  except,  perhaps,  Jane, 
the  soft,  pretty  elder  sister,  who  is 
little  more  than  a  shadow  upon  the 
full  and  vigorous  landscape.  But 
in  *  Emma '  there  is  nobody  to  be 
hated,  which  is  a  curious  difference. 
Kindness  has  stole  into  the  author- 
ess's heart.  The  malicious,  brilliant 
wit  of  youth  has  softened  into  a 
better  understanding  of  the  world. 
Mr  Woodhouse  is  very  trying  in 
his  invalidism,  and  we  sympathise 
deeply  with  his  visitors  when  the 
sweetbread  and  asparagus  are  sent 
away  from  their  very  lips  as  not 
cooked  enough,  and  gruel,  thin, 
but  not  too  thin,  is  recommended 
in  its  place;  but  on  the  whole  we 
like  the  courteous,  kindly,  trouble- 
some old  man  :  and  Miss  Bates,  no 
doubt,  is  a  person  we  would  fly 
from  in  dismay  did  she  live  in  our 
village;  and  had  she  belonged  to 
the  '  Pride  and  Prejudice '  period, 
no  doubt  she  would  have  been  as 
detestable  as  she  was  amusing. 
But  other  lights  have  come  to  the 
maturer  eyes,  and  the  endless  flut- 
ter of  talk,  the  never-ending  still- 
beginning  monologue,  the  fussy, 
wordy,  indiscreet,  uninteresting  old 
maid  is  lighted  up  with  a  soft  halo 
from  the  heart  within.  Instead  of 
impaling  her  on  the  end  of  her 
spear,  like  Mr  Collins  and  Mrs 
Bennet,  her  author  turns  her  out- 
side in  with  an  affectionate  banter 
— a  tender  amusement  which  chan- 
ges the  whole  aspect  of  the  picture. 
It  is  not  that  the  fun  is  less,  or  the 
keenness  of  insight  into  all  the 
many  manifestations  of  foolishness, 
but  human  sympathy  has  come  in 
to  sweeten  the  tale,  and  the  bril- 
liant intellect  has  found  out,  some- 
how, that  all  the  laughable  beings 
surrounding  it — beings  so  amus- 


ingly diverse  in  their  inanity  and 
unreason — are  all  the  same  mortal 
creatures,  with  souls  and  hearts 
within  them.  How  Miss  Austen 
came  to  find  this  out,  we  cannot 
tell.  But  it  is  pleasant  to  see  that 
she  had  made  the  discovery.  In 
'Emma'  everything  has  a  softer 
touch.  The  sun  shines  as  it  never 
shone  over  the  Bennets.  This  dif- 
ference of  atmosphere,  indeed,  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  points 
in  the  change.  We  suppose  we  are 
told  sometimes  that  it  was  a  fine 
day  in  *  Pride  and  Prejudice/  but 
so  far  as  our  own  perceptions  go, 
the  sky  is  very  leaden,  and  there  is 
little  of  the  variety  and  vicissitude 
of  nature  in  the  monotonous  land- 
scape. We  have  a  feeling  that  the 
Bennet  girls  were  always  muddy 
when  they  walked  to  Meriton,  and 
that  the  wind,  which  blew  in  their 
faces  and  sometimes  improved  their 
complexions,  was  a  damp  ungenial 
sort  of  wind.  But  in  '  Emma '  the 
sun  shines,  and  the  playful  soft 
breezes  blow,  and  the  heroine  her- 
self, with  all  her  talents  and  quick- 
wittedness,  is  as  absurd  as  heart 
could  desire,  and  makes  such  mis- 
takes as  only  a  very  clever  girl,  very 
entetee  and  addicted  to  her  own 
opinion,  very  wilful,  and  unreason- 
able, and  hasty,  and  charming, 
could  be  expected  to  make.  Miss 
Austen  no  longer  believes  in  her, 
or  gives  her  all  the  honours  of 
heroine,  as  she  did  to  her  Eliza- 
beth, but  laughs  tenderly  at  her 
protegee,  ,and  takes  pleasure  in 
teasing  her,  and  pointing  out  all 
her  innocent  mistakes  :  one  after 
another  she  falls  into  them,  and 
scrambles  out,  and  falls  once  more 
—  and  is  overwhelmed  with  dis- 
tress, and  hates  herself,  and  dries 
her  eyes,  and  takes  the  bit  in  her 
teeth  and  is  off  again.  We  do  not 
wonder  that  Mr  Knightley  finds  it 
a  dangerous  amusement  to  watch, 
and  try  to  guide  her  in  her  vagaries; 
and  no  doubt  he  had  a  hard  time  of 
it  when  he  had  finally  secured  her, 
in  that  period  that  comes  after 
Miss  Austen  gives  her  up  to  him, 


304 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March. 


but,  we  don't  doubt,  liked  it  all  the 
same. 

And  it  is  impossible  to  conceive 
a  more  perfect  piece  of  village  geo- 
graphy, a  scene  more  absolutely 
real.  Highbury,  with  Ford's  shop 
in  the  High  Street,  and  Miss  Bates's 
rooms  opposite,  the  parlour  on  the 
first  floor,  with  windows  from  which 
you  can  see  all  that  is  going  on, 
and,  indeed,  call  to  your  friends 
down  below,  and  hold  conversa- 
tions with  them.  And  the  vicar- 
age lane  at  one  end  of  the  town, 
which  is  muddy,  and  where  the 
young  vicar  from  his  study  can  see 
the  young  ladies  passing  on  their 
way  to  their  cottage  pensioners, 
and  has  time  to  get  his  hat  and 
umbrella  and  join  them  as  they 
come  back.  And  Hartfield,  with 
its  pretty  shrubberies,  standing 
•well  out  of  the  town,  a  dignified 
conclusion  for  the  walks  of  the 
ladies,  whom  Mr  Woodhouse  is  so 
glad  to  see ;  and  Randalls  further 
on,  with  its  genial  sanguine  master, 
and  the  happy,  quiet,  middle-aged 
wife,  who  has  been  Emma's  gover- 
ness, and  is  still  "  poor  Miss  Tay- 
lor" to  Emma's  father.  Nothing 
could  be  more  easy  than  to  make  a 
map  of  it,  with  indications  where 
the  London  road  strikes  off,  and 
by  which  turning  Frank  Church- 
hill,  on  his  tired  horse,  will  come 
from  Richmond.  We  know  it  as 
well  as  if  we  had  lived  there  all 
our  lives,  and  visited  Miss  Bates 
every  other  day. 

Miss  Austen's  books  did  not  se- 
cure her  any  sudden  fame.  They 
stole  into  notice  so  gradually  and 
slowly,  that  even  at  her  death  they 
had  not  reached  any  great  height  of 
success.  '  Northanger  Abbey/  per- 
haps her  prettiest  story,  as  a  story, 
and  *  Persuasion/  which  is  very 
charming  and  full  of  delicate  touches, 
though  marked  with  the  old  imper- 
fection which  renders  every  charac- 
ter a  fool  except  the  heroic  pair 
who  hold  their  place  in  the  fore- 
ground— were  published  only  after 
her  death,  the  MS.  having  been 
sold  for  ten  pounds  to  a  careless 


country  bookseller,  from  whom  it 
was  repurchased  after  the  others 
had  risen  into  fame.  We  are  told 
that  at  her  death  all  they  had  pro- 
duced of  money  was  but  seven 
hundred  pounds,  and  but  a  mode- 
rate modicum  of  praise.  We  can- 
not say  we  are  in  the  least  surprised 
at  this  fact ;  it  is,  we  think,  much 
more  surprising  that  they  should 
at  length  have  climbed  into  the 
high  place  they  now  hold.  To  the 
general  public,  which  loves  to  sym- 
pathise with  the  people  it  meets  in 
fiction,  to  cry  with  them,  and  re- 
joice with  them,  and  take  a  real 
interest  in  all  their  concerns,  it  is 
scarcely  to  be  expected  that  books 
so  calm  and  cold  and  keen,  and 
making  so  little  claim  upon  their 
sympathy,  would  ever  be  popular. 
"  One  of  the  ablest  men  of  my  ac- 
quaintance," says  Mr  Austen  Leigh, 
"  said  in  that  kind  of  jest  which 
has  much  earnest  in  it,  that  he  had 
established  it  in  his  own  mind  as 
a  new  test  of  ability  whether  people 
could  or  could  not  appreciate  Miss 
Austen's  merits."  The  standard  is 
real  enough.  A  certain  amount  of 
culture  and  force  of  observation 
must  be  presupposed  in  any  real 
independent  admiration  of  these 
books.  They  are  not  the  kind  of 
books  which  catch  the  popular 
fancy  at  once  without  pleasing  the 
critic — a  power  sometimes  possess- 
ed by  very  imperfect  and  unsatis- 
factory performances  ;  neither  do 
they  belong  to  that  highest  class 
of  all  which  takes  every  variety  of 
imagination  by  storm,  and  steps 
into  favour  without  any  probation. 
They  are  rather  of  the  class  which 
attracts  the  connoisseur,  which 
charms  the  critical  and  literary  mind , 
and  which,  by  dint  of  persistency 
and  iteration,  is  carried  by  the 
superior  rank  of  readers  into  a 
half-real  half-fictitious  universality 
of  applause.  Perhaps  the  effort  has 
been  more  successful  in  the  case  of 
Miss  Austen  than  it  has  been  with 
any  other  writer.  Her  works  have 
become  classic,  and  it  is  now  the 
duty  of  every  student  of  recent 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


305 


English  literature  to  be  more  or 
less  acquainted  with  them.  Au- 
thority was  never  better  employed. 
"The  best  judges7'  have  here,  for 
once,  done  the  office  of  an  Academy, 
and  laureated  a  writer  whom  the 
populace  would  not  have  been 
likely  to  laureate,  but  whom  it  has 
learned  to  recognise. 

There  is,  however,  one  quaint 
instance  of  appreciation,  recorded 
in  the  Memoir,  which  took  place  in 
her  lifetime.  The  Prince-Regent 
admired  Miss  Austen's  novels  much, 
and  sent  her  word  through  her  doc- 
tor that  she  might  go  and  see  Carl- 
ton  House  with  all  its  riches — a  per- 
mission which  we  cannot  but  think 
must  have  been  more  honourable 
than  delightful.  She  took  the  trouble 
to  do  it,  however,  and  there  met 
a  Mr  Clarke,  librarian  to  his  Eoyal 
Highness,  who  forthwith  took  her 
in  hand.  This  gentleman,  so  far 
as  can  be  judged  by  his  letters,  was 
a  personage  altogether  after  Miss 
Austen's  heart,  and  who  might 
have  stepped  out  of  one  of  her 
own  books.  He  gives  her  permis- 
sion unasked  to  dedicate  one  of 
her  books  to  the  Regent — a  per- 
mission, by  the  way,  which  we  do 
not  clearly  understand  if  she  ever 
availed  herself  of ;  and,  in  addi- 
tion, he  proposes  to  her  a  subject 
for  a  book.  "  I  also,  dear  madam," 
writes  this  ingenious  gentleman, 
"  wished  to  be  allowed  to  ask  you 
to  delineate  in  some  future  work 
the  habits  of  life  and  character  and 
enthusiasm  of  a  clergyman  who 
should  pass  his  time  between  the 
metropolis  and  the  country,  who 
should  be  something  like  Beattie's 
minstrel — 

'  Silent  when  glad,   affectionate  though 

shy. 
And  in  his  looks  was   most  demurely 

sad  ; 

And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  though  none 
knew  why.' 

Neither  Goldsmith,  nor  La  Fon- 
taine in  his  '  Tableau  de  Famille,' 
have,  in  my  mind,  quite  delineated 
an  English  clergyman,  at  least  of 
the  present  day  —  fond  of  and 


entirely  engaged  in  literature,  no 
man's  enemy  but  his  own.  Pray, 
dear  madam,  think  of  these  things." 
This  tempting,  not  to  say  solemn, 
suggestion  did  not  move  the  novel- 
ist, which  must  have  seemed  a 
strange  fact  to  Mr  Clarke.  She 
answers  him  with  admirable  gravi- 
ty, demurely  setting  herself  forth 
as  "  the  most  unlearned  and  unin- 
formed female  who  ever  dared  to 
be  an  authoress,"  and  consequently 
quite  incapable  of  "  drawing  such 
a  clergyman  as  you  gave  the  sketch 
of.  ...  Such  a  man's  conver- 
sation," she  adds,  "  must  at  times 
be  on  subjects  of  science  and  philo- 
sophy, of  which  I  know  nothing,  or 
at  least  be  occasionally  abundant  in 
quotations  and  allusions  which  a 
woman  who,like  me,  knows  only  her 
own  mother  tongue,  and  has  read 
little  in  that,  would  be  totally  with- 
out the  power  of  giving."  How  Miss 
Austen  must  have  chuckled  secret- 
ly over  this  wonderful  suggestion  ! 
how  deeply  tempted  she  must  have 
been  to  transfer  the  librarian  him- 
self, if  not  his  "enthusiastic  clergy- 
man," to  her  canvas  !  But  even 
this  answer  does  not  discourage  Mr 
Clarke.  Some  time  after  he  was  ap- 
pointed English  secretary  to  Prince 
Leopold,  who  was  then  about  to  be 
married  to  the  Princess  Charlotte  ; 
and  he  does  not  lose  a  moment  ap- 
parently in  venturing  a  new  sug- 
gestion, which  was  that  "  an  his- 
torical romance  illustrative  of  the 
august  house  of  Cobourg  would 
just  now  be  very  interesting."  Mr 
Collins  himself  could  not  have 
done  better.  His  clever  corres- 
pondent exults  over  him;  she  gives 
him  the  gravest  answers,  and 
draws  her  victim  out.  She  is  quite 
inferior  to  the  undertaking,  she 
tells  him  with  comic  composure. 
Mr  Austen  Leigh,  however,  does 
not  seem  to  see  the  fun,  but 
gravely  comments  upon  it,  observ- 
ing that  Mr  Clarke  should  have  re- 
collected the  warning  of  the  wise 
man,  "  Force  not  the  current  of  the 
river,"  a  conclusion  scarcely  less 
amusing  than  the  preceding  narra- 


306 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


tive.  It  appears,  however,  that 
this  was  by  no  means  a  singular 
occurrence.  Her  friends,  who  could 
see  plainly  that  Jane  Austen  was 
very  much  the  same  as  other  peo- 
ple, and  not  a  person  to  be  any  way 
afraid  of,  were  so  kind  as  to  give 
her  many  hints.  Here  is  a  sketch 
found  among  her  papers  of  the  sort 
of  work  she  ought  to  have  written 
had  she  followed  their  admirable 
suggestions  : — 

"  Plan  of  a  novel  according  to  hints 
from  various  quarters.  The  names  of 
some  of  these  advisers  are  written  on 
the  margin  of  the  manuscript  opposite 
to  their  respective  suggestions. 

"Heroine  to.be  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  who,  after  having  lived 
ranch  in  the  world,  had  retired  from  it, 
and  settled  on  a  curacy,  with  a  very 
small  portion  of  his  own.  The  most 
excellent  man  that  can  be  imagined; 
perfect  in  character,  temper,  and  man- 
ner, without  the  smallest  drawback  or 
peculiarity  to  prevent  his  being  the 
most  delightful  companion  to  his  daugh- 
ter from  one  year's  end  to  the  other. 
Heroine  faultless  in  character,  beauti- 
ful in  person,  and  possessing  every  pos- 
sible accomplishment.  Book  to  open 
with  father  and  daughter  conversing 
in  long  speeches,  elegant  language,  and 
a  tone  of  high  serious  sentiment.  The 
father  induced,  at  his  daughter's  earnest 
request,  to  relate  to  her  the  past  events 
of  his  life.  Narrative  to  reach  through 
the  greater  part  of  the  first  volume;  as, 
besides  all  the  circumstances  of  his 
attachment  to  her  mother,  and  their 
marriage,  it  will  comprehend  his  going 
to  sea  as  chaplain  to  a  distinguished  na- 
val character  about  the  court,  and  his 
going  afterwards  to  court  himself,  which 
involved  him  in  many  interesting  situa- 
tions, concluding  with  his  opinion  of 
the  benefits  of  tithes  being  done  away 
with.  .  .  .  From  this  outset  the 
story  will  proceed,  and  contain  a  strik- 
ing variety  of  adventures.  Father  an 
exemplary  parish  priest,  and  devoted 
to  literature,  but  heroine  and  father 
never  above  a  fortnight  in  one  place — 
he  being  driven  from  his  curacy  by  the 
vile  arts  of  some  totally  unprincipled 
and  heartless  young  man,  desperately 
in  love  with  the  heroine,  and  pursuing 
her  with  unrelenting  passion.  No 
sooner  settled  in  one  country  of  Europe 
than  they  are  compelled  to  quit  it,  and 
retire  to  another,  always  making  new 


acquaintance,  and  always  obliged  to 
leave  them.  This  will  of  course  exhi- 
bit a  wide  variety  of  character.  The 
scene  will  be  for  ever  shifting  from  one 
set  of  people  to  another,  but  there  will 
be  no  mixture, — all  the  good  will  be 
unexceptionable  in  every  respect.  There 
will  be  no  foibles  or  weaknesses  but 
with  the  wicked,  who  will  be  complete- 
ly depraved  and  infamous — hardly  a 
resemblance  of  humanity  left  in  them. 
Early  in  her  career  the  heroine  must 
meet  with  the  hero  :  all  perfection,  of 
course,  and  only  prevented  from  pay- 
ing his  addresses  to  her  by  some  excess 
of  refinement.  Wherever  she  goes 
somebody  falls  in  love  with  her,  and  she 
receives  repeated  offers  of  marriage, 
which  she  refers  wholly  to  her  father, 
exceedingly  angry  that  he  should  not  be 
the  first  applied  to.  Often  carried  away 
by  the  anti-hero,  but  rescued  either  by 
her  father  or  the  hero.  Often  reduced 
to  support  herself  and  her  father  by  her 
talents,  and  work  for  her  bread ;  con- 
tinually cheated  and  defrauded  of  her 
hire  ;  worn  down  to  a  skeleton,  and 
now  and  then  starved  to  death.  At 
last,  hunted  out  of  civilised  society, 
denied  the  poor  shelter  of  the  humblest 
cottage,  they  are  compelled  to  retreat 
into  Kamskatcha,  where  the  poor  father, 
quite  worn  down,  finding  his  end  ap- 
proaching, throws  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  after  four  or  five  hours  of 
tender  advice  and  parental  admoni- 
tion to  his  miserable  child,  expires  in  a 
fine  burst  of  literary  enthusiasm,  inter- 
mingled with  invectives  against  the  hold- 
ers of  tithes.  Heroine  inconsolable  for 
some  time,  but  afterwards  crawls  back 
towards  her  former  country,  having  at 
least  twenty  narrow  escapes  of  falling 
into  the  hands  of  anti-hero  ;  and  at 
last,  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  turning  a 
corner  to  avoid  him,  runs  into  the  arms 
of  the  hero  himself,  who,  having  just 
shaken  off  the  scruples  which  fettered 
him  before,  was  at  the  very  moment 
setting  off  in  pursuit  of  her.  The  ten- 
derest  and  completest  edaircissement 
takes  place,  and  they  are  happily  unit- 
ed. Throughout  the  whole  work  hero- 
ine to  be  in  the  most  elegant  society, 
and  living  in  high  style." 

Miss  Mitford's  literary  fame  stands 
upon  a  much  slighter  and  less  sub- 
stantial basis  than  does  that  of 
Miss  Austen.  Indeed  it  is  rather 
what  she  herself  calls  a  literary  life 
than  any  actual  work  which  has 
made  her  so  well  known  ;  and  as  a 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


307 


literary  life,  her  modest,  kindly, 
long  career  is  remarkable  enough. 
A  variety  of  pleasant  sketches — • 
chief  among  which  is  her  sketch  of 
herself  and  her  flowery  cottage — 
and  descriptions  of  the  pretty,  luxu- 
riant, leafy  landscape,  in  which  all 
her  little  pictures  are  enclosed,  are 
the  things  which  occur  to  our  mind 
when  we  meet  with  her  name  ;  yet 
this  pleasant,  tranquil  paysagiste 
began  her  life  by  the  tumultuous 
triumphs  of  a  dramatic  author,  and 
had  the  curious  sensation  of  seeing 
Covent  Garden  filled  to  the  doors, 
"so  immense  a  house  that  you 
might  have  walked  over  the  heads  in 
the  pit,"  to  listen  to  her  tragedies. 
It  is  a  strange  episode  in  the  most 
tranquil  of  lives.  Her  first  attempt 
was  in  a  play  called  '  Julian/ 
which  we  are  curtly  informed  was 
successful,  but  which  was  assailed 
by  a  storm  of  criticism  and  speedily 
withdrawn.  Her  second  success 
she  thus  describes,  with  a  modera- 
tion and  calmness  which  is  remark- 
able after  the  excitement  of  such 
a  moment,  to  her  mother.  The 
family  were  in  great  straits  by  this 
time,  caused  by  Dr  Mitford's  folly, 
and  the  success  or  failure  of  this 

Elay  meant  something  like  social 
fe  or  death.  The  father  and 
daughter  were  in  town,  trembling 
with  a  thousand  apprehensions,  up 
to  the  last  moment ;  while  the 
mother,  not  less  anxious,  waited  in 
the  pretty  cottage  in  the  wintry 
weather  for  the  all-important  news. 
The  seriousness  of  the  crisis,  and 
the  tender  thoughtfulness  of  the 
writer,  are  shown  on  the  very 
address  of  this  letter.  "  Mrs  Mit- 
ford— good  news"  is  written  out- 
side, that  the  very  first  glance  might 
be  reassuring  : — 

"  I  cannot  suffer  this  parcel  to  go  to 
you,  my  dearest  mother,  without  writ- 
ing a  few  lines  to  tell  you  of  the  com- 
plete success  of  my  play.  It  was  re- 
ceived, not  merely  with  rapturous 
applause,  but  without  the  slightest 
symptom  of  disapprobation  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  We  had  not  a  single 
order  in  the  house,  so  that  from  first  to 
last  the  approbation  was  sincere  and 


general.  William  Harness  and  Mr  Tal- 
fourd  are  both  quite  satisfied  with  the 
whole  affair,  and  my  other  friends  are 
half-crazy.  Mrs  Trollope,  between  joy 
for  my  triumph  and  sympathy  with  the 
play,  has  cried  herself  half  blind.  I  am, 
and  have  been,  perfectly  calm,  and  am 
merely  tired  with  the  great  number  of 
friends  whom  I  have  seen  to-day.  .  . 
G-od  bless  you,  my  dearest  mother ! 
Papa  is  quite  well,  and  happier  than  you 
can  imagine.  He  had  really  half  a 
mind  to  go  to  you  instead  of  writing, 
so  much  do  both  of  us  wish  to  share 
our  happiness  with  you." 

"A  real  impression  has  been 
made,  and  a  reputation  of  the  high- 
est order  established,"  she  writes 
a  little  later  to  her  friend  Sir  Wil- 
liam Elford,  complaining,  how- 
ever, playfully,  that  her  second 
volume  of  "  Our  Village,"  which 
had  just  been  published,  was  likely 
to  harm  the  tragedy,  as  "people 
will  never  allow  anybody  the  power 
of  doing  two  things  well ;  and  be- 
cause it  is  admitted  that  I  write 
playful  prose,  there  be  many  who 
assume  that  I  cannot  write  serious 
verse."  This  is  so  true,  that  it  is 
difficult  even  to  imagine  the  comely 
face  of  our  pleasant  village  historian 
growing  pale  with  fright  in  the 
stage-box  of  a  vast  and  crowded 
theatre,  where  "  the  white  handker- 
chiefs are  going  continually,"  and 
the  vast  audience  weeps  and  thrills 
with  tragic  interest.  The  reader 
smiles,  and  feels  disposed  to  doubt 
the  narrative,  even  when  it  stands 
before  him  in  all  the  integrity  of 
print ;  for  anything  less  tragic,  less 
solemn,  than  the  sweet-tempered 
round-about  woman,  to  whom  her 
flowers  and  her  dogs  and  her  village 
neighbours  come  so  natural,  could 
not  be  conceived.  We  do  not  re- 
cognise her  in  that  grand  accidental 
episode  of  her  life,  any  more  than 
we  can  sit  down  to  read  Foscari 
(which  all  the  same  is  perfectly 
readable).  It  is  only  when  she  is 
back  again  among  her  green  lanes, 
among  her  geraniums,  that  we  can 
identify  our  friend.  But  with  such 
surroundings  we  know  no  English 
writer  who  is  more  supreme  in  her 


308 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


gentle  way.  It  is  not  a  great  way. 
There  is  no  tragedy  here,  and  such 
notes  of  pain  as  must  come  into 
every  human  strain,  are  struck  so 
softly,  and  come  so  tenderly  into  the 
brighter  measure,  that  they  sound 
no  harsher  than  a  sigh.  But  this 
flowery,  leafy,  sunny  Berks,  with 
its  streams  arid  its  woods,  its  cot- 
tages and  its  country-folks,  its 
simple  ways  and  rural  quiet,  where 
was  there  ever  any  English  county 
more  clearly  put  upon  paper  1  How 
real  and  vivid  was  the  impression 
it  made  (we  remember)  upon  one 
little  north-country  imagination  ever 
so  many  years  ago  !  The  scent  of 
the  violets,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
great  branched  trees,  and  every 
detail  of  the  landscape  came  before 
us  as  if  we  had  been  there— nay, 
more  sweetly,  more  powerfully  than 
if  we  had  been  there,  as  imagina- 
tion is  always  more  exquisite  than 
fact.  For  that  intense  and  well- 
remembered  delight,  it  is  fit  that 
we  should  render  Miss  Mitford  all 
the  thanks  that  words  can  express. 
It  was  not  perhaps  so  high  an  in- 
tellectual enjoyment  as  that  which 
is  given,  to  a  mind  capable  of  ap- 
preciating them,  by  Miss  Austen's 
wonderful  pictures,  yet  the  recol- 
lection is  sweeter  to  the  heart. 

Nothing  could  be  more  unlike 
the  calm  existence  of  the  author 
of  'Pride  and  Prejudice'  than  the 
anxious  harassed  life  led  by  Mary 
Mitford.  The  fitful  splendour 
which  flickered  about  her  youth 
had  long  disappeared.  The  little 
family,  after  various  struggles  to 
retain  its  position,  had  been  driven 
out  of  the  house  which  the  father 
and  mother  had  taken  such  pleas- 
ure in  building,  into  a  tiny  cottage 
in  a  village  street ;  and  instead  of 
the  calm  which  so  many  people 
think — erroneously,  in  our  opinion 
— to  be  essential  for  all  mental 
work,  it  was  among  cares  of  the 
most  depressing  kind  that  Miss 
Mitford  took  up  as  a  profession 
the  work  which  she  had  fondly 
dallied  with  through  all  her  earlier 
years.  "  I  may  in  time  make  some- 


thing of  my  poor,  poor  brains,"  she 
cries,  pathetically,  after  her  first 
dramatic  failure.  "I  am  now 
chained  to  a  desk  eight,  ten,  twelve 
hours  a-day  at  mere  drudgery.  All 
my  thoughts  of  writing  are  for  hard 
money.  All  my  correspondence  is 
on  hard  business.  Oh,  pity  me ! 
pity  me  !  My  very  mind  is  sink- 
ing under  the  fatigue  and  anxiety. 
.  .  .  My  dear  father,"  she  adds 
at  a  later  period,  with  that  pitiful 
endurance  of  the  meanness  of  the 
men  belonging  to  them,  and  anxi- 
ous endeavours  to  give  it  the  best 
possible  aspect  to  the  world,  which 
some  women  are  obliged  to  bear, 
"relying  with  a  blessed  sanguine- 
ness  on  my  poor  endeavours,  has 
not,  I  believe,  even  inquired  for 
a  situation  j  and  I  do  not  press 
the  matter,  though  I  anxiously 
wish  it,  being  willing  to  give  one 
more  trial  to  the  theatre.  If  I 
could  but  get  the  assurance  of  earn- 
ing for  my  dear  father  and  mother 
a  humble  competence,  I  should  be 
the  happiest  creature  in  the  world. 
But  for  these  dear  ties  I  should 
never  write  another  line,  but  go 
out  in  some  situation  as  other 
destitute  women  do."  This  was 
her  encouragement,  poor  soul,  in 
undertaking  what  she  calls  "the 
boldest  attempt  ever  made  by  wo- 
man " — a  grand  historical  tragedy 
on  the  subject  of  Charles  I.  and 
Cromwell,  a  work  which,  after 
costing  her  infinite  pains,  was 
considered  dangerous  by  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  who  refused  his  li- 
cence for  its  representation.  She 
was  at  this  time  some  years  over 
thirty,  at  the  height  of  a  woman's 
powers,  but  not  at  the  height  of 
her  hopes;  for  by  that  time  life 
has  generally  begun  to  drag  a  little 
with  the  solitary.  The  only  thing 
which  mitigates  our  indignation 
against  the  father  who,  with 
"  blessed  sanguineness,"  could  thus 
put  himself  upon  his  child's 
shoulders  to  be  supported  is,  that 
he  and  the  tenderer,  sweeter  mo- 
ther filled  her  life  at  least  with 
domestic  happiness.  "  I  hope,"  she 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


309 


adds,  with  quick  compunction  after 
the  plaint  we  have  just  quoted, 
"  there  is  no  want  of  duty  in  my 
wishing  him  to  contribute  his 
efforts  with  mine  to  our  support/' 
He  was  her  first  object  all  her  life  ; 
and  it  is  only  by  such  a  faint  im- 
plied reproof  as  the  above  that  she 
ever  betrays  to  the  outside  world 
any  sense  of  his  sins  against  her. 
But  her  love  for  him  was  that  of  a 
mother  rather  than  a  daughter — 
an  anxious,  protecting,  not  unsus- 
picious affection.  She  writes  to 
him  with  expressions  of  fondness 
which  sound  exaggerated,  though 
they  are  apparently  natural  to  her 
— but  always  with  a  latent  sense 
that  he  is  naughty,  and  that  there 
will  be  various  matters  to  forgive 
and  forget  when  he  comes  back 
from  his  rovings.  A  strange  pic- 
ture !  One  can  see  the  two  women 
at  home  in  their  anxious  consulta- 
tions— the  mother  and  daughter, 
who  think  there  is  nobody  like 
him  in  the  world,  and  yet  lay  their 
kind  heads  together  and  wonder 
what  he  may  be  about — how  he 
may  be  squandering  their  sub- 
stance, what  new  burdens  he  may 
bring  back  to  be  made  the  best  of. 
Yet  what  a  handsome,  fine,  white- 
haired  gentleman — a  father  to  be 
proud  of — does  he  appear  in  '  Our 
Village,'  half  seen  in  the  sanctuary 
of  his  study,  a  magistrate  and  au- 
thority !  Such  a  half  -  conscious, 
dear  deception  is  common  enough 
among  women  whom  the  world 
thinks  comfortably  blind  to  all 
their  idol's  defects,  not  knowing, 
like  a  stupid  world  as  it  is,  that  it 
is  their  very  keenness  of  sight  which 
produces  that  mist  of  tender  illu- 
sion thus  hung  up  and  held  up  to 
dazzle  other  eyes. 

The  success  of  the  tragedies 
seems  to  have  been  a  fitful  and  not 
very  profitable  kind  of  success ; 
but '  Our  Village '  went  into  four- 
teen editions  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years,  and  a  fluctuating  unsteady 
sort  of  prosperity  visited  the  cot- 
tage. They  set  up  a  pony  and 
chaise,  and  by  times  were  in  good 


spirits  ;  but  it  does  not  seem  that 
Miss  Mitford  was  ever  fully  recon- 
ciled to  that  stern  necessity  of  la- 
bour, which  to  some  people  in  this 
world  is  so  great  a  grievance,  and 
to  some  so  great  a  blessing.  She 
had  been  brought  up  in  wealth  and 
ease,  for  one  thing,  and  had  the 
feeling  upon  her,  however  con- 
cealed, that  the  money  which 
ought  to  have  maintained  herself 
and  her  family  had  been  squander- 
ed. Besides,  she  was  one  of  the 
Northumberland  Mitfords,  allied 
to  very  great  people  indeed ;  and 
though  there  is  no  appearance  of 
any  contempt  for  her  craft  or  its 
professors  naturally  arising  in  her 
own  mind,  it  must  have  been  a  little 
hard  to  struggle  against  her  father's 
feelings  on  the  subject — feelings 
which  remind  us  of  one  or  two  of 
Mr  Dickens' s  characters, — of  the 
dignified  Mr  Turveydrop  and  of 
Mr  Bray  in  'Nicholas  Nickleby.' 
"My  father,"  she  writes,  "very 
kind  to  me  in  many  respects,  very 
attentive  if  I'm  ill,  very  solicitous 
that  my  garden  should  be  nicely 
kept,  -that  I  should  go  out  with 
him  and  be  amused,  is  yet,  so 
far  as  art,  literature,  and  the 
drama  are  concerned,  of  a  temper 
infinitely  difficult  to  deal  with. 
He  hates  and  despises  them  and 
all  their  professors,  looks  on  them 
with  hatred  and  scorn,  and  is  con- 
stantly taunting  me  with  'my 
friends'  and  'my  people,'  as  he 
calls  them,  reproaching  me  if  I 
hold  the  slightest  intercourse  with 
either  editor,  artist,  or  actor,  and 
treating  with  frank  contempt  every 
one  not  of  a  certain  station  in  the 
county.  .  .  .  He  ought  to  re- 
member/' pleads  the  poor  author- 
ess, not  without  a  certain  feeling 
of  caste  in  her  own  person,  and  not 
sure  that,  after  all,  he  may  be  right 
and  she  is  demeaning  herself,  "that 
it  is  not  for  my  own  pleasure,  but 
from  a  sense  of  duty,  that  I  have 
been  thrown  in  the  way  of  such 
persons  ;  and  he  should  allow  for 
the  natural  sympathy  of  similar 
pursuits,  and  the  natural  wish  to 


310 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Miff  or  d. 


[March 


do  the  little  that  one  so  poor  and 
so  powerless  can  do  to  bring  merit, 
and  that  of  a  very  high  order,  into 
notice.  It  is  one  of  the  few  allevi- 
ations of  a  destiny  that  is  wearing 
down  my  health  and  mind  and 
spirits  and  strength — a  life  spent 
in  efforts  beyond  my  powers,  and 
which  will  end  in  the  workhouse 
or  in  Bedlam  as  the  body  or  mind 
shall  sink  first.  He  ought  to  feel 
this,  but  he  does  not." 

There  are  many  of  these  melan- 
choly half-complaints  in  the  latter 
part  of  her,  or  rather  of  her  father's, 
life.  Her  destiny  hangs  very  hea- 
vily upon  her.  She  was  not  born, 
she  feels,  for  such  a  fate  ;  neither, 
she  thinks,  with  natural  generalis- 
ing, was  any  woman  ever  intended 
to  support  a  family — forgetting,  as 
was  also  quite  natural,  how  many 
women  do.  She  goes  over  a  little 
list  of  literary  women,  in  her  sad 
moments,  to  prove  this  unsatisfac- 
tory theory.  Mrs  Hofland  is  ill, 
Mrs  Hall  is  ill,  Miss  Landon  dead, 
and  so  on  through  a  melancholy 
catalogue.  As  the  master  of  the 
house  grew  older  and  more  infirm, 
life  grew  ever  harder  and  harder  in 
the  cottage  at  Three  Mile  Cross. 
He  who  had  never  been  considerate 
became  exacting,  and  in  his  de- 
mands upon  her  for  personal  ten- 
dance, forgot  that  she  had  to  be 
the  breadwinner  as  well  as  the 
nurse ;  while  she,  poor  soul,  worn 
to  death  with  long  hours  of  reading 
to  him,  nursing  him,  watching  his 
every  want,  felt  guilty  and  wretched 
to  the  bottom  of  her  heart  that  she 
could  not  at  the  same  time  work 
for  him,  and  carry  on  a  double 
labour.  For  his  sake  she  had  given 
up  a  prospect  opened  to  her  by  the 
kindness  of  some  distant  relatives, 
who  proposed  to  her  to  live  with 
them  and  be  their  companion — 
"  not  a  dependant,  but  a  daughter." 
They  were  people  whom  she  liked 
and  trusted,  and  the  arrangement 
would  have  given  her  immediate 
ease  and  some  permanent  provi- 
sion ;  but  she  gives  it  up  with  a 
sigh,  in  consideration  of  her  father's 


comfort.  "To  have  left  him  here 
would  have  been  impossible/'  she 
says  ;  "  and  if  Mr  Ragget  had  (as  I 
believe  he  would)  given  him  a  home 
at  Odiam,  the  sacrifice  of  his  old 
habits,  his  old  friends,  the  blame- 
less self-importance  which  results 
from  his  station  as  chairman  of  the 
Reading  Bench,  and  his  really  influ- 
ential position  in  the  county,  where 
we  are  much  respected  in  spite  of 
our  poverty,  would  have  been  far 
too  much  to  ask  or  to  permit.'' 
This  possibility,  accordingly,  was 
given  up ;  but  as  the  weary  years 
stole  on,  and  the  old  man,  whose 
comforts  must  not  be  infringed 
whatever  happened,  descended 
lower  and  lower  into  that  feeble- 
ness of  age  in  which  even  the  gen- 
erous and  amiable  become  exacting 
without  knowing  it,  heavier  and 
heavier  clouds  stole  over  the  de- 
voted daughter,  and  her  weariness 
— or  perhaps  the  fact  that  her  life 
by  this  time  was  cheered  by  female 
friends  to  whom  she  could  utter 
her  heart  more  freely — forces  her 
into  speech.  "  After  all,  a  wretched 
life  is  mine,"  she  cries  in  her  de- 
spair. "  Health  is  gone  ;  and  if  I 
can  but  last  while  my  dear  father 
requires  me — if  the  little  money  we 
have  can  but  last — then  it  would 
matter  little  how  soon  I  too  were  re- 
leased. ...  My  life  is  only  valuable, 
as  being  useful  to  him."  And  then 
come  heartrending  letters  to  the 
faithful  friend,  Mr  Harness,  who 
lived  to  plan  and  partially  edit 
these  volumes,  but  who  is  dead 
since  their  publication.  He  was 
her  trustee,  and  held  in  his  hands 
the  last  remnant  of  her  mother's 
fortune,  and  not  very  long  before  it 
had  been  necessary  for  her  to  write 
him  a  sharp,  brief  note,  strangely 
concentrated  in  its  pain  and  shame, 
begging  him  to  receive  no  applica- 
tions for  any  part  of  this  money 
except  such  as  came  from  herself. 
But  when  the  last  stage  of  this  long 
struggle  comes,  the  poor  soul,  who 
can  see  no  future  beyond  her  father's 
death,  and  cares  for  no  provision, 
nor  anticipates  any  want  of  one 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mil  ford. 


311 


after  that  event,  changes  her  tone  ; 
and  she  writes  to  him  as  follows, 
with  a  piteous  pleading  and  re- 
morseful self-accusation  which  goes 
to  the  reader's  heart : — 

"I  have  to  entreat  of  you  that  you 
will  suffer  so  much  money  as  may  be 
necessary  to  pay  our  debts  to  be  taken 
from  that  in  Mr  Blandy's  hands— say 
the  two  hundred  pounds  lately  paid  in. 
The  necessity  for  this  has  arisen,  partly 
from  the  infamous  conduct  of  Messrs 
Finden,  but  chiefly  from  my  dear 
father's  state  of  health  and  spirits, 
which  has  made  me  little  better  than  a 
nurse ;  and  lastly,  from  my  own  want 
of  strength,  which  has  prevented  my 
exerting  myself  as  I  ought  to  have 
done  to  remedy  these  disappointments. 
Nobody,  to  see  me,  would  believe  the 
wretched  state  of  my  health.  Could 
you  know  all  I  have  to  undergo  and 
suffer,  you  woidd  rather  wonder  that  I 
am  alive,  than  that  (joined  to  all  I  have 
to  do  with  my  dear  father — reading  to 
him,  waiting  upon  him,  playing  at 
cribbage  with  him,  and  bearing,  alone, 
the  depression  of  a  man  once  so  strong 
and  so  active,  and  now  so  feeble) — 
you  would  rather  wonder  that  I  have 
lived  through  this  winter,  than  that  I 
have  failed  to  provide  the  means  of 
support  for  our  little  household. 

"I  am,  however,  rather  better  now, 
and  feel  that,  if  relieved  from  this  debt, 
which  weighs  me  down,  I  shall  (as  I 
have  told  my  dear  father  that  I  must) 
rather  seem  to  neglect  him  in  the  minor 
points  of  reading  to  him,  &c.,  than 
again  fail  in  working  at  my  desk.  Be 
assured  that  if  you  allow  me  to  go  to 
my  writing  with  a  clear  mind,  I  shall 
not  again  be  found  wanting.  It  has 
been  all  my  fault  now,  and  if  that  fault 
be  visited  upon  my  father's  white  head, 
and  he  be  sent  to  jail  for  my  omissions, 
I  should  certainly  not  long  remain  to 
grieve  over  my  sin,  for  such  it  is.  It  is 
a  great  trial,  for  my  father  has  never, 
for  the  last  four  years,  been  two  months 
without  some  attack  of  immediate  dan- 
ger, and  the  nursing  and  attending  him 
are  in  themselves  almost  more  than  can 
be  done  by  a  person  whose  own  state  of 
health  involves  constant  attention,  and 
leaves  her  well-nigh  exhausted  and  un- 
nerved in  mind  and  body.  But  I  see 
now  that  a  portion  of  the  more  fatiguing 
part  of  this  attendance  (say  the  reading 
aloud)  must  be  relinquished,  and,  how- 
ever grievous,  it  shall  be  so,  for  the  more 
stringent  duty  of  earning  our  daily 
bread.  I  will  do  this,  and  you,  I  am 


sure,  will  enable  me  to  go  with  a  free 
mind  to  my  task.  I  am  sure  that  you 
will  do  so.  It  would  be  a  most  false 
and  mistaken  friendship  for  me  which 
should  induce  you  to  hesitate,  for  my 
very  heart  would  be  broken  if  aught 
should  befall  his  grey  hairs.  .  .  . 

"  My  dear  father  has,  years  ago,  been 
improvident ;  he  still  is  irritable  and 
difficult  to  live  with ;  but  he  is  a  per- 
son of  a  thousand  virtues — honest,  faith- 
ful, just,  and  true,  and  kind.  There 
are  very,  very  few  half  so  'good  in  this 
mixed  world.  It  is  my  fault  that  this 
money  is  needed— entirely  my  fault ; 
and,  if  it  be  withheld,  I  am  well  assured 
of  the  consequences  to  both  :  law  pro- 
ceedings will  be  commenced ;  my  dear 
father  will  be  overthrown  mind  and 
body,  and  I  shall  never  know  another 
happy  hour.  1  feel  after  this  that  you 
will  not  refuse  me  the  kindness  that  I 
ask. " 

This  letter,  dated  in  July  1841, 
was  followed  in  about  six  months 
by  another  in  a  similar  strain  : — 

"I  sit  down  with  inexpressible  re- 
luctance to  write  to  you,  my  ever  dear 
and  kind  friend,  because  I  well  know 
that  you  will  blame  me  for  the  occa- 
sion ;  but  it  must  be  said,  and  I  can 
only  entreat  your  indulgence  and  your 
sympathy.  My  poor  father  has  passed 
this  winter  in  a  miserable  state  of 
health  and  spirits.  His  eyesight  fails 
him  now  so  completely  that  he  cannot 
even  read  the  leading  articles  in  the 
newspapers.  Accordingly,  I  have  not 
only  every  day  gone  through  the  daily 
paper,  debates  and  all,  which  forms  a 
sort  of  necessity  to  one  who  has  so  long 
taken  an  interest  in  everything  that 
passes,  but,  after  that,  I  have  read  to 
him  from  dark  till  bedtime,  and  then 
have  often  (generally)  sat  at  his  bedside 
almost  till  morning,  sometimes  reading, 
sometimes  answering  letters  as  he  slept, 
expecting  the  terrible  attacks  of  cramp, 
three  or  four  of  a  night,  during  which 
he  gets  out  of  bed  to  walk  the  room,  un- 
able to  get  in  again  without  my  assist- 
ance. I  have  been  left  no  time  for 
composition  —  neither  time  nor  heart 
— so  that  we  have  spent  money  without 
earning  any. 

"  What  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  then,  is 
to  authorise  Mr  Blandy  to  withdraw 
sufficient  money  to  set  us  clear  with  the 
world,  with  a  few  pounds  to  start  with, 
and  then  I  must  prefer  the  greater  duty 
to  the  less.  I  must  so  far  neglect  my 
dear  father  as  to  gain  time  for  writing 
what  may  support  us.  The  season  is 


312 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


[March 


coming  on  when  lie  will  be  able  to  sit 
in  the  garden,  and  perhaps  to  see  a  few 
friends  of  an  afternoon,  and  then  this 
incessant  reading  will  be  less  necessary 
to  him.  At  all  events,  the  thing  must 
be  done,  and  shall.  It  was  a  great 
weakness  in  me,  a  self-indulgence,  not 
to  do  so  before,  for  the  fault  is  entirely 
mine.  I  believe,  when  these  debts  are 
paid,  his  own  spirits  will  lose  that  terri- 
ble depression,  broken  only  by  excessive 
irritability,  which  has  rendered  this 
winter  a  scene  of  misery  to  himself 
and  a  trial  to  me. 

"  Do  not  fancy,  my  dear  friend,  that 
I  cast  the  slightest  blame  on  my  dear 
father.  The  dejection  and  the  violence 
belong  to  disease  fully  as  much  as  any 
other  symptom.  If  anybody  be  to 
blame,  I  am  the  person,  for  not  having 
taken  care  that  he  should  have  no  an- 
xiety— nothing  but  age  and  infirmity — 
to  bear.  God  forgive  me  for  my  want 
of  energy !  for  suffering  myself  to  be 
wholly  engrossed  by  the  easier  duty  of 
reading  to  him  !  I  will  not  do  so  again. 
Once  a-week  he  goes  into  Reading  to 
the  bench,  and  tften  he  rallies,  and  no- 
body seeing  him  then  could  imagine 
what  the  trial  is  at  home ;  and  with 
nobody  but  myself,  it  has  been  some 
excuse  for  getting  through  the  day  and 
the  night  as  best  I  could;  but  it  shall 
be  so  no  longer. 

"Heaven  bless  you!  do  not  refuse 
me  this  most  urgent  prayer,  and  do  not 
think  worse  of  me  than  you  can  help. " 

When  the  life  of  this  man,  who 
for  so  many  years  has  been  the 
tyrant  and  intolerable  burden  of 
his  daughter's  existence,  comes  to 
an  end,  the  reader  is  disposed  to 
turn  away  impatiently  from  her 
sorrow,  and  to  feel  a  certain  im- 
pulse of  contradiction  when  among 
her  tears  she  assures  her  friends 
that  he  must  be  happy,  and  that 
never  man  had  more  humble  reason 
to  anticipate  heaven.  If  a  man 
may  be  so  selfish,  so  cruel,  so  de- 
void of  natural  justice  or  compas- 
sion, and  yet  be  sure  of  adoring 
love  all  his  life  and  heaven  at  the 
end,  what  meaning  is  there  in 
the  distinction  between  right  and 
wrong  1  we  ask  ourselves.  To  Mr 
Harness,  at  least,  there  must  have 
been  a  fierce  and  fine  satisfaction 
in  thus  at  last  revealing  to  the 
world  what  manner  of  man  he 


really  was  whom  Mary  Mitford 
made  an  idol  of,  and  of  whom  she 
has  left  so  many  fond  pictures  that 
we,  deceived,  might  have  admired 
him  too.  When  he  was  gone  she 
was  very  sad,  as  may  be  supposed  : 
but  gradually  recovered  out  of  her 
sadness  and  took  comfort  in  her 
friends,  and  found  at  last,  after  the 
long  struggles  of  life,  a  peaceful 
evening,  no  longer  worn  with  over- 
work, or  filled  with  petty  anxieties. 
The  book  called  'Recollections  of 
a  Literary  Life,'  which  is  not,  so 
to  speak,  a  book  at  all,  but  only  a 
collection  of  her  favourite  scraps 
of  poetry,  from  Percy's  ballads 
down  to  sundry  contemporary 
poets  whom  few  people,  we  dare- 
say, ever  heard  of,  was  put  to- 
gether in  this  time  of  rest.  The 
book  is  a  kind  of  an  imposition  to 
be  given  to  the  world  under  such  a 
title,  it  must  be  allowed,  but  it  is 
full  of  the  most  tender,  charming 
little  bits  of  autobiography  and  a 
certain  serene  sabbatical  calm. 
She  tells  us  how  she  goes  out 
"  almost  daily  "  to  "  the  charming 
green  lane  —  the  grassy,  turfy, 
shady  lane  of  which  I  have  before 
made  mention,"  attended  by  her  lit- 
tle dog  Fanchon,  and  her  favourite 
little  maid,  with  her  books  and  writ- 
ing-case. There,  on  "  a  certain  green 
hillock,  under  down-hanging  elms, 
.  .  .  where  we  have  partly  found, 
partly  scraped  out  for  ourselves,  a 
turfy  seat  and  turfy  table  redolent 
of  wild  thyme,  and  a  thousand 
fairy  flowers,  delicious  in  its  cool- 
ness, its  fragrance,  and  its  repose," 
the  genial,  tender  old  woman  plac- 
ed herself,  undisturbed,  as  it  was 
meet  she  should  be,  by  any  care 
or  trouble,  taking  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  the  country  so  dear  to  her, 
and  of  the  summer  skies  and  sum- 
mer air,  and  all  the  greenness  that 
she  loved ;  with  her  favourite 
poets  by  her  side,  and  the  pen 
which  she  had  no  longer  any  need 
to  ply  as  a  drudge,  and  which  she 
loved  too,  dearly,  when  she  ceased 
to  be  its  vassal.  This  last  pic- 
ture, drawn  by  her  own  hand,  is 


1870.] 


Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Mitford. 


313 


the  most  pleasant  conclusion  that 
could  be  put  to  the  much-troubled, 
much-toiling  life.  New  ties  she 
was  too  old  to  form,  and  there  was 
no  child  to  love  her  as  she  had 
loved  ;  but  yet  in  a  serene  quiet,  as 
of  the  evening,  glad  of  the  ease,  and 
the  stillness,  and  the  dews  ;  glad 
too,  perhaps,  that  all  was  so  near 
over,  and  night  at  hand,  and  sleep 
— the  weary  soul  rests  and  muses 
and  smiles  upon  the  world  which 
has  not  given  her  much,  and  yet  is 
full  of  friends  to  her.  After  some 
fifteen  years  of  this  soft,  cheerful 
solitude,  she  died,  sixty-six  years 
old,  without  further  pang  or  grief, 
with  kind  people  about  her,  and 
servants  who  loved  her ;  but  with 
everything  that  had  been  her  very 
own  gone  before  her  into  the  other 
world. 

We  do  not  attempt  to  make  any 
comparison  between  these  two 
lives,  nor  are  the  two  minds  to  be 
compared.  Miss  Austen  was  by 
much  the  greater  artist,  but  the 
sweetness  of  the  atmosphere  about 
her  humble  contemporary  was  far 
above  anything  possible  to  the 
great  novelist.  In  presence  of  the 
one  we  admire  and  wonder,  watch- 


ing the  perfect  work  that  by  means 
so  insignificant  grows  under  her 
hands  ;  while  with  the  other  we  do 
little  more  than  breathe  the  fresh 
air  and  the  flowers,  and  identify 
one  little  spot  of  actual  soil  not 
created,  but  described.  Yet  the 
two  figures  thus  accidentally  placed 
together — unlike  in  mind  and  in 
fortune,  yet  so  like  in  some  points 
of  fact — cast  a  certain  light  upon 
each  other,  standing  up  each  under 
"  the  little  span  of  sky  and  little 
lot  of  stars  "  that  belongs  to  her  by 
nature  ;  women  false  to  no  instinct 
of  womankind,  as  modest,  as 
gentle,  as  little  obtrusive  as  the 
humblest  housewife.  Let  us  hope 
that  their  portraits  thus  simul- 
taneously reproduced  may  do 
something  towards  restoring  the 
ancient  standard  which  journalists 
tell  us  is  so  much  altered  in  these 
days  ;  or  may  at  least  show  that  the 
possibility  of  work  for  women  is 
not  a  thing  of  to-day,  but  had  been 
found,  and  well  done,  with  little 
fuss  but  tolerable  success,  before 
any  of  the  present  agitators  of  that 
much-discussed  subject  were  born 
to  throw  light  upon  an  ignorant 
world. 


314 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour  ;  or. 


[March 


THE  ANTAGONISM  OF  RACE  AND   COLOUR;   OR,  WHITE,   BED,  BLACK, 
AND   YELLOW   IN  AMERICA. 


IN  our  old  and  thickly-populated 
Europe,  the  several  nationalities 
that  possess  the  soil  among  them, 
whether  they  be  called  Goths  or 
Latins,  Celts  or  Saxons,  Scandina- 
vians or  Tartars,  Greeks  or  Turks, 
or  an  amalgamation,  more  or  less 
complete,  of  some  or  all  of  them, 
form  in  reality  but  a  portion  of 
that  great  race,  of  Asiatic  origin, 
which  it  is  now  the  fashion  to  call 
the  Caucasian.  Among  these  na- 
tionalities the  antipathy  of  race 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  exist ;  and 
whatever  jealousy  or  prejudice  of 
country  may  still  be  found  among 
them,  arises  from  political  and  reli- 
gious rather  than  from  ethnological 
causes.  Some  vulgar  English  may 
entertain  a  prejudice  against  the 
Irish,  just  as  many  vulgar  and  un- 
reasonable Irish  entertain  a  hatred 
of  the  "  Sassenach."  A  similar  pre- 
judice once  existed  against  Scots- 
men, that  first  grew  up  in  the  reign 
of  James  I.,  and  was  fostered  up  to 
the  time  of  George  III.  by  such 
one-sided  writers  as  Dr  Samuel 
Johnson  and  others,  and  was  aided 
more  or  less  by  the  traditions  of  the 
stage.  It  also  existed  to  a  much 
greater  degree  against  Dutchmen, 
whom  it  was  the  custom  to  call  a  na- 
tion of  rogues,  and  against  French- 
men, whom  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
century  it  was  sometimes  held  to  be 
the  duty  of  a  true  Englishman  to 
hate,  for  the  not  very  satisfactory 
reason  put  by  Goldsmith  into  the 
mouth  of  the  old  soldier  of  Marl- 
borough,  "  that  they  were  all  slaves, 
and  wore  wooden  shoes."  But  the 
real  antipathy  or  antagonism  of 
race — whatever  the  feeling  or  the 
instinct  may  be  called,  which,  with 
occasional  exceptions  on  the  part 
of  individuals,  forbids  and  prevents 
the  union  of  the  sexes — is  almost 
wholly  a  matter  of  colour.  The 
white  or  Caucasian  race,  more  espe- 
cially the  Anglo-Saxon  branch  of 


it,  does  not  freely,  or  even  com- 
monly, intermarry  with  the  red- 
skinned  aborigines  of  America ; 
with  the  black-skinned  Negroes, 
Caffres,  or  Hottentots  of  Africa  ; 
or  with  the  yellow-skinned  Chinese, 
Japanese,  or  Malays.  The  same 
antipathy  or  antagonism  exists 
among  the  races  that  are  not  white. 
Neither  the  Chinese  nor  the  Ked 
Indians  will  seek  their  mates 
among  the  Negroes  ;  and  the  Ne- 
groes themselves,  though  they  look 
up  to  the  whites  for  protection, 
and  are  not  averse  to  marriage 
with  them,  have  neither  respect 
nor  love  for  the  red  skins  or  the 
yellow.  In  Europe  we  see  so  little 
of  people  who  are  not  of  the  pure 
Caucasian  blood,  that  when  persons 
of  the  red,  the  black,  or  the  yellow 
races  come  among  us,  we  look  upon 
them  with  curiosity  rather  than  re- 
pugnance, and  hold  out  to  them, 
when  either  commerce  or  courtesy 
requires,  the  right  hand  of  good- 
fellowship.  But  when  the  man  of 
white  skin  goes  forth  to  remote  re- 
gions, to  subdue  and  form  settle- 
ments, as  in  America,  Australia, 
South  Africa,  and  New  Zealand, 
he  goes  as  a  superior  being,  assumes 
possession  by  the  right,  if  not  by 
the  divinity,  of  his  colour,  and  will 
listen  to  no  terms  on  the  part  of 
the  original  possessors  of  the  soil 
but  absolute  submission  to  his  sov- 
ereign will.  If  they  submit,  they 
may  live.  If  they  prove  trouble- 
some, they  must  be  subdued.  If 
they  put  themselves  into  a  state  of 
permanent  rebellion,  they  must  be 
exterminated.  This  seems  to  be 
the  law,  above  all  other  law,  which 
the  Caucasian  race  has  imposed 
upon  itself  ;  a  law  which  has  been 
somewhat  relaxed  in  the  case  of  the 
French  and  Spaniards,  who  were 
once  the  principal  colonisers  of  the 
New  World,  but  which  has  never 
been  seriously  relaxed  by  the  An- 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yelloiv  in  America. 


315 


glo  -  Saxons,  the  Anglo  -  Celts,  and 
their  Teutonic  cousins — who  now 
between  them  form  the  great  all- 
conquering,  all-pervading  race,  that 
replenishes  the  waste  places  of  the 
globe,  and  clears  the  way  before  it 
by  the  dispossession  and  subjection 
of  the  natives. 

It  is  in  the   United   States   of 
America,  where  many  problems,  or 
what  were  once  thought  problems, 
of  religion,  politics,  and  the  art  of 
government,  are  either   solved  or 
will  become  solvable  by  the  pro- 
gress of  time,  that  this  question  of 
the  predominance  of  race  assumes 
its  largest   proportion,  and  works 
itself  out  in  the  most  remarkable 
manner.    The  British  and  the  Ame- 
ricans are  alike  in  this  respect.     It 
is  in  the  blood,  the  bone,  the  flesh, 
and  whole  spirit  of  the  people ;  one 
in  this  respect,  though  politically 
two.    Wherever  they  go,  they  must 
be  kings  and  lords  over  all  men 
who  have  skins  of  a  different  colour 
from  their  own.     When,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Asiatic  peoples,  of  an 
old   civilisation,  that  already  pos- 
sess the  soil  and  are  too  numerous 
to  be   dispossessed,   this   haughty 
people    only   establishes    itself   to 
trade,  and  not  to  colonise — it  must 
govern,  as  the  native  kings,  princes, 
rajahs,  and  rulers  of  India  were  not 
long    in   discovering  ;  and   as  the 
Chinese  and  the  Japanese,  with  a 
not  unnatural  jealousy,  have  been 
and  still  are  somewhat  apprehen- 
sive of  discovering  also.   And  what 
the   British   have   done   with   the 
dark-skinned  peoples  of  the  East, 
we  may  be  quite  sure  the  Americans 
would  have  done  if  they  had  had 
the  opportunity. 

In  landing  upon  the  Atlantic 
shores  of  the  North  American  con- 
tinent, the  Anglo-Saxon  and  Anglo- 
Celtic  emigrants  —  we  use  both 
terms,  for  the  British  people,  in  the 
proper  acceptation  of  the  phrase, 
are  quite  as  much  Celtic  as  Saxon, 
if  they  are  not,  as  Messrs  Pike  and 
Nicholas,  and  other  writers,  have  en- 
deavoured to  prove,  even  more  Cel- 
tic than  Saxon  or  Anglo-Saxon — 


found  themselves  face  to  face  with 
native  tribes  of  a  character,  disposi- 
tion, and  race,  very  different  from 
their   own.     The   aborigines   were 
inferior  in  all  respects  to  the  new- 
comers, though  the  new-comers  did 
not  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
they  were    so    by  any  species  of 
reasoning,  inductive  or  other,  but 
leaped  to  it  without  reasoning  at 
all,  having  no  more  doubt  of  the 
fact  than  they  had  of  the  inferiority 
of  the  dog,  the  horse,  the  ox,  or 
other  animal  created  for  their  use. 
The  aborigines,  however,  did   not 
reciprocate  the  conviction ;  and  hav- 
ing those  nine  points  of  the  law 
which  are  included  in  actual  pos- 
session,   and  all  the  instincts    of 
humanity,  on  their  side,  treated  the 
interlopers  as    dangerous  visitors, 
who  were  either  to  be  driven  back 
into  the  ocean,  or  smitten,  hip  and 
thigh,  in  fierce  and  relentless  war- 
fare.'   Had  the  Red  Indians  been 
a  docile    and    submissive    people, 
who  would  have  gently  bowed  their 
necks    to    the  yoke,  adopted  the 
manners  and  speech  of  their  con- 
querors, consented  to  be  their  hewers 
of  wood  and  drawers  of  water — in 
fact,  their  agricultural  or  domestic 
slaves — there  was  no  such  antipathy 
of  blood  on  the  part  of  the  invad- 
ing Caucasians  as  would  have  led 
the  superior  race  to  constant  war- 
fare with  the  inferior.     But  the  in- 
ferior people  were    as  proud  and 
haughty  as  the  superior,  and  the 
consequence  was  war,  daily,  yearly, 
perpetually — war  that  could   only 
be  ended  by  the  unqualified  sub- 
mission of  the  weaker  party.    This 
war  has  lasted  for  upwards  of  three 
centuries,  and  is  not  yet  concluded. 
The  unsubmissive  red  man  has  been 
treated  for  all  that  time  by  his  next 
neighbours  as  if  he  were  a  wolf,  to 
be  shot  down,  hunted  down,  extir- 
pated ;   though  if,   like  the  more 
docile  man  with  a  black  epidermis, 
he  would    have   consented    to  be 
made  a  slave,  he  would  have  been 
affectionately  cared  for.      He  has 
been  driven  by  degrees  from  the 
sea-board    of    the   New    England 


316 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour  ;  or, 


[Marcli 


States,  out  of  New  York,  out  of  Penn- 
sylvania, out  of  the  South,  far  away 
into  the  Great  West,  first  beyond  the 
Ohio  river,  where  he  made  desper- 
ate fight  within  the  memory  of  liv- 
ing men,  who  in  their  youth  never 
retired  to  rest  without  danger  to 
their  scalps,  and  those  of  their  wives 
and  children.  From  the  western 
bank  of  the  Ohio  they  have  been 
driven,  with  constantly  diminish- 
ing numbers,  towards  the  slopes  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains.  In  vain  the 
Federal  Government  exercised  its 
authority  to  protect  them.  The 
arm  of  the  law  was  weak,  and  the 
passions  of  the  frontier  men  were 
strong.  And  on  their  part  the  In- 
dians were  stealthy,  aggressive,  and 
treacherous.  Tardy  measures,  in- 
augurated by  a  distant  Govern- 
ment, were  of  no  avail  in  emergency, 
and  many  a  savage  fight  between 
the  two  races  was  fought  out,  to  the 
extermination  of  the  weaker,  be- 
fore the  Central  Government  was 
made  formally  aware  that  difficult- 
ies had  arisen.  The  Indians  did  not 
wage  honourable  war.  They  were 
burglars  and  murderers  rather  than 
soldiers  and  patriots,  and  when 
caught  red-handed  were  slain,  not 
only  without  the  slightest  compunc- 
tion, but  very  often  with  the  most 
savage  satisfaction.  Philanthropists 
inveighed  without  avail  against  the 
proceedings  of  the  settlers.  Public 
opinion,  more  especially  on  the  in- 
fested frontiers,  was  clearly  against 
mercy  ;  and  public  writers,  living  in 
more  settled  and  peaceable  districts, 
whence  the  Indians  had  long  since 
disappeared,  were  of  opinion  that 
interference  by  the  central  power 
was  both  unwise  and  useless,  and 
that  the  matter  should  be  left  en- 
tirely in  the  hands  of  those  who 
most  severely  felt  the  hardship  and 
the  danger  of  Indian  contiguity.  It 
was  boldly  asserted  by  Mr  Parton 
in  his  '  Life  of  President  Jackson,' 
who  was  chief  magistrate  from  1824 
to  1832,  "that  the  white  settler  of  the 
frontiers  could  not  by  any  possibil- 
ity live  in  peace  with  th  e  Indians,  and 
that  the  intense  antipathy  which  was 


excited  in  the  mind  of  the  white 
man,  by  living  in  proximity  to  the  red 
man,  was  sure  to  degenerate  into 
rancorous  hostility.  The  white 
settler  did  not  long  continue  to 
believe  that  an  Indian  had  rights 
which  the  white  man  was  bound  to 
respect.3'  A  letter,  which  went  the 
round  of  the  American  press,  dated 
September  1859,from  San  Francisco, 
declared  emphatically  that  * '  the  Fed- 
eral Government  committed  a  great 
mistake  at  that  time  in  not  ordering 
a  large  military  force  to  California, 
with  orders  to  hunt  and  shoot  down 
all  the  Indians  from  the  Colorado  to 
the  Klamath  !  This,"  says  the 
writer,  "  would  have  been  tlie  cheap- 
est method  of  managing  the  Indian 
affairs  of  California,  and  perhaps 
the  most  humane  !  A  weak  senti- 
mentalism  may  be  horrified  that 
civilised  men  should  slaughter 
Indians  as  they  would  slaughter 
wolves  ;  but  the  strong  -  hearted 
clear-headed  philanthropist  will  say 
that  a  general  slaughter,  for  the 
clearly  -  expressed  purpose  of  get- 
ting the  friendless  red  men  out  of 
the  way,  is  preferable  to  the  sys- 
tem of  slow  heart-breakage  and 
long-drawn  torments  now  prac- 
tised. It  is  a  settled  fact  that  every 
wild  Indian  in  the  State  must  die  ; 
and  the  question  is,  whether  it  were 
better  that  he  should  be  shot  at 
once,  or  tortured  through  half-a- 
dozen  years  by  ruin,  disease,  be- 
reavement of  all  relatives  and 
friends,  and  then  finally  shot  be- 
cause he  has  committed  some  '  out- 
rage.' If  I  were  the  Indians,  I 
should  prefer  being  shot  at  once. 
I  should  enter  a  strong  protest 
against  this  violation  of  all  my 
natural  rights  by  wicked,  rude,  un- 
controlled white  men — they  being 
secure  from  punishment,  and  I 
hopeless  of  redress.  It  is  supposed 
that  ten  years  ago  there  were  sixty 
thousand  Indians  in  the  State  ;  to- 
day there  are  not  ten  thousand." 

Such  language  as  this,  atrocious 
as  it  must  appear  in  England  and 
Scotland,  where  we  are  not  troubled 
with  Red  Indians,  is  by  no  means 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yellow  in  America. 


317 


exceptional,  but  nearly  universal, 
at  the  present  time,  in  all  parts  of 
the  United  States  where  the  red 
man  and  the  white  man  come  to- 
gether. Statesmen  have  not  held 
this  language — members  of  Con- 
gress have  refrained  from  giving 
it  utterance  —  it  has  never  found 
its  way  into  State  papers,  or  been 
openly  avowed, — but  it  has,  never- 
theless, been  the  common  thought 
and  expression  of  all  white  men  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  ever  since  the 
discovery  and  colonisation  of  Amer- 
ica, except  among  a  small  minority 
of  Quakers  and  philanthropists.  The 
great  William  Penn  and  the  mem- 
bers of  his  amiable  sect,  from  his 
day  to  ours,  have  always  advocated 
a  policy  of  peace  with,  and  of  jus- 
tice towards,  the  Indians ;  but  their 
humane  policy  has  never  prevailed  so 
far  as  to  influence  the  actions  of  the 
Federal  Government  and  its  agents 
on  the  frontier — partly  on  account 
of  the  savage  atrocities  committed, 
often  without  provocation,  upon 
the  families  of  the  border  settlers  ; 
oartly  on  account  of  the  natural 
incompatibility  of  good  neighbour- 
ship between  a  people  exclusively 
addicted  to  the  chase,  and  needing 
^heir  aboriginal  forests  and  large 
territories  for  their  subsistence, 
and  a  people  devoted  to  commerce 
and  agriculture,  and  living  together 
in  towns  and  villages  ;  and  partly 
on  account  of  the  political  necessity, 
real  or  supposed,  that  twists  all 
laws,  divine  and  human,  to  its  own 
purposes,  that  led  the  central  Gov- 
ernment to  look  leniently  upon  the 
^arp  practices  or  the  gross  injus- 
tice of  the  border  whites,  when 
with  rum  or  brandy  they  enticed, 
or  with  bullets  and  swords  they 
drove,  the  poor  red  men  to  de- 
struction. Of  course  no  civilised 
Government,  such  as  that  of  the 
United  States  has  ever  been,  or  as 
that  of  the  British  colonies  was 
before  the  outbreak  of  the  War 
of  Independence,  ever  avowed  a 
I'olicy  of  extermination,  or  openly 
acted  upon  it.  On  the  contrary, 
the  semblance  of  good  faith  and 

VOL.  CVII.— NO.  DCLIIl. 


amity  was  always  maintained  in 
the  political  relationship  of  the 
white  race  towards  the  red.  When 
the  British  colonists  to  New  Eng- 
land that  departed  in  the  May- 
flower, and  those  under  Lord  Balti- 
more, General  Oglethorpe,  and 
others,  peopled  the  regions  farther 
south,  and  took  possession  of  the 
soil  that  belonged  to  the  aborigines, 
they  found  the  different  tribes  of 
Indians  in  possession  of  different 
portions  of  the  country  as  common 
hunting-ground  belonging  to  the 
tribe,  clan,  or  nation.  Individual 
property  in  the  soil  was  unknown, 
as  it  always  is  among  savages.  The 
British  settlers,  therefore,  could  not 
acquire  legitimate  individual  rights 
from  the  Indians,  because  the  In- 
dians, as  individuals,  possessed  no 
such  rights  themselves.  To  prevent 
frauds,  and  to  legalise  individual 
titles  after  the  European  fashion, 
the  British  Government,  at  a  very 
early  date,  prohibited  all  its  sub- 
jects from  purchasing  land  from  the 
Indians,  and  entered  into  a  treaty 
with  the  chiefs  of  the  native  tribes, 
by  which  the  latter  bound  them- 
selves, when  they  wished  to  sell 
their  hunting-grounds,  to  give  the 
right  of  pre-emption  to  the  British 
Crown.  Thus  it  became  an  estab- 
lished principle  that  the  Indians 
had  only  a  right  of  collective  pos- 
session in  their  own  lands ;  that 
they  could  not  sell  any  portion  of 
them  as  private  property  to  any  in- 
dividuals whatever ;  and  that  the 
Government  alone  had  the  privi- 
lege of  purchasing  their  right  of 
possession,  and  of  converting  the 
tenure  of  the  lands  into  fee-simple. 
After  the  Revolution,  and  the  De- 
claration of  Independence,  the  Go- 
vernment of  the  United  States 
claimed  this  right,  as  one  of  in- 
heritance from  the  British  Crown  ; 
and  their  whole  transactions  with 
the  Indians  have  been  founded  on 
it  since  that  event.  Formerly,  an 
Indian  reserve  meant  a  certain  tract 
of  land  left  in  possession  of  an  In- 
dian tribe,  on  which  no  white  man 
was  allowed  to  settle.  Not  only 
z 


318 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour;  or, 


[March 


did  the  American  Government  pro- 
hibit the  Indians  from  selling  these 
reserves  in  the  first  colonised  States 
of  the  seaboard  to  individuals, 
but  it  would  not  permit  them  even 
to  divide  their  farms  or  lots  among 
themselves,  and  convert  them  into 
freeholds.  They  were  either  to 
possess  them  in  common,  or  give 
them  up  and  remove  to  the  west. 
Furthermore,  it  refused  to  allow 
the  rights  of  American  citizenship 
to  an  Indian,  under  any  circum- 
stances. Some  of  these  stringent 
acts  of  injustice,  as  they  must  be 
called,  were  afterwards  either  abro- 
gated altogether,  or  modified  by 
consent  and  usage,  in  the  several 
States  that  formed  the  original 
thirteen  that  successfully  rebelled 
against  Great  Britain  ;  for  which 
abrogation  there  was  the  sufficient 
reason  that  the  Indians,  who  thus 
remained  in  the  heart  of  a  country 
that  every  day  became  more  and 
more  populous  with  the  dominant 
race,  were  too  few  in  number  to 
render  it  worth  while  to  act  excep- 
tionally towards  them.  It  became 
the  policy  of  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment to  encourage  the  removal  of 
the  Indians  to  the  west,  first  of 
all  to  the  prairies,  and  the  central 
regions  that  border  on  the  cis- 
Atlantic  slopes  of  the  Kocky  Moun- 
tains. It  was  a  long  time  before 
the  Indians  were  finally  expelled 
from  the  rich  and  prosperous  lands 
of  the  original  States,  now  teem- 
ing with  population,  wealth,  and 
luxury;  and  the  long"  history  of 
every  one  of  those  States  con- 
tains many  a  bloody  page,  re- 
counting the  fierce  struggles  of 
the  Indians  to  be  revenged  upon 
the  whites  who  were  dispossessing 
them  of  their  hunting-grounds,  and 
of  the  equally  fierce  struggles  of 
the  whites  to  settle  accounts  with 
the  savages  by  the  short  and  easy 
method  of  extermination.  The  Sem- 
inole  war,  carried  on  by  a  famous 
Indian,  known  to  the  journalism  of 
the  time,  and  to  history  now,  as 
Billy  Bowlegs,  taxed  the  patience 
and  the  strategy  of  the  American 


Government  for  nearly  twenty 
years,  within  living  memory ;  and 
General  Sherman — without  the  pri- 
or aid  of  whose  masterly  soldier- 
ship and  unprecedented  daring  and 
success  in  his  famous  flank-march 
through  Georgia,  General  Grant, 
the  actual  President  of  the  United 
States,  would  never  have  been  able 
to  strike  the  final  blow  against  the 
Southern  confederacy — has  been 
busily  engaged  in  keeping  the  peace 
of  the  far-western  confines  of  civil- 
isation against  the  marauding  and 
murderous  Indians  of  the  prairies. 
General  Grant,  in  his  recently  de- 
livered message  to  Congress,  aware 
from  early  professional  experience 
as  a  soldier,  and  from  later  experi- 
ence as  a  statesman,  of  the  length, 
the  cost,  and  the  cruelty  of  Indian 
wars,  expressed  his  anxiety  to  in- 
augurate a  better  system,  or  rather 
to  extend  the  old  system  of  treat- 
ing the  Indians,  by  placing  them 
in  reserves.  He  says  : — 

"The  Quakers  are  well  known  as 
having  lived  in  peace  with  Indians 
while  the  people  of  other  sects  have 
been  engaged  in  quarrels  with  them  : 
they  oppose  war,  and  deal  fairly.  The 
President  has  consequently  given  them 
the  management  of  a  few  reservations, 
with  most  satisfactory  results.  Gene- 
ral Grant  holds  that  any  system  look- 
ing to  the  extinction  of  the  Indian  race 
is  too  horrible  to  be  considered.  He 
sees  no  substitute  except  in  placing  all 
Indians  on  large  reservations  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  and  giving  them  absolute 
protection  there ;  and  adds  that  as  soon 
as  they  should  be  fitted  for  it,  they 
should  be  induced  to  take  these  lands 
severally,  and  set  up  territorial  govern- 
ments for  themselves. " 

The  attempt  is  well  meant,  and  the 
United  States  have  sufficient  terri- 
tory in  a  state  of  wilderness  to  have 
enough  and  to  spare  to  allow  the 
poor  Indian  to  try  the  experiment 
whether  he  can  be  permanently 
weaned  from  the  habits  of  the 
savage,  and  taught  to  live  as  a 
Christian,  and  a  civilised  citizen 
of  a  free  state.  The  result  of  the 
contest  is  one  of  time,  and  may 
not  be  reached  in  our  day  and 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yellow  in  A  merica. 


319 


generation,  but  it  needs  no  great 
amount  of  political  forethought  to 
predict  that  it  can  be  no  other 
than  the  extermination  of  the  In- 
dians, or  their  submission  and  re- 
moval to  the  Indian  reserves,  which 
have  been  and  are  to  be  set  apart 
for  the  tribes  by  the  Federal 
Government.  The  existing  reserve, 
bounded  on  the  south  by  Texas,  on 
the  north  by  Kansas,  on  the  east 
by  Arkansas,  and  on  the  west  by 
the  yet  unsettled  or  very  sparsely 
peopled  territory  of  New  Mexico,  is 
a  country  almost  as  large  as  Great 
Britain,  and  vastly  more  fertile. 
When  the  last  decennial  census  of 
the  United  States  was  taken  in  1860, 
the  total  Indian  population  living 
in  peace  within  its  own  limits,  and 
unmolested  by  the  whites,  was  but 
65,680,  orscarcely  one-fifth  of  the  po- 
pulation of  the  single  city  of  Boston 
in  Massachusetts.  The  total  num- 
ber of  Indians  in  other  States  and 
territories  of  the  Union  was  228,750 
— in  all,  but  294,431 ;  a  number  so 
small  as  to  be  less  than  the  popula- 
tion of  the  city  of  Brooklyn,  which 
is  a  mere  suburb  of  the  great  city  of 
New  York.  A  few  Indians  still 
linger  in  the  remoter  parts  of  the 
older  States — so  few  as  to  be  harm- 
less by  their  numbers,  and  to  be  no 
more  in  the  way  of  the  agricultural 
population  than  the  gipsies  are  in 
England — gipsies,  whom  they  very 
much  resemble  in  personal  appear- 
ance, in  predatory  habits,  and  in 
the  pretence  of  fortune-telling.  In 
the  state  of  New  York  there  were 
in  1860,  140  of  them;  in  Georgia, 
38;  in  Ohio,  30;  and  in  Massa- 
chusetts, 32.  The  census  was  taken 
prior  to  the  great  civil  war,  and 
the  consequent  abolition  of  slavery, 
and  elicited  the  somewhat  singu- 
lar fact  in  connection  with  the 
Indians  in  the  reserved  territory 
west  of  Arkansas,  that  they  had 
learned  to  imitate  their  white 
neighbours  in  the  Southern  States, 
and,  like  them,  assumed  a  supe- 
riority of  race,  by  holding  negroes 
in  slavery.  From  the  tabulated 
statement  presented  to  Congress,  it 


appeared  that  the  Choctaw  nation 
in  the  Indian  reserve  held  among 
them  no  less  than  2297  negro  slaves, 
distributed  among  385  owners; 
the  Cherokee  nation,  2504,  owned 
by  384  masters;  the  Creeks,  1661, 
owned  by  267;  and  the  Chickasaws, 
9 1 7,  owned  by  1 1 8.  The  ten  largest 
Cherokee  slave  -  owners  possessed 
each  about  64  negroes,  male  and 
female;  but  the  largest  proprietor 
was  a  Choctaw,  possessing  227.  Ac- 
cording to  Mr  Kennedy's  Prelim- 
inary Report  on  the  Census,  these 
tribes  "  presented  an  advanced  state 
of  civilisation,  and  some  of  them 
had  attained  to  a  condition  of 
wealth,  comfort,  and  refinement." 
They  formed,  however,  but  a  small 
proportion  of  the  Indian  tribes 
within  the  dominion  of  the  United 
States.  The  remainder,  with  the 
few  exceptions  of  the  straggling 
gipsy-like  hordes  that  cling  to  the 
older  States,  whence  they  are  gra- 
dually disappearing,  exist  in  a 
state  of  chronic  warfare  against 
the  white  man,  and  against  the 
civilisation  of  which  the  white 
man  is  alike  the  emblem  and  the 
agent.  They  wage  a  losing  bat- 
tle. The  farmstead  continually 
encroaches  upon  the  wilderness. 
The  man  who  works  encroaches 
upon  the  man  who  hunts  ;  and  the 
man  who  hunts,  after  a  fight  more 
or  less  vindictive  and  protracted, 
succumbs  to  inevitable  fate,  and  to 
the  right  arm  of  the  stronger  and 
the  wiser,  though,  perhaps,  by  far 
the  more  unscrupulous,  of  the  two. 
In  the  prose  of  an  American  orator, 
that  has  all  the  rhythm  and  dignity 
of  poetry,  the  Red  Man  "  slowly  and 
sadly  climbs  the  western  mountains, 
and  reads  his  doom  in  the  depart- 
ing sun."  Yet  even  here,  the  last 
hope  of  security  in  the  hunting- 
grounds  fails  them.  They  are  not 
only  pursued  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains by  the  aggressive  forces  of  over- 
peopled New  England  and  other 
Atlantic  States,  but  by  the  count- 
less swarms  of  Irish,  German,  and 
other  immigrants  from  Europe  ; 
and  if  they  cross  the  ridge,  and 


320 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour;  or, 


[March 


descend  into  the  plains  that  slope 
towards  the  Pacific,  in  California, 
Oregon,  and  Columbia,  they  find 
that  the  all-conquering  white  man 
is  there  before  them,  and  that  they 
have  an  enemy  in  front  as  fierce 
and  unrelenting  as  him  they  left 
behind.  Whatever  hope  there  is 
for  the  doomed  people  is  in  the 
reserve  appropriated  to  them  by 
the  grant  of  the  United  States. 
Thither,  if  they  will  go,  they  may 
find  rest  and  security;  but  not  even 
rest  and  security,  if  they  will  not, 
like  their  brothers  the  Choctaws, 
the  Cherokees,  and  the  Creeks, 
consent  to  cultivate  the  soil  and 
apply  themselves  to  the  useful 
arts.  A  nation  of  huntsmen  cannot 
long  remain  amid  teeming  nations 
of  farmers  and  manufacturers ; 
and  in  the  contests  that  arise 
from  their  contact  the  wild  hunts- 
man disappears,  and  the  land  re- 
mains to  him  who  will  patiently 
plough  it  and  reap  its  harvests. 
This  has  been  the  course  of 
events  in  Australia,  even  more 
rapidly  than  in  America.  This 
also  will  be,  unless  all  appear- 
ances are  deceptive,  the  course  of 
events  in  New  Zealand,  in  South 
Africa,  and  in  every  part  of  the 
globe  where  the  proud  white  man 
finds  himself  in  antagonism  of  in- 
terest with  men  of  any  other 
colour. 

The  antipathy — there  never  was 
any  real  antagonism — between  the 
white  man  and  the  black  in  Ame- 
rica was  never  so  fierce  as  that 
between  the  white  and  the  red. 
The  black  man  was  docile  and  use- 
ful, and  when  he  was  first  forcibly 
deported  into  America  from  his 
native  Africa,  he  was  brought  as 
the  lawful  spoil  of  the  wars  that 
were  incessantly  raging  among  the 
chiefs  and  petty  kings  of  his  own 
people,  and  accepted  the  doom  of 
slavery  with  as  much  unconcern  as 
he  would  have  imposed  it  had  he 
been  the  stronger  party.  It  has 
been  the  custom  among  Ameri- 
cans, and  more  especially  among 
the  bitter  Puritans  of  the  "  nigger- 


worshipping  "  party  (the  phrase  is 
native  American,  not  English),  to 
lay  all  the  fault  of  negro  slavery 
at  the  door  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment, and  to  assert  that  if  the 
American  colonists  had  originally 
been  left  to  themselves  in  this 
matter,  they  never  would  have  en- 
slaved the  negroes,  or  people  of 
any  other  colour.  But  this  asser- 
tion is  idle  and  unfounded.  Neither 
the  people  of  Great  Britain  nor  of 
the  colonies,  nor  of  France,  nor  of 
Spain,  nor  any  other  civilised  na- 
tion existing  at  the  time  when  the 
overflow  of  the  great  European 
swarm  first  settled  upon  the  fertile 
and  apparently  inexhaustible  land 
of  the  North  and  South  American 
continents,  thought  that  slavery 
was  a  sin,  or  anything  else  but 
right,  natural,  and  proper.  The  very 
Puritans  that  landed  in  the  May- 
flower deemed  slavery  to  be  a  divine 
institution,  and  enslaved  the  women 
and  children  of  the  Indians  whom 
they  overthrew  in  battle,  notwith- 
standing a  provision  in  the  famous 
Blue  Laws  of  Connecticut,  forbid- 
ding either  the  holding  or  the  sell- 
ing of  negro  slaves.  The  Spaniards 
first  imported  negro  slaves  into 
America  about  the  year  1503;  and 
by  the  year  1550,  or  thereabouts, 
the  importation  had  been  so  great 
into  the  West  India  Islands  that 
the  aboriginal  Caribs  had  wellnigh 
disappeared,  and  the  cultivation  of 
the  prolific  soil  was  almost  wholly 
conducted  by  Africans  and  a  few 
white  overseers.  Negroes  were 
first  imported  into  Virginia  in  IG19, 
and  into  Massachusetts  in  1646 — 
the  first  slave-ship  ever  fitted  out  in 
the  British  colonies  having  sailed 
from  Boston,  in  that  State.  But 
the  growth  of  the  colonies  in  those 
days  of  comparatively  difficult  and 
uncertain  intercourse  was  not  rapid, 
and  no  great  number  of  slaves  was 
required  to  till  the  narrow  slips 
of  country  on  the  Atlantic  coast, 
which  then  formed  what  long  con- 
tinued to  be  called  "  The  Planta- 
tions." Up  to  so  late  a  period  in 
the  history  of  slavery  as  the  year 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black  >  and  Yellow  in  America. 


321 


1790 — when  the  United  States  had 
long  been  in  the  enjoyment  of  their 
well-won  independence — the  num- 
ber of  slaves  in  the  Union,  both 
in  the  North  and  the  South,  only 
amounted  to  700,000.  In  the  year 
17  74,  before  their  independence  was 
secured,  the  plucky  little  republic 
of  Rhode  Island — the  smallest  in 
area,  but  by  no  means  the  smallest 
in  public  spirit  arid  intelligence,  in 
the  United  States — not  only  pro- 
hibited the  slave-trade  with  Africa, 
but  in  the  following  year  took  the 
initiative  in  emancipation,  by  enact- 
ing that  all  children  born  there- 
after of  slave  -  mothers  resident 
within  its  limits  should  be  free. 
The  contiguous  republic  of  Massa- 
chusetts abolished  both  slavery  and 
the  slave-trade  by  her  Bill  of  Rights 
in  1780.  In  the  same  year,  Penn- 
sylvania, where  the  Quaker  interest 
was  at  the  time  paramount,  did  the 
same.  Connecticut  prohibited  the 
slave-trade  in  1784,  and  declared 
that  all  children  of  slave-mothers 
born  within  its  territory  after  the 
1st  of  March  in  that  year  should 
be  free.  Virginia,  though  it  did 
not  abolish  slavery,  prohibited  the 
slave-trade  in  1778,  and  Maryland 
in  1783.  New  Hampshire  abolished 
slavery  in  1792 ;  New  York  in 
1783  ;  and  New  Jersey,  contiguous 
to  New  York,  only  in  1820.  It 
was  not  until  1808  that  the  slave- 
trade  was  finally  abolished  through- 
out the  whole  Union,  and  slavery 
itself  left  to  live  or  die  as  the 
several  States  interested  in  its  con- 
tinuance might  determine.  Great 
credit  has  invariably  been  taken 
to  themselves  by  the  New  Eng- 
land and  other  Northern  States 
which  abolished  slavery  at  this 
comparatively  early  period,  for 
the  magnanimous  spirit  and  tru- 
ly Christian  charity  which  they 
displayed  in  thus  placing  them- 
selves, as  it  were,  in  the  vanguard 
of  the  world's  progress.  But  the 
credit  is  not  altogether  due. 
Throughout  all  those  regions  the 
white  man  can  perform  every  kind 
of  agricultural  labour,  and  are  not 


disabled,  as  at  the  south,  by  the  ex- 
treme heat  of  summer,  or  the  mal- 
aria of  the  swamp  and  jungle,  and 
the  unwholesomeness  of  the  low- 
lying  alluvial  lands  best  fitted  for 
the  cultivation  of  sugar,  rice,  and 
cotton.  Negro  labour,  too — and 
more  especially  negro  slave-labour 
— it  should  be  remembered,  is  the 
most  costly  of  all  labour;  and  as 
the  white  men  in  the  cold  northern 
parts  of  the  Union  were  quite  cap- 
able of  field-work  in  all  seasons, 
and  did  it  not  only  better  but  more 
cheaply  than  the  negro,  whether  he 
were  free  or  a  slave,  negro  labour, 
especially  in  agriculture,  was  grad- 
ually dispensed  with.  And  if  the 
labour  of  the  free  negro  is  costly 
on  account  of  the  inefficiency  of  the 
labour,  that  of  the  negro  slave  is 
more  costly  still,  inasmuch  as  the 
slave-owner  is  burdened  with  his 
subsistence  during  the  non-labour- 
ing ages  of  his  life — from  birth  to 
adolescence,  and  during  the  years 
of  his  decay  and  decrepitude,  at 
whatever  age  these  calamities  may 
come  upon  him,  until  his  final  death 
and  burial.  The  New-Englanders, 
New-Yorkers,  Pennsylvanians,  and 
others  in  similar  circumstances  of 
climate  and  production,  were  not 
long  in  discovering  that  white  la- 
bour was  best,  and  that  negro  slavery 
did  not  pay.  When  fully  aware  of 
the  fact,  they  set  themselves  right 
with  nature  and  with  political  and 
social  economy.  Many  influential 
people  in  the  legislatures  of  those 
States,  or  who,  not  being  legislators, 
had  influence  enough  to  ascertain 
what  was  coming,  took  advantage 
of  the  priority  of  intelligence  to 
deport  their  able-bodied  slaves  to 
the  South  before  the  acts  of  eman- 
cipation were  passed  ;  so  that  when 
emancipation  was  publicly  decreed, 
there  were  few  negroes  left  behind 
to  be  emancipated  except  the  aged 
and  the  infirm. 

In  the  Northern  States,  after 
emancipation,  and  up  to  the  time 
of  the  great  civil  war,  the  negroes 
and  coloured  people  had  but  a  hard 
time  of  it.  They  were  men  and 


322 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour;  or, 


[March 


women,  it  is  true,  and  not  chattels. 
They  could  not  be  bought  and  sold, 
but  they  could  be  denied  political 
rights  and  social  equality,  and  they 
could  be  trodden  down  into  the 
condition  of  Pariahs.  In  some  of 
the  Northern  States  they  could  not 
serve  as  jurymen — in  none  were 
they  eligible  to  any  State  office  of 
trust  and  emolument ;  and  if  in 
some,  such  as  Massachusetts,  they 
were  allowed  the  privilege  of  a  vote, 
the  privilege  was  encumbered  by 
the  qualification  of  a  certain  amount 
of  property,  and  of  contribution  to 
the  public  burdens,  not  exacted  from 
the  whites.  They  were  not  allowed 
to  appear  in  the  theatres,  in  the 
churches,  in  the  street  omnibuses 
and  cars,  or  to  associate  on  terms 
of  equality  with  the  dominant 
race.  If  the  coloured  people  ac- 
cepted the  conditions,  they  were  not 
only  not  molested,  but  were  patron- 
ised and  encouraged  in  the  pur- 
suits to  which  they  betook  them- 
selves for  subsistence.  But  if  they 
asserted  their  social  equality  (their 
legal  equality  was  totally  out  of 
the  question),  public  opinion  came 
down  upon  them  with  relentless 
force,  and  taught  them,  by  the  judg- 
ment of  Mr  Justice  Lynch,  that 
rough-and-ready  chief  magistrate 
of  the  streets  and  the  gutters,  to 
know  their  proper  place,  and  not 
presume  either  to  laugh,  to  pray, 
to  eat  or  to  drink,  in  the  presence 
of  their  white  superiors.  Even  the 
half-breeds  or  mulattoes  were  trod- 
den into  the  same  social  inferiority 
as  the  full-blooded  negroes.  A 
short  time  before  the  civil  war,  a 
coloured  but  not  very  black  clergy- 
man, who  had  taken  the  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Divinity  at  the  University 
of  Heidelberg  —  in  default  of  the 
possibility  of  acquiring  a  diploma 
from  any  university  of  America — 
who  had  preached  in  London,  and 
been  hospitably  entertained  by  the 
Exeter  Hall  section  of  the  British 
aristocracy,  —  was  forcibly  ejected 
in  New  York  from  a  street  car, 
which  he  had  entered  on  his  return 
from  Europe.  This  gentleman  (the 


Kev.  Dr  Pendleton)  was  only  half 
a  negro,  being  the  son  of  a  white 
father ;  and  was,  moreover,  a 
shareholder  to  the  extent  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  (£2000)  in  the 
company  by  whose  cars  he  thought 
himself  entitled  to  travel — in  right 
of  his  pocket  if  not  of  his  skin — 
but  he  had  to  submit  to  expulsion 
with  what  grace  he  might,  and  try 
his  remedy,  if  he  had  any,  in  a 
court  of  law.  A  white  man  in 
America  may  look  with  admiration 
upon  a  comely  black  woman,  and 
other  white  men  will  wonder  at  the 
depravity  of  his  taste,  and  think  no 
further  of  the  matter  ;  but  if  a 
black  man,  the  civil  war  and  its 
results  notwithstanding,  dare  so 
much  as  to  ogle  a  white  girl,  he 
does  it  at  the  risk  of  his  life  if 
there  are  white  spectators  of  his 
offence,  or  if  the  aggrieved  girl 
take  her  relations  or  friends  of  her 
own  colour  into  her  confidence  to 
avenge  the  insult.  The  white  man 
who  commits  a  rape  is  tried  in  due 
form  before  the  court ;  but  the 
black  who  commits  the  same  crime, 
if  his  victim  be  a  white  woman, 
undergoes  no  trial,  but  is  hung  at 
the  nearest  lamp-post  by  the  sen- 
tence of  the  mob.  In  the  Western 
States,  when  white  women  are  so 
treasonable  to  their  colour  as  to 
marry  black  men,  however  respect- 
able or  wealthy  their  husbands 
may  be,  the  ban  and  the  anathema 
of  the  white  race  are  upon  them — 
happy  if  they  escape  insult  as  they 
pass  along  the  streets,  and  most 
commonly  hooted  out  of  society, 
and  expelled  from  the  city  or  the 
State  which  they  are  thought  to 
have  contaminated. 

In  the  Northern  States  the  ne- 
groes have  not  only  had  to  struggle 
against  the  hardships  of  the  so- 
cial inferiority  imposed  upon  them, 
but  against  a  climate  which  is 
not  favourable  to  the  health  and 
fecundity  of  their  race.  During 
the  seventy  years  from  1790  to 
1860,  the  number  of  free  coloured 
people  in  all  the  States,  North 
and  South,  rose  from  59,466  to 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yellow  in  America. 


323 


432,123,  partly  by  natural  increase, 
and  partly  by  the  emancipation  of 
the  slaves  in  the  North  and  West. 
In  later  years,  and  until  the  re- 
sults of  the  civil  war  had  set  the 
coloured  people  free,  the  increase 
of  the  free  negroes,  not  being 
aided  by  emancipation,  and  only 
by  such  chance  fugitives  as  escaped 
from  the  South,  was  exceedingly 
slow,  and  in  some  States  there  was 
either  no  increase  or  a  positive 
diminution,  in  consequence  of  the 
deaths  exceeding  the  births  in 
number.  Upon  this  point  Mr 
Kennedy,  in  his  Preliminary  Re- 
port on  the  Census  of  1860,  says  : — 
r  "In  the  interval  from  1850  to  1860, 
the  total  free  coloured  population  of  the 
United  States  increased  from  434,449 
to  488,005,  or  at  the  rate  of  12.33  per 
cent  in  ten  years,  showing  an  annual 
increase  of  one  per  cent.  This  result 
includes  the  number  of  slaves  liberated 
and  those  who  have  escaped  from  their 
owners,  together  with  the  natural  in- 
crease. In  the  same  decade  the  slave 
population,  omitting  those  of  the  In- 
dian tribes  west  of  Arkansas,  increased 
23. 39  per  cent ;  and  the  white  popula- 
tion 37.97  per  cent,  which  rates  exceed 
that  of  the  free  coloured  by  twofold  and 
threefold  or  fourfold  respectively.  In- 
versely, these  comparisons  imply  an  ex- 
cessive mortality  among  the  free  col- 
oured, which  is  particularly  evident  in 
the  large  cities.  Thus,  in  Boston,  dur- 
ing the  five  years  ending  with  1859,  the 
city  registrar  observes  :  '  The  number  of 
coloured  births  was  one  less  than  the 
number  of  marriages,  and  the  deaths 
exceeded  the  births  in  the  proportion  of 
nearly  two  to  one.'  In  Providence, 
wh-:re  a  very  correct  registry  has  been 
in  operation,  under  the  superintendence 
of  Dr  Snow,  the  deaths  are  one  in 
twenty-four  of  the  coloured ;  and  in 
Philadelphia,  during  the  last  six  months 
of  the  census  year,  the  new  city  regis- 
tration gives  148  births  against  306 
deaths  among  the  free  coloured.  Tak- 
ing town  and  country  together,  how- 
ever, the  results  are  more  favourable. 
In  the  State  registries  of  Rhode  Island 
and  Connecticut,  where  the  distinction 
of  colour  has  been  specified,  the  yearly 
deaths  of  the  blacks  and  mulattoes  have 
generally,  though  not  uniformly,  ex- 
ceeded the  yearly  births, — a  high  rate 
of  mortality,  chiefly  ascribed*  to  con- 
sumption and  other  diseases  of  the  re- 
spiratory system." 


In  the  South — where  the  climate 
agreed  with  the  negro  constitution, 
and  where,  as  slaves,  they  were 
well  fed,  even  if  severely  worked — 
the  race  increased  very  rapidly. 
From  the  year  1810  —  two  years 
after  the  foreign  slave  trade  had 
been  abolished,  and  there  were  no 
further  importations  from  Africa 
to  the  year  1860  —  the  negroes 
in  slavery  had  increased  from 
1,191,364  to  3,953,587,  or  to  near- 
ly four  millions.  In  the  South, 
during  all  these  years,  there  was 
neither  antipathy  nor  antagonism 
between  the  white  race  and  the 
black.  The  negroes  conceded  their 
social,  their  legal,  and  their  human 
inferiority,  and  there  was  not  only 
peace,  but  a  certain  amount  of 
friendship  and  regard  between 
them  and  their  masters.  But  if 
an  individual  negro  asserted  his 
equality,  war  broke  out  immedi- 
ately, and  the  weaker — as  is  the  ne- 
cessity of  this  physical  world — went 
to  the  wall.  As  regards  the  female 
negroes  and  the  aged  of  both  sexes, 
there  was  throughout  the  whole  of 
the  Southern  slaveholding  States  a 
degree  of  affection  exhibited  by  the 
white  towards  the  black  such  as 
is  seldom  or  never  seen  in  white 
households,  where  the  servants  are 
of  the  same  colour  as  their  masters 
and  mistresses.  The  black  nurse  who 
had  attended  upon  young  "master ;' 
or  young  "  missus  "  in  infancy  and 
childhood,  has  commonly  become 
the  absolute  ruler  of  both  young 
master  and  young  missus  when 
they  had  arrived  at  maturity,  and 
gave  the  law,  like  to  that  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians,  in  all  matters 
pertaining  to  their  health  and  com- 
fort when  at  home.  The  sway  or 
the  tyranny  was  that  of  affection, 
and  its  burden  was  light,  and  was 
accepted,  partly  with  a  sense  of 
amusement,  but  in  a  far  greater 
degree  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  to 
the  kindly  creatures  whom  not 
even  slavery  itself  could  divest  of 
some  of  the  noblest  attributes  of 
humanity.  How  long  the  institu- 
tion of  slavery  could  have  main- 


324 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour;  or, 


[March 


tained  itself,  or  been  maintained, 
by  brute  force  in  the  United 
States,  if  the  civil  war  had  not 
intervened,  and  cut  the  Gordian 
knot  of  a  problem  that  seemed  at 
one  time  to  defy  all  peaceable 
solution,  none  can  now  tell ;  though 
there  is  great  reason  to  believe  that 
the  Southern  States,  if  they  had 
been  left  to  themselves  to  deal  with 
the  slave  question  as  the  Northern 
States  had  dealt  with  it,  by  their 
own  action,  and  at  their  own  time, 
would  have  inaugurated  a  system  of 
gradual  emancipation,  to  take  effect 
before  the  slaves  became  too  many, 
and  consequently  too  costly,  to  be 
maintained  on  the  old  and  extra- 
vagant footing.  So  little  did  the 
North  and  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment under  Mr  Lincoln  imagine 
for  many  months  after  the  out- 
break of  the  civil  war  that  it  was 
possible  or  desirable  to  emancipate 
the  slaves  at  one  blow,  that  Mr 
Lincoln  in  18G2,  when  the  war  had 
almost  reached  its  utmost  range, 
and  its  most  intense  bitterness, 
proposed  for  the  adoption  of  Con- 
gress a  resolution  amendatory  of 
the  Constitution,  with  the  object 
of  procuring  the  gradual  and  com- 
pensated abolition  of  slavery  on  or 
before  the  1st  of  January  1900. 
The  progress  of  time  and  the  for- 
tune of  war  decided  against  the 
consideration  of  Mr  Lincoln's  far- 
sighted  policy ;  and  when  at  last  he 
launched  his  "  Bull,"  as  he  himself 
called  it,  against  slavery,  and  de- 
creed, by  the  authority  of  the 
United  States,  that  all  slaves  with-' 
in  its  States  and  territories  should 
thenceforth  and  for  ever  after  be 
free,  he  did  this,  not  from  motives 
of  philanthropy  or  Christianity,  or 
overpowering  hatred  of  slavery  as 
an  institution,  other  than  an  agres- 
sive  one,  that  threatened  to  invade 
the  North,  but  solely  as  a  war 
measure,  and  on  the  ground,  often 
taken  in  minor  matters  by  meaner 
persons,  that  all  is  fair  in  love  and 
war.  The  expectation  was,  that 
the  negroes  would  rise  in  insurrec- 
tion against  their  masters  as  soon 


as  the  glorious  gift  of  freedom 
was  offered  to  them  as  the  recom- 
pense of  their  valour.  But  the 
negroes  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 
They  had  neither  the  spirit  nor  the 
wish  to  set  themselves  against  their 
masters,  and  had  learned,  from  such 
public  opinion  existent  among  the 
whites  as  found  utterance  among 
them,  to  dislike  the  Northerners, 
or  "  the  Yankees,"  quite  as  much 
as  their  owners.  During  the  war, 
numbers  of  mulattoes,  who  had  more 
enterprise  and  intelligence  than 
their  unmixed  brothers  of  the  pure 
black  race,  acted  as  spies  and  as 
guides  to  the  Northern  armies ; 
but  as  such  the  full-blooded  ne- 
groes kept  aloof,  or  if  they  ex- 
pressed and  felt  any  sympathy,  it 
was  for  their  masters,  whom  they 
considered  to  be  wrongfully  in- 
vaded. Both  parties  to  the  quarrel 
misunderstood  the  negro.  The 
North  overvalued  his  assistance, 
and  the'South  underrated  it.  But 
the  mistake  made  by  the  South 
was  the  greatest  of  all.  In  the 
pride  of  their  white  blood,  the 
Southern  people  scorned  to  owe 
their  independence  to  the  hands  of 
their  bondsmen,  though  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  if  they  had 
taken  the  negroes  into  their  con- 
fidence, and  promised  every  black 
soldier  who  joined  the  Confederate 
army,  and  served  faithfully  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  war,  his  freedom, 
together  with  that  of  his  wife  and 
family,  they  would  have  had  an 
efficient  black  army,  that  might 
have  been  led  to  many  a  victory  by 
white  generals,  and  numbered  as 
many  fighting  men  as  the  North 
secured  among  the  Irish  and  the 
Germans  by  the  bribe  of  bounty- 
money.  But  on  this  point  the 
Southern  leaders  were  obstinate, 
and  their  obstinacy  was  fatal — an 
obstinacy  all  the  more  remarkable 
in  view  of  the  undoubted  fact  that, 
had  the  South  proclaimed  even  the 
partial  emancipation  of  the  negro 
race,  the  sympathy  of  the  anti- 
slavery  party  in  England  and 
France,  that  ran  so  strongly  for 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yellow  in  America. 


325 


the  Northern  cause,  would  have 
sensibly  .diminished;  and  the  last 
great  argument  against  the  recog- 
nition of  the  Confederacy  as  a  con- 
federacy of  which  slavery  was  the 
corner-stone,  would  have  ceased  to 
be  of  any  weight  in  the  councils  of 
civilisation. 

The  "freedmen"  or  the  "coloured 
citizens,"  as  the  former  slaves  in  the 
Southern  States  are  sometimes  call- 
ed, have  now  for  four  years  been 
face  to  face  with  their  old  masters, 
an  d  some  of  them — principally,  how- 
ever, among  the  mulattoes — have 
been  elected  by  universal  suffrage 
to  political  and  other  offices  of 
trust  and  emolument.  Though 
miny  of  these  have  expressed  a 
willingness  to  work  for  wages,  it 
still  remains  a  question  for  the 
future  to  decide  on  what  terms  the 
two  races  of  white  and  black  will 
consent  to  dwell  together.  The 
negro  is  no  longer  a  contented 
man.  He  is  a  free  citizen,  it  is 
true — free  to  starve  if  he  chooses, 
and  free  also  to  assert  and  claim 
a  legal  equality  with  the  man 
who  formerly  owned  him.  But 
if  he  be  free  to  assert  his  social 
equality,  he  is  not  free  to  enforce 
it ;  for  no  laws  that  any  legislature 
can  frame,  or  any  judge  decree,  can 
regulate  the  social  intercourse  of 
society,  or  compel  a  white  man  to 
associate  on  friendly  terms  with  a 
negro,  or  admit  him  to  the  hos- 
pitalities of  his  table  and  his 
family  circle.  And  equality  does 
net  now,  and  never  did,  exist  at 
the  North,  and  will  never  be  toler- 
ated either  at  the  North  or  the 
South.  There  are  already  symp- 
toms that  the  Southern  negroes  are 
quite  aware  of  the  fact,  and  par- 
tially, if  not  wholly,  reconciled  to 
it,  as  one  that  exists  in  white  hu- 
man nature,  and  against  which  it  is 
useless,  and  might  be  suicidal,  for 
black  human  nature  to  rebel.  They 
see  that  their  only  chance  of  being 
allowed  to  live  in  peace  among  the 
whites  lies  in  the  subordination  to 
the  race  that  deems  itself  superior, 
and  will  manifest  its  superiority 


socially  if  not  legally.  Hitherto 
the  Northern  emissaries  and  func- 
tionaries who  have  nocked  into  the 
South  on  the  chances  of  making 
fortunes,  bearing  with  them  the  car- 
pet-bags containing  their  whole  avail- 
able property  (hence  their  popular 
name  of  "carpet-baggers"),  have  for 
political  purposes  endeavoured,  and 
often  successfully,  to  humble  the 
white  man,  and  teach  the  black  to 
assume  the  airs  of  social  equality. 
The  result  has  been  anything  but 
favourable  to  the  permanent  amity 
of  the  two  races.  But  time,  that 
smooths  away  so  many  roughnesses, 
will  doubtless  soften  the  hostility 
of  the  carpet-baggers  if  they  remain 
in  the  South,  and  desire  to  associate 
with  people  of  their  own  colour. 
They  will  become  imbued,  nolens  vo- 
lens,  with  the  opinions  of  the  society 
around  them — a  society  in  which  the 
ladies,  there  as  in  all  other  civilised 
portions  of  the  earth,  reign  unchal- 
lenged and  supreme.  The  great 
danger,  however,  that  most  besets 
the  negro  race  lies  in  those  portions 
of  the  South — and  they  are  extensive 
as  well  as  productive — in  which  the 
climate  offers  no  obstacle  to  the 
employment  of  white  men  in  agri- 
cultural labour.  In  those  regions 
white  competition  will  ultimately 
become  too  strong  for  them  ;  and 
if  the  negroes  are  too  numerous 
to  procure  work  or  to  be  main- 
tained as  paupers  at  the  expense  of 
the  community,  they  will  inevitably 
be  compelled  to  emigrate  to  more 
favourable  regions,  or  be  reduced 
to  perish  of  famine  and  the  dis- 
eases which  accompany  it.  Free- 
dom as  yet  has  proved  but  a  poor 
boon  to  the  great  bulk  of  the 
negroes ;  and  Americans,  both  of 
the  North  and  the  South,  who  have 
devoted  attention  to  the  subject,  are 
of  opinion  that  the  census  returns 
of  the  decennial  period  from  ISfiO  to 
1870  will  show,  so  far  as  the  whole 
Union  is  concerned,  a  great  diminu- 
tion of  the  negro  race  as  compared 
with  the  previous  period  from  1850 
to  i860 — and  in  the  South,  more 
particularly,  a  diminution  of  at  least 


326 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour  ;  or, 


[March 


a  million.  Small-pox,  overcrowding, 
intemperance,  and  hopeless  poverty 
have  been  at  work  among  them 
since  the  pen  of  Mr  Lincoln  and 
the  fortunes  of  war  made  them  mas- 
ters of  their  own  destiny ;  and 
child-murder,  a  crime  utterly  un- 
known and  without  motive  among 
the  mothers  in  the  days  of  slavery, 
has  so  greatly  increased  as  to  have 
attracted  the  notice  of  the  whole 
Southern  people. 

The  time  seems  to  be  coming 
when  the  great  and  rich  republic 
of  the  United  States  will  have  to 
bethink  itself  whether  it  has  done 
its  whole  duty  by  the  black  man 
in  giving  him  liberty  and  a  vote ; 
and  whether  the  negroes,  like  the 
Red  Indians,  might  not  advantage- 
ously be  set  apart  in  reserves,  to 
govern  themselves,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Federal  Government. 
The  sea-islands  on  the  low  alluvial 
coasts  of  the  Atlantic  between  Vir- 
ginia and  Florida,  which  yield  the 
finest  long-staple  cotton  in  the  world, 
but  are  wholly  uninhabitable  by  the 
white  people  during  the  summer 
months,  are  particularly  well  ad- 
apted for  settlement  and  cultivation 
by  the  negroes.  The  malaria  that 
is  fatal  to  the  Caucasian  has  no 
effect  upon  the  African  ;  and  these 
islands,  if  parcelled  out  in  cotton 
plantations  among  negro  proprie- 
tors, after  compensation  to  present 
owners  unable  to  reside  in  them 
except  during  the  short  winter, 
might  maintain  a  very  large  pro- 
portion of  the  now  aimless,  desti- 
tute, almost  helpless  freedmen,  who 
swarm  in  every  great  city  between 
Wa'shington  and  New  Orleans. 
Texas,  a  State  as  large  as  France — 
with  a  population  of  somewhat  less 
than  half  a  million  by  the  census 
of  1860,  and  that  possibly  will  be 
found  to  contain  three-quarters  of 
a  million  by  the  census  of  1870— 
might  be  divided  into  three  or 
four  States  of  the  Union,  of  which 


one  might  be  set  apart  as  a  reserve, 
on  which  the  negroes,  under  the 
most  favourable  auspices,  might 
prove  to  the  world,  if  the  fact  be 
possible,  that  they  are  as  fairly 
amenable  to  all  the  influences  of 
civilisation  as  the  Caucasians.  It 
is  evident  that,  as  a  labourer,  the 
free  negro  is  not  in  much  request 
at  the  South,  on  the  three  grounds 
that  his  labour  is  unskilful,  uncer- 
tain, and  costly.  Indolence — resig- 
nation to  the  dolce  far  niente — con- 
tentedness  with  a  merely  animal  ex- 
istence— thoughtlessness  and  heed- 
lessness  of  the  morrow,  and  all  that 
it  may  bring  forth — and  the  want 
of  guidance  and  direction,  are  the 
faults  of  the  negro  character  ;  and, 
worse  than  all,  they  are  faults  so 
deeply  engrained  as  to  appear  all 
but  ineradicable.  A  race  like  this 
is  not  well  suited — leaving  colour 
out  of  the  question — to  the  require- 
ments of  the  United  States.  Ame- 
rica, and  all  those  portions  of  it 
that  are  not  possessed  by  the 
Spaniards,  and  the  mixed  race  of 
Spaniards  and  Indians  that  encum- 
ber Mexico  and  the  beautiful  re- 
gions still  farther  south,  is  pre- 
eminently the  land  of  hard  work. 
No  people,  not  even  the  British, 
labour  so  hard  as  the  Americans ; 
and  for  the  idle  man — black,  white, 
red,  or  yellow — there  is  neither 
room  nor  tolerance.  The  popular 
saying,  "  Root,  hog  —  or  die  !  " 
tersely,  if  roughly,  expresses  the 
American  feeling,  that  he  who  will 
not  work  cannot  be  allowed  to  live ; 
and  if  the  chronic  laziness  of  the 
negroes,  unspurred  to  exertion  by 
the  strong  hand  of  authority  that 
formerly  kept  them  in  accord  with 
the  civilisation  around  them,  causes 
their  degeneration  into  hopeless 
pauperism — the  antagonism  be- 
tween the  industrious  whites  and 
the  idle  blacks  will  take  a  severer 
form  than  it  has  ever  yet  assumed 
in  American  history.* 


*  The  religious  negroes,  and  negroes  pretending  to  be  religious,  but  who  are  far 
more  pagan  than  either  they  or  their  Northern  friends  imagine,  sometimes  assume 
a  superiority  to  the  white  race.  One  of  their  hymns  reaches  us,  as  we  write,  from 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Blade,  and  Yellow  in  America. 


327 


The  short  and  as  yet  unfavourable 
trial  that  has  been  made  of  the  freed 
negro  as  a  labourer  since  the  re- 
turn of  peace,  has  led  the  Southern 
planters,  or  such  of  them  as  have  not 
been  utterly  ruined  by  the  war,  to 
turn  their  attention  to  the  importa- 
tion of  coolie-labour — a  fact  of  itself 
sufficient  to  show  how  precarious 
and  unsatisfactory  is  the  position 
of  the  African  race,  and  to  impress 
upon  the  minds  of  the  leading 
statesmen  of  the  Union  the  neces- 
sity of  looking  at  the  negro  ques- 
tion fully  and  fairly.  Liberty,  no 
doubt,  is  sweet,  alike  to  the  white 
and  the  black ;  but  possibly  the 
poor  blacks,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  and  their  numbers  dwin- 
dle and  dwine  upon  the  teeming 
soil  which  they  were  once  com- 
pelled to  cultivate,  with  rich  plenty 
as  their  reward,  may  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  life  itself  is  some- 
thing even  sweeter  than  liberty  ; 
and  that  the  paternal  government 
which  gave  them  the  one  boon, 
ought  at  least  to  provide  them 
with  the  means  of  maintaining  the 
other.  This  problem,  difficult  as  it 
may  be,  ought  not  to  prove  insolu- 
ble to  a  people  with  such  immense 
territorial  resources  as  the  United 
States,  and  with  such  a  character  for 
philanthropy  to  lose  as  the  Federal 
Government  acquired  by  its  aboli- 
tion of  slavery.  The  great  impedi- 
ment in  the  way,  at  least  for  the  pre- 
sent, lies  in  the  political  necessities 
of  the  party  that  elected  Mr  Lincoln 
to  the  chief  magistracy — that  car- 
ried on  the  fratricidal  war  to  its 


bitter  end — that  placed  General 
Grant  in  Mr  Lincoln's  chair — and  , 
that  still  aspires  to  rule  the  Union. 
To  this  party  the  negro  vote  in  the 
Southern  States  is  absolutely  essen- 
tial for  the  maintenance  of  its  ma- 
jority in  the  Federal  Legislature; 
and  it  will,  therefore,  not  very  wil- 
lingly inaugurate  or  even  support 
a  project  for  the  deportation  of  so 
many  useful  pawns  on  the  political 
chessboard  to  any  single  territory, 
where  their  votes,  instead  of  being 
spread  over  eleven  States,  would  be 
concentred  into  one.  But  as  the 
problem, though  a  political  one  now, 
may  become  a  social  one  hereafter, 
and  as  the  negroes  themselves  may 
possibly  be  induced  to  record  their 
votes  for  the  opposing  party,  that 
would  give  them  bread  rather  than 
a  stone,  it  is  not  impossible  that 
the  Government  of  the  United 
States  may,  at  some  future  time, 
be  induced,  by  motives  of  humanity 
and  true  statesmanship  —  higher 
than  party  laws  or  necessity — to  do 
for  the  imported  African  and  his 
descendants  what  it  has  already 
commenced  to  do  for  such  poor  rem- 
nants of  the  aboriginal  Americans 
as  have  not  been,  in  Yankee  par- 
lance, "  improved  off  the  face  of 
the  earth  "  by  the  European  races. 
The  great  social  want  of  the  Unit- 
ed States  has  always  been,  as  it 
still  is,  a  supply  of  good  domestic 
servants.  Under  the  system  of 
negro  slavery,  the  Southern  people 
had  the  best  servants  in  the  world, 
— servants  who  knew  their  work 
and  their  position  —  who  had  no 


South  Carolina.     The  following  stanzas  will  show  what  they  think  of  themselves 
quoad  the  next  world  : — 

"  We's  be  nearer  to  the  Lard 

Den  de  white  folkes,  and  dey  know  it  ; 

See  de  glory-gate  onbarred — 

Walk  in,  darkeys,  past  de  guard  ! 

Bet  yer  a  dollar  He  wont  close  it ! 
"  Walk  in,  darkeys,  troo  de  gate  ; 

Hark,  de  kullered  angels  holler  : 

Go  'way,  white  folkes,  you're  too  late  ! 

We's  de  winning  kuller  !    Wait 

Till  de  trumpet  blows  to  foller  ! 
"  Halleloojah  !  tanks  to  praise  ! 

Long  enuff  we've  bonie  our  crosses  ; 

Now  we's  de  sooperior  race, 

And,  wid  Gorramighty's  grace, 

We's  going  to  hebben  afore  de  bosses  !  " 


328 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour;  or, 


[March 


desire  to  ape  the  dress  and  behav- 
iour of  their  masters  and  mistresses 
— who  were  not  liable  to  be  dis- 
charged from  service  for  petty  faults, 
or  on  any  ordinary  provocation — 
who  lived  in  their  masters'  houses 
all  their  lives,  and  reckoned  them- 
selves, as  far  as  affection  went,  a 
part,  though  a  humble  one,  of  the 
family.       In    the    Northern    and 
Western  States  no  service  of  this 
kind  was  to  be  had.     The  native- 
born  white  American  scorned  do- 
mestic  service,   and  neither  man 
nor  woman  of  that  haughty  breed 
would  enter  into  it,  though  they 
would  cheerfully  undertake  trade 
service  as  assistants  in  farms,  shops 
or  stores,  or  as  mill-workers.     Do- 
mestic service  was  thus  left  mainly 
to   the  free  negroes    and  to   the 
immigrant  Irish,  neither  of  whom 
had  any  scruples  in  earning  an  hon- 
est penny  by  labour  that  an  Ameri- 
can born  considered  to  be  beneath 
his  dignity.     But  the  service,  whe- 
ther negro  or  Irish,  was  not  plea- 
sant to  the  employer.     The  Irish 
and  the  negroes  would  not  work  or 
associate  together,  so  that  the  mas- 
ter, or  "  boss  " — for  the  word  mas- 
ter was  held  to  be  offensive  in  the 
free  North  by  the  free  negroes  as 
well  as  by  the  Irish,  and  was  never 
employed— had  to  choose  of  which 
colour  he  would  compose  his  house- 
hold attendants,  and  confine  him- 
self to  it.     There  was  but  little  dif- 
ference between  them.     The  Irish 
were  generally  very  ignorant,  and 
when  they  ceased  to  be   ignorant 
they  mostly  became  impertinent, 
and  assumed  airs  of  social  equality 
which  the  people  they  were  paid  to 
wait  upon  could  not  brook.     The 
negroes,  too,  were  far  from  docile, 
and  when  smitten  overmuch  with 
the  laziness  inherent  in  their  char- 
acters, could  not  be  induced  to  work 
by   the   commands    or    entreaties 
which  would  have  been  imperative 
or  irresistible  with  the  same  class 
of  people  at  the  South.  The  horrors 
of  housekeeping  in.  the  great  cities 
became  in  consequence  something 


too  great  for  delicate  or  fashionable 
ladies   to   encounter,  and  married 
people  of  moderate  means  were  only 
too  happy  to  escape  from  the  annoy- 
ance and  trouble  by  living  in  hotels 
and  boarding-houses,  where  the  ser- 
vants, black  and  Irish,  were  under 
the  control  of  people  whose  trade 
and  business  in  life  it  was  to  govern 
and  make  the  best  of  them.     Of 
late  years,  however,  a  new  race  has 
introduced  itself  into  America,  to 
the  great  advantage  of  every  com- 
munity in  which  it  has  established 
itself  —  a  race  which  promises  to 
supply  domestic  servants  far  defter 
and  more  handy  than  the  South- 
ern   slaves,   and  that  gives  itself 
no  airs  of  social  or  political  equal- 
ity to  make  its  service  repulsive. 
The   discovery    of    gold    in    Cali- 
fornia first  led  the  teeming  popula- 
tion of  China  to  try  their  fortunes 
as  immigrants  into  the  new  land 
of  promise,  and   ever   since    that 
time  there   has  been    a    constant 
and  daily-increasing  influx  of  this 
people  into  the   North  American 
continent.     On  the  first  arrival  of 
the  yellow  race  in  San  Francisco, 
the  antagonism  and  antipathy  of 
the  vulgar  whites  were  furiously  ex- 
cited against  them.    They  were  sub- 
jected to  every  kind  of  indignity 
and  insult.     They  were  robbed,  as- 
saulted, and  sometimes  murdered ; 
and  if  the  murder  were  committed 
without  white  witnesses,  there  was 
no  punishment  for  the  murderer, 
because  the  evidence  of  the  yellow 
men  was  not  admissible  in  a  court 
of   justice,    and    the  murder    re- 
mained unproved  for  lack  of  com- 
petent evidence.     The  poor  China- 
men, industrious,  frugal,  abstemi- 
ous, ingenious,  indefatigable,  and 
peaceable  as  they  were,  seemed  to 
excite  the  animosity  of  the  lower 
order  of  whites,  firstly  on  account 
of  their  colour,  and  secondly,  per- 
haps  mainly,   because  they   could 
live   and  thrive  where  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  Celt  would  starve,  and 
because,  as  a  consequence,  their  com- 
petition tended  to  keep  down  the 


1870.] 


White,  Red,  Black,  and  Yellow  in  America. 


329 


rate  of  wages.  The  atrocities  com- 
mitted on  this  deserving  people  at 
]ast  became  so  serious  and  so  scan- 
dalous, that  the  upper  order  of  in- 
telligent white  men  resolved  to 
"  abate  the  nuisance."  They  have 
a  way  of  doing  such  things  in  Ame- 
rica which  is  apt  to  be  very  effec- 
tive when  fairly  and  earnestly  en- 
tered into;  and  the  "Society  for 
the  Protection  of  the  Chinese  Im- 
migrants/' established  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, very  speedily  assumed  such 
proportions  as  convinced  the  roughs, 
rowdies, and  blackguards  of  Europe, 
who  had  congregated  in  California, 
that  it  would  be  their  wisest  pol- 
icy to  leave  the  Chinamen  alone. 
Street  quarrels  between  the  Asiat- 
ics and  the  Europeans  sometimes 
occur  even  now,  in  which  the 
]  rish  are  for  the  most  part  the  ag- 
gressors ;  but  the  yellow  men,  with 
the  real  and  intelligent  public  opin- 
ion of  the  place  to  back  them,  man- 
age not  only  to  hold  their  own,. but 
to  put  their  brutal  assailants  so 
wholly  in  the  wrong  as  to  convince 
them  that  the  sooner  they  reconcile 
themselves  to  the  fact  that  the 
Asiatics  are  welcome,  and  will  be 
supported  by  the  law,  the  better  for 
their  own  security  and  comfort. 
The  yellow  men,  as  labourers,  are 
in  the  majority  in  California,  and 
the  disaffected  Irish  and  low  Eng- 
lish in  that  State  will  have  to  suc- 
cumb, as  is  the  practice  and  the  law 
in  a  republic,  where  the  minority 
has  to  keep  the  subordinate  place 
until  such  time  as,  by  legal  means 
and  the  progress  of  opinion,  it  can 
grow  into  a  majority. 

An  Irishman  or  an  Englishman, 
especially  if  he  come  direct  from 
Europe,  has  a  long  and  a  costly  road 
to  travel  before  he  can  reach  the 
Golden  City;  whereas,  for  the  Chin- 
ese, the  way  is  comparatively  short, 
and  costs  as  little  as  a  steerage  pas- 
page  from  Liverpool  to  New  York. 
There  is  every  inducement  for  the 
Chinaman  to  leave  his  over-crowd- 
ed native  country,  and  settle,  tem- 
porarily or  permanently,  in  that 


other  flowery  land  which  woos 
him  across  the  Pacific  ;  and  there 
is  also  every  inducement  for  his 
own  countrymen,  already  settled 
and  prospering  in  America,  to  or- 
ganise means  for  bringing  him  over 
and  paying  his  passage  on  the  secu- 
rity of  his  future  earnings.  Pay  the 
passage  of  a  European  to  any  part 
of  America  on  the  like  security,  and 
the  probability  is  that  the  European 
will  disappear  in  the  whirl  and 
vortex  and  be  no  more  heard  of,  as 
a  debtor.  But  with  the  yellow 
men  the  case  is  different.  They 
keep  faith.  Wherever  they  may  go, 
and  into  whatever  districts  they 
may  spread  themselves  in  search 
of  bread  and  the  modest  fortune 
that  suffices  them,  they  honour- 
ably report  themselves  to  the 
agency  that  speculated  upon  them, 
and  never  fail  to  pay  back  the 
full  amount,  with  interest,  of  the 
expenses  incurred  to  bring  them 
from  the  Chinese  shores  to  those 
of  California.  They  have,  too,  the 
immense  advantage  over  the  Irish 
immigration,  of  being  skilled  la- 
bourers. They  can  not  only  till 
the  soil,  cut  down  the  forest-trees, 
and  do  hard  porter's  work,  and  the 
work  of  navvies,  but  they  can 
perform  the  most  delicate  manip- 
ulations of  artificial  work.  They 
are  jewellers,  tailors,  shoemakers, 
basketmakers,  cabinetmakers,  ma- 
sons, gardeners,  florists,  vine-dress- 
ers, cigar  -  makers,  lucifer- match 
makers,  and  first-rate  getters-up  of 
fine  linen,  as  well  as  the  cleanliest, 
most  economical,  and  most  skilful 
of  cooks  and  waiters.  So  highly 
are  they  esteemed  in  every  capacity 
to  which  they  please  to  devote 
themselves,  and  so  free  are  they 
from  the  vices  most  disagreeable 
in  the  Irish  and  the  negroes,  when 
they  act  as  domestic  servants,  that 
a  considerable  demand  has  arisen 
for  their  services  in  the  western 
and  middle,  as  well  as  in  the  cities 
of  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  Under 
the  new  regime  inaugurated  by  the 
civil  war,  and  as  its  only  result, 


330 


The  Antagonism  of  Race  and  Colour. 


[March 


except  the  union  of  the  States — the 
imperative  law  imposed  upon  all 
the  States,  that  no  man  otherwise 
eligible  to  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges of  citizenship  shall  be  ex- 
cluded from  the  enjoyment  of  those 
rights  and  privileges  by  reason  of 
his  race  or  colour — it  is  probable, 
now  that  the  first  shock  of  ethno- 
logical antagonism  has  broken  and 
been  softened  in  California,  that 
no  serious,  if  any,  difficulties  will 
arise  between  the  men  of  European 
and  of  Asiatic  blood.  The  Federal 
Government  has  solemnly  bound 
itself  to  that  of  China  by  the  treaty 
concluded  with  Mr  Burlingame, 
to  do  the  same  impartial  justice 
to  the  Chinese  in  America  as  the 
Americans  in  China  expect  to  re- 
ceive at  the  hands  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  Pekin.  The  question  of 
the  suffrage  will  not  be  a  difficult 
one,  even  if  it  should  arise.  The 
Chinese  in  America  are  birds  of 
passage  only.  They  take  no  in- 
terest either  in  the  politics  or  the 
religion  of  the  new  land  to  which 
they  have  transferred  their  ener- 
gies, and  their  only  desire  in  visit- 
ing it  is  to  remain  a  few  years, 
make  money,  and  go  home  to  die 
among  their  own  people.  When  a 
Chinaman  dies  in  America,  he  is 
not  buried  there,  for  his  friends, 
however  poor,  manage,  as  a  sacred 
duty,  to  transport  his  remains  to 
his  own  land,  that  the  dearest  wish 
of  all  Chinamen  may  be  realised, 
and  that  his  bones  may  rest  among 
the  bones  of  his  ancestors.  This 
is  not  merely  custom,  but  religion, 
and  it  helps  to  remove  from  the 
minds  of  the  native  Americans  any 
fear  that  the  Chinese  immigration, 
however  multitudinous,  will  act  as 
a  disturbing  force  in  American 
politics.  It  is  estimated  that  there 
are  about  65,000  Chinamen  now  in 


California,  and  upwards  of  90,000 
in  the  adjoining  States  and  terri- 
tories on  the  Pacific. 

The  question  of  the  importation 
of  coolies  to  replace  the  negroes  in 
the  cotton,  rice,  and  sugar  planta- 
tions, is  a  social  one,  into  which  the 
antipathies  and  antagonism  of  race 
do  not  enter.  If  the  Southern 
planters  prefer  coolies  to  negroes, 
and  can  induce  the  coolies  to  serve 
them,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
the  bargain  between  the  two  from 
being  completed,  subject  to  the 
supervision  of  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment, that  cannot  suffer  slavery  in 
fact,  however  modified  in  form,  or 
disguised  by  theory,  to  be  reintro- 
duced  into  America,  On  this  point 
President  Grant,  in  his  recently- 
delivered  message,  recommends 
legislation  on  the  part  of  Congress. 
It  is  possible  that  watchfulness  is 
required,  not  so  much,  perhaps,  to 
guard  the  poor  coolies  from  slavery 
on  American  soil,  as  to  prevent  them 
from  being  kidnapped  on  their  own, 
and  deported  against  their  will,  to 
be  sold  into  servitude  for  wages 
that  are  insufficient.  Slavery  is 
defunct  in  America  for  the  black 
race,  and  will  not  and  cannot  be 
resuscitated  for  the  yellow.  So  far 
there  is  nothing  to  fear  either  from 
the  neglect  or  the  action  of  the 
American  Government.  The  pro- 
blem is  not  how  to  deal  with  the 
yellow  men  who  are  coming,  but 
with  the  black  men,  who  ought 
never  to  have  been  permitted  to 
come  as  slaves,  or  encouraged  to 
come  as  freemen.  It  is  a  difficult 
one  under  every  aspect  in  which  it 
can  be  regarded.  It  will  greatly 
depend  upon  the  negro  himself 
whether  it  shall  have  a  happier 
solution  than  that  which  has  re- 
sulted in  the  case  of  the  fast-disap- 
pearing aborigines  of  America. 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


331 


EARL'S  DENE.— PART  v. 


CHAPTER   X. 


IT  must  not  be  supposed,  how- 
ever, in  spite  of  what  has  been 
said,  that  the  comings  in  and  go- 
ings out  of  so  important  a  person 
as  Hugh  Lester  were  not  closely 
observed  by  those  to  whom  they 
were  of  no  consequence  at  all. 
Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  even 
so  unapproachable  a  person  as 
Madam  Clare  was  by  her  greatness 
protected  altogether  from  the  in- 
sults of  her  enemies. 


One  -day,  when  she  and  her 
guest  were  being  driven  by  the 
family  coachman  in  a  dignified 
manner  along  the  High  Street,  a 
shabby  fellow,  conspicuously  deco- 
rated with  the  popular  colours  of 
green  and  orange,  tossed  into  her 
lap  the  following  production  of  the 
popular  muse,  written  on  a  scrap  of 
paper  as  disreputable-looking  as  the 
marksman  himself : — 


"  tak  care  tak  care 

o  maddom  C e 

&  pra  mor  carfull  Be 
for  Denthorp  Quean 
is  not  a  erl  nor  a  dean 
but  No.  23 

"  be  where  be  where 

then  maddom  C e 

yor  rain  is  geting  shortt  <fe  shortt 

No  longer  yew 

rules  master  H — w 

not  now  but  mis  L 1 " 


The  first  impulse  of  the  great 
lady  was,  seeing  the  colours  that 
the  man  wore,  to  throw  it  back 
contemptuously  into  the  street  un- 
opened ;  but  Miss  Raymond,  with 
a  more  popular  tact,  affected  a  curi- 
osity to  see  it. 

"  Will  you  not  read  it  first  1"  she 
asked. 

"  It  is  sure  to  be  some  scurrility 
or  other.  No." 

But  she  had  hesitated ;  and  so 
she  did  read  it.  Then  she  did  not 
throw  it  into  the  street,  but  put  it 
quietly  into  her  pocket,  dirty  as  it 
was. 

"And  may  I  not  see  it  too1?" 
asked  Miss  Raymond. 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  it  is  not  fit  for 
you  to  see." 

She  spoke  gravely,  and  her  guest, 
seeing  that  she  was  annoyed,  said 
no  more  about  it. 

If  Miss  Clare  had  only  known 


what  was  going  on  at  No.  23  at 
that  very  moment ! 

Marie  was  generally  in  the  room 
when  Hugh  called,  but  not  always. 
She  was  not  an  idle  person  :  she 
was  her  father's  zealous  and  will- 
ing housekeeper,  and  the  children's 
nurse  and  governess  besides.  If 
her  cousin,  who  was  at  home  for  a 
holiday,  had  time  and  leisure  to 
entertain  visitors,  she  had  not.  She 
liked  to  see  Hugh,  with  whom  she 
had  become  very  good  friends  ;  but 
duty  had  to  come  before  pleasure, 
and,  as  she  liked  to  have  her  even- 
ings free,  for  her  husband's  sake, 
she  had  always  plenty  to  do  in  the 
day.  On  this  occasion,  whatever 
she  might  be  doing,  she  was  cer- 
tainly not  in  the  room,  which  was 
occupied  by  Hugh  and  Angelique 
only.  The  latter  was  sitting  at  the 
harpsichord,  but  was  not  playing, 
unless  playing  can  be  held  to  consist 


332 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


in  striking  an  occasional  chord,  or 
playing  scraps  of  imaginary  tunes 
with  one  hand. 

Hugh  sat  close  by  her  side. 

Now  it  is  very  difficult,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  outward  actions  of  men 
and  women,  to  be  altogether  seri- 
ous. But,  in  all  seriousness  of 
speech,  and  with  no  underlying 
thought  of  ridicule,  let  it  not  be 
imagined  that  the  conduct  of  Hugh 
Lester  in  this  matter  is  in  the 
least  degree  to  be  regarded  as 
absurd.  It  was  only  far  too  nat- 
ural. 

To  go  back  for  an  instant  to  the 
occasion  of  his  first  meeting  with 
Angelique — to  the  date  of  the  be- 
ginning of  the  danger. 

Now,  generally  speaking,  a  first 
interview  is  seldom  really  danger- 
ous. If  the  woman  is  not  beauti- 
ful, the  reason  is  obvious  enough  ; 
and  if  she  is,  the  man  will  be  dis- 
appointed, as  in  the  case  of  a  really 
beautiful  work  of  art,  by  finding 
that  she  is  not  like  or  equal  to  what 
he  expected  to  see ;  and  he  will 
most  probably  light  upon  her  first 
in  the  midst  of  appropriate  and 
harmonious  surroundings  that  tem- 
per anything  like  the  violence  of 
effect  that  lies  in  contrast.  But,  in 
this  case,  Hugh,  young,  impulsive, 
and  heart-free,  had  come,  as  upon  an 
unexpected  discovery  of  his  own, 
without  warning  —  in  the  midst 
of  poor  and  utterly  unharmonious 
surroundings,  and  in  the  company 
of  other  women  who  might  have 
been  selected  for  the  very  purpose 
of  acting  as  foils  to  her — upon  the 
most  beautiful  woman  that,  as  it 
seemed  to  his  eyes,  he  had  ever 
seen  ;  and  so  the  surprise,  the  ad- 
miration, and  the  pride  of  discovery, 
all  blended  with  the  charm  of  a 
subtle  sort  of  romance  which,  to 
him  at  least,  seemed  to  hang  over 
the  situation,  and,  brought  about 
by  the  absolute  power  of  beauty, 
were  quite  enough  to  render  unne- 
cessary any  far-fetched  theory  about 
the  nature  of  what  people  call  love 
at  first  sight.  What  he  felt  then 
was  not  love ;  but  it  was  what  must 


always  grow  into  love  of  some  kind 
or  other,  unless  absence  or  a  miracle 
intervene. 

But  no  miracle  happened,  nor  did 
Hugh  keep  away  from  the  flame 
which  Angelique,  for  her  part,  did 
not  hide  under  a  bushel.  Her 
coquetry  was  not  of  that  sort  that 
has  no  purpose  in  it;  and  though 
in  the  comedy  of  human  life  the 
coquette,  pure  and  simple,  is  about 
the  most  charming  of  characters, 
yet,  when  she  is  capable  of  pur- 
pose, she  is  apt  to  turn  comedy 
into  tragedy.  The  ornaments  of 
fetes  and  balls,  whose  coquetry  be- 
longs rather  to  the  pleasant  farce 
of  human  life  than  even  to  its 
comedy,  are  harmless  enough;  they, 
with  their  little  artifices  that  need 
deceive  nobody,  are  no  more  really 
dangerous  than  birds  and  flowers  ; 
but  Angelique  seemed  likely  to  take 
far  higher  rank  in  the  profession — 
to  prove  herself  one  with  whom  a 
Hugh  Lester  was  no  more  in  a 
position  to  cope  than  a  fish  sur- 
rounded by  the  net  is  able  to 
struggle  against  the  hands  that 
draw  it  shoreward.  The  small  fry, 
small  in  purse  or  in  rank,  may  slip 
through  the  meshes,  or  some  gi- 
gantic sea-monster  may  by  sheer 
size  and  strength  succeed  in  leap- 
ing over  or  breaking  through  them  : 
but  the  good,  honest,  eatable  fish  is 
just  the  creature  for  whom  the  net 
is  made ;  and  for  him  there  is  no 
return  to  the  sea.  But  still,  the 
vain  security  of  a  stupid  fish  as  the 
net  surrounds  it  is  not  a  pleasant 
sight  in  itself;  and,  in  the  same 
way,  the  sight  of  a  human  fish 
caught  in  a  net  from  which  there 
is  no  escaping  is  not  in  itself 
comic,  though  it  is  often  grotesque 
enough.  After  all,  whether  it  was 
love  at  first  sight  or  no,  it  was  first 
love  that  Hugh  Lester  was  now  ex- 
periencing ;  and  first  love  is  never 
absurd  to  those  who  will  know  it 
no  more,  even  though,  like  all  feel- 
ings that  are  pure  and  honest,  the 
thought  of  it  may  justly  enough 
bring  a  smile  to  the  heart  as  well 
as  to  the  lips. 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


333 


At  all  events  he  was  sitting  now 
in  the  garden  of  his  Armida,  while 
the  crusade  was  carrying  itself  on 
without  the  sword  of  him  who 
should  have  been  foremost  of  all. 
B  is  attitude  was  expressive,  for  he 
was  leaning  downwards  and  for- 
wards towards  the  enchantress,  his 
eyes  trying  vainly  to  read  hers,  which 
were  fixed  modestly  upon  the  keys. 
They  .had  kept  silence  fora  minute 
or  more — he  from  the  fulness  of 
his  heart,  and  she  because  she  chose. 

People  are  certainly  provokingly 
porverse.  It  would  have  been  so 
easy  and  natural,  one  would  have 
thought,  for  Miss  Clare's  nephew — 
it  saves  trouble  to  give  him  that 
title  at  once,  without  perpetual  ex- 
planation of  the  real  relationship 
between  them — to  have  fallen  in 
love,  if  he  must  fall  in  love,  with 
Alice  Raymond,  who  was  pretty 
enough,  good  enough,  amiable 
enough,  well-born  enough,  and  the 
rest  of  it,  to  satisfy  even  his  aunt's 
fastidiousness,  and  whose  tastes 
agreed  so  well  with  his  own.  Nor 
is  there  any  reason  to  think  that 
Miss  Raymond  would  have  proved 
unconquerably  cruel  had  he  thus 
proved  himself  wise.  Any  man  of 
experience,  any  man  who  knew  the 
world,  would  have  known  in  a  mo- 
ment which  of  the  two  to  choose. 
Yes;  but,  after  all,  who  really 
wishes  to  find  too  much  knowledge 
of  the  world  at  twenty-one  1  There 
is  something  not  ludicrous,  but 
almost  pathetic,  in  the  apparent 
necessity  that  first  love  should  al- 
ways take  an  unconventional  form, 
in  its  almost  invariably  being  in 
the  nature  of  a  protest  against  the 
gross  and  unromantic  reason  of  the 
world — in  the  way  in  which  it 
almost  always  fixes  itself  upon  an 
object  which  either  ought  not  to  be 
desired  or  is  impossible  to  obtain, 
or  which  is,  at  the  least,  strange 
and  unreasonable.  All  the  world 
over,  the  page  loves  the  queen, 
the  king  the  beggar -maid,  the 
sinner  the  saint,  and,  too  often, 
the  saint  the  sinner.  When  a 
couple  is  well  matched,  one  may 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLI1I. 


very  safely  wager  that  both  hus- 
band and  wife  have  memories  with 
which  each  other  has  nothing  to 
do.  Happily,  as  a  rule,  no  man 
marries  her  whom  first  he  loves  ; 
and  when  he  does,  there  is  con- 
siderable fear  that  his  first  love 
will  not  prove  to  be  his  last. 

"  Angelique,"  said  Hugh,  at  last 
— his  pronunciation  of  her  name, 
by  the  way,  was  not  exactly  Parisian 
— "will  you  not  give  me  just  a 
word— just  to  let  me " 

"  But  do  you  know  what  you 
have  done?"  she  said,  gravely, 
raising  her  eyes  for  a  moment — 
"  that  you  have  asked  me " 

"To  be  my  wife.  What  else 
should  I  ask  you,  when  that  is  all 
I  want  in  the  world  ? " 

"Are  you  in  earnest ]" 

"What  can  I  say  or  do  to  make 
you  believe  it?" 

"  No,  I  cannot.  Think  of  what 
I  am — remember " 

"  That  I  love  you,  Angelique." 

"  That  I  have,  that  I  am,  nothing 
— and  that  you " 

"  Nothing !  when  you  are  all 
that  I  love!" 

"  A  poor,  friendless  girl " 

"Shall  not  I  be  your  friend, 
then  1  Would  I  not  make  myself 
everything  to  you  1 " 

"  Whom  the  world  " — a  scornful 
stress  on  the  word — "whom  the 
world  will  say  caught  you " 

"The  world!  What  do  I  care 
for  a  hundred  worlds  ]  I  shall  be 
all  the  more  proud  to  love  you  in 
its  face.  You  are  my  world,  An- 
gelique." 

"  But  I  too  am  proud  ;  and " 

"And  yet  you  fear  the  world  !" 

"  Not  for  myself — no,  heaven 
knows !  But " 

"  For  whom,  then  1  Can  you 
mean  that  you  fear  for  me  1"  His 
head  approached  hers  more  closely 
still. 

She  allowed  him  to  draw  his 
own  conclusion.  "But  your  car- 
eer?" she  went  on. 

"  What  career  ?" 

"  Are  you  not  going  into  Parlia- 
ment 1  Are  you  not " 


334 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


"Parliament!" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose " 

"  Suppose  only  that  I  love  you — 
suppose  only  that  my  career  will 
be  to  make  you  happy  !  I  will  do 
what  you  please ;  your  career  shall 
be  mine " 

"And  Miss  Clare!" 

Hugh  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said, — 

"  Miss  Clare  has  been  more  than 
a  mother  to  me.  She,  I  know, 
only  desires  my  happiness,  and 
she  will  welcome  my  wife  as  her 
daughter."  But  he  did  not  speak 
quite  so  confidently  as  before. 

"I  am  afraid  of  Miss  Clare — 
Hugh."  The  little  hesitating  pause 
before  his  own  Christian  name  gave 
point  to  her  first  utterance  of  it. 

"  And  if  she  did  object,  which  is 
impossible,  I  am  my  own  master, 
I  suppose  ? " 

"  But  you  are  not  master  of  Earl's 
Dene." 

"Angelique!" 

His  tone  put  her  in  mind  of 
Marie,  and  she  smiled  to  herself. 

"Do  not  mistake  me,"  she  re- 
plied; "I  am  not  thinking  of 
Earl's  Dene.  /  could  be  happy  in 
a  cottage.  I  have  been  brought  up 
to  earn  my  own  bread,  and  am 
willing  to  earn  it.  No — do  not 
ask  me  to  give  up  the  life  of  toil 
co  which  I  have  always  looked  for- 
ward; I  shall  contrive  not  to  be 
unhappy,  never  fear  !  But  I  will 
not  stand  in  your  way.  You  shall 
not  run  the  risk  of  losing  a  single 
acre  of  Earl's  Dene  for  me." 

"Angelique!  When  I  would 
lose  a  hundred  Earl's  Denes  for 
a  word  from  you  !  Is  that  all  1  If 
Miss  Clare  shows  that  all  her  affec- 
tion for  me  has  been  so  hollow,  the 
tie  between  her  and  me  must  be 
broken.  There  are  bounds  to  the 
duty  of  a  real  son  to  a  real  mother. 
I  will  not  lose  you,  Angelique,  if  I 
lose  everything  for  you.  Ought 
not  a  man  to  leave  both  father  and 
mother  for  his  wife  ]  And  what 
would  everything  in  the  world  be 
to  me  without  you  1  And  you 
should  not  suffer.  I  would  toil  for 


you — I  am  strong  enough ;  and 
let  Earl's  Dene  go  to  the  devil." 

This  was  not  in  itself  particularly 
eloquent;  but  if  he  could  only 
have  managed  to  speak  in  the  same 
manner  and  with  the  same  energy 
to  the  electors  of  Denethorp,  Prescot 
and  Warden  would  have  gained  but 
few  laurels. 

"But  Miss  Clare  will  not  ob- 
ject," he  went  on,  after  a  short 
pause.  "  I  must  know  her  better 
than  you  can.  She  will  love  you, 
when  she  knows  you,  nearly  as 
much  as  I  do.  She  would  not  be 
able  to  help  it,  Angelique.  But  do 
not  let  us  talk  of  that — I  know  I 
am  not  worthy  to  look  at  one  like 
you;  but  I  do  love  you  more  than 
anybody  else  ever  can,  and  I  will 
try  all  I  can  to  make  you  happy — 
to  make  you  like  me.  And  don't 
think  of  me  as  if  the  world  mat- 
tered a  straw  to  me.  I  hate  it  all. 
I  only  wish  I  were  as  poor  as  a 
rat." 

"  But,  indeed — indeed  I  ought 
not." 

"  Ought  not  to  like  me  ? " 

"  No,  indeed ;  how  can  one  help 
what  one  feels  1  But " 

"  Then  you  can,  you  do,  love 
me,  Angelique  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  ought  not,  indeed — but 
what  can  I  say  1 " 

And  so,  instead  of  saying  any- 
thing, she  allowed  her  lover  to 
place  his  arm  round  her,  and  once 
more  to  draw  his  own  conclusion. 

This  was  one  great  point  gained ; 
but  it  was  not  everything.  In  spite 
of  his  boasted  knowledge  of  his 
aunt's  character,  she  had,  or  thought 
she  had,  a  much  better  comprehen- 
sion of  it,  even  although  his  was 
derived  from  long  intimacy,  and 
hers  from  hearsay  and  guesswork. 
She  also  thought  it  just  as  likely 
as  not  that  Hugh,  in  his  joy  and 
confidence,  and  as  a  matter  of  duty, 
would  go  straight  to  his  aunt 
at  once,  and  let  her  know  of 
the  important  step  he  had  just 
taken;  and  this  would  not  suit  her 
at  all.  She  did  not  wish  even  her 
uncle  or  her  cousin  to  know  any- 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


335 


thing  of  the  matter  except  at  her 
own  time  and  in  her  own  way. 

Beginning  with  the  less  import- 
ant point  of  the  two, — 

"  Dear  Hugh/'  she  said,  "  I  am 
so  confused  with  all  this  that  I  do 
not  know  what  I  am  doing  or  what 
I  am  saying.  Marie  will  be  coming 
in  soon — don't  let  her  know  any- 
thing; I  will  tell  her  myself  when 
I  am  more  quiet.  So  you  really 
think  that  Miss  Clare  will  not 
mind  ?  I  should  be  so  unhappy  if 
I  thought  she  would.  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  that  I  was  the  cause 
of  your  quarrelling  with  your  best 
friend." 

"  Why,  dearest,"  Hugh  was  be- 
ginning when  Marie  came  in,  car- 
rying a  note  in  her  hand. 

Angelique  was  vexed  and  looked 
it,  but  recovered  herself  quickly, 
after  a  warning  look  at  Hugh. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Marie,"  said  the  lat- 
ter, who  was  not  able  to  com- 
pose himself  quite  so  suddenly, 
"  [  was  afraid  I  should  not  have 
seen  you  this  morning.  And,  as 
it  is,  I  shall  have  to  make  the 
same  speech  serve  for  good-morn- 
ing and  good-bye."  He  looked 
at  his  watch.  "  By  Jove  !  I  really 
must  be  off.  I  ought  to  have  met 
White  an  hour  ago.  I  suppose  it's 
too  late  now,  though,  but  I  must 
try." 

"  If  it  is  really  too  late  you  had 
better  stay,"  said  Marie.  "But 
perhaps  you  will  learn  from  this," 
and  she  gave  him  the  note.  "  It 
has  just  come  from  Mr  White's  for 
you.  I  suppose  they  knew  you 
were  here." 

1 ;  DEAR  LESTER,"  he  read, — "  Come 
over  to  White's  office  at  once,  if 
you  can.  We  have  been  waiting  for 
you  an  hour,  and  I  have  just  heard 
where  you  are;  and  —  you  will, 
I  am  sure,  excuse  advice  given  in 
your  interest — I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter not  make  quite  so  many  visits 
at  the  Leforts  just  at  present.  You 
know  how  absurdly  people  here  will 
talk.  I  write  this  in  case  you  cari- 
-not  come  over  now,  for  I  have  to 


leave  the  town  for  a  day  or  two. — 
Yours  most  truly,  M.  W." 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for 
him  to  begin  flying  in  the  face  of 
the  world!  But  the  childish  thought 
was  but  momentary,  and  he  took 
his  leave  at  once,  to  Angelique's 
extreme  annoyance.  She  had  but 
half  done  her  work  after  all.  She 
dreaded  a  premature  explosion  of 
her  mine,  for  she  had  the  very 
smallest  opinion  of  her  lover's  dis- 
cretion. 

By  the  time  that  the  latter 
reached  the  office  of  White  &  Son, 
Warden  had  left  it ;  and  as  the 
lawyer  was  for  the  moment  en- 
gaged, Mr  Brown,  as  a  polite  atten- 
tion, placed  in  his  hands  a  bundle 
of  the  last  election  squibs,  printed 
on  orange-coloured  paper,  to  amuse 
him  while  he  waited. 

Most  of  them  were  silly  enough  ; 
but  there  was  one  that  was  by  no 
means  silly,  whatever  else  it  was. 

It  was  a  copy  of  verses  directed 
against  Mark  Warden,  and  about 
the  grossest  thing  of  the  kind 
that  Hugh  had  ever  seen ;  indeed 
it  was  wonderful  how  the  satir- 
ist had  been  so  ingenious  as  to 
find  so  many  holes  in  the  coat 
of  one  whose  life  had  appar- 
ently been  so  immaculate,  and 
to  discover  so  many  foibles  in  a 
character  that  was  so  unusually 
exempt  from  them.  But  his  very 
strength  and  consistency  were  so 
treated  as  to  appear  in  the  guise  of 
weaknesses ;  his  very  youth  was 
turned  into  a  stumbling-block,  and 
his  talent  into  an  offence.  He  was 
made  to  look  like  a  selfish  hypo- 
crite, cold-hearted  atid  cold-minded, 
seeking  only  his  own  ends,  and 
without  any  better  end  than  the 
most  sordid  sort  of  success.  But 
this  is  to  say  little,  for  in  satire 
form  and  manner  are  everything. 
The  whole  thing  was  done  with  the 
hand  of  a  master,  and  was  crowded 
with  cruel  wit  and  savage  humour. 
The  blows  were  dealt  unsparingly, 
and  every  point  was  made  to  tell. 
It  was  evident  that  the  enemy,  if 


336 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


they  had  been  rivalled  in  eloquence, 
had  determined  not  to  be  outdone 
with  the  pen,  and  that  they  had 
got  hold  of  a  man  of  nothing  short 
of  genius  to  write  their  lampoons. 
Moreover,  the  wit  and  the  humour 
were  by  no  means  too  subtle  to  be 
appreciated  by  the  coarsest  and 
most  stupid  of  readers.  It  was  as 
though  the  ghost  of  Swift  himself 
had  suddenly  taken  an  interest  in 
the  Denethorp  election,  and  had 
changed  its  politics.  But  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  was,  that 
it  was  evidently  written  by  some 
one  who  had  a  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  Warden  than  any  one 
at  Denethorp — by  one  to  whom  his 
college  career  was  as  familiar  as  his 
part  in  the  election.  The  allusions 
to  it  were  horribly  distorted,  but 
they  were  perfectly  open  to  the  eyes 
of  any  one  who  had  been  contem- 
porary with  him  at  Cambridge. 

Its  abominable  coarseness  is  a 
bar  to  the  appearance  of  even  an 
extract  from  it  here.  Indeed  coarse- 
ness is  a  very  mild  term  to  apply 
to  either  its  matter  or  its  style. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  everything 
detestable  is  this  1 "  asked  Hugh, 
as  Mr  White  entered. 

"Ah,    you've    read   that,    have 


you?  I  wish  you  could  spot  the 
author.  He  seems  to  be  a  Cam- 
bridge man." 

"  I  hope  not,  for  the  sake  of  the 
University  ;  and  I  certainly  know 
of  no  one  who  could  or  would  have 
written  such  a  thing.  Has  Warden 
seen  it  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  did  know  him, 
though,"  answered  the  agent.  "  It 
is  damned  clever — devilish  clever. 
We  would  try  the  same  shop." 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  think  of  any 
such  thing." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr  Lester.  It 
seems  to  me — if  you'll  excuse  me 
for  saying  so — that  you  have  left  us 
pretty  much  of  late  to  ourselves. 
Now,  if  you  leave  the  battle  to  us 
altogether,  as  you  seem  rather  in- 
clined to  do,  you  must  let  us  fight 
it  in  our  own  way.  And  this  thing 
here  is  not  a  bad  style  of  way,  / 
think — and  Warden  thinks  so  too." 

"  So  Warden  is  going  to  be  away  1 
Is  it  about  our  business  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr  Lester,  and  I 
didn't  ask  him,"  said  the  attorney, 
taking  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "  Sir,  that 
friend  of  yours  will  be  Lord  Chan- 
cellor !  He's  a  practical  man,  sir — 
and  that's  worth  all  your  law  ten 
times  told."  * 


CHAPTER   XI. 


If  Denethorp  is  a  difficult  place 
to  arrive  at,  it  is  a  still  more  diffi- 
cult place  to  leave.  Nevertheless 
it  must  be  left  at  last,  if  only  for  a 
time. 

The  night  of  the  day  on  which 
Hugh  Lester  had  committed  him- 
self to  his  Armida  was  fine  and 
warm,  not  only  at  Denethorp,  but 
in  London  also.  It  was  fine  even 
in  Fleet  Street,  and  fine  even  in 
that  thoroughfare  which  runs  at 
the  back  of  Farringdon  Market  and 
joins  Fleet  Street  with  Holborn. 

And  it  had  need  to  be  fine  in 
that  narrow,  crooked,  evil-looking 
lane  which,  at  all  events  in  those 
days,  knew  no  light  save  of  the 
moon  and  stars;  and  they  had 


barely  room  to  shine.  And  yet 
there  were,  once  upon  a  time,  people 
who  looked  upon  that  dark  and  dis- 
reputable passage  as  the  political 
centre  of  the  world — as  an  institu- 
tion to  which  Westminster  itself 
had  to  yield  the  palm  of  influence. 
Nor  were  there  wanting  distin- 
guished and  even  great  men,  who 
increased  their  own  influence  by 
countenancing  the  notion. 

The  institution  upon  which  its 
reputation  in  this  respect  was 
founded  was  a  public-house  with 
a  large  room  at  the  back  of  it, 
which  was  nightly  filled  to  over- 
flowing. 

Now  on  this  particular  evening 
the  attendance  was  even  more  than 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


337 


usually  large,  although  not  more 
than  usually  distinguished.  The 
dense  clouds  of  rank  smoke  issuing 
from  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  clay, 
and  mingled  with  the  steam  that 
arose  from  a  barrel  and  a  half  of 
hot  liquor,  were  not  out  of  keeping 
with  the  style  of  the  politicians  who 
emitted  the  one  and  absorbed  the 
either.  There  were  tailors  and  cob- 
blers from  the  north  and  from  the 
east,  brokers  from  Bell  Yard,  Irish 
students  from  Gray's  Inn,  some 
seedy-looking  barristers  from  the 
Temple,  bagmen  from  the  City, 
medical  men  from  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular, and  scribblers  from,  say, 
Grub  Street,  thinking  themselves 
in  all  honesty  to  be  Grattans  and 
Burkes  at  the  very  least.  Mingled 
with  these  were  one  or  two  persons 
who  had  made  an  excursion  to  the 
place,  either  out  of  curiosity  or  for 
some  other  special  reason ;  and  the 
inevitable  one  or  two,  seen  in  every 
public  place  in  London,  who  have 
blundered  in  by  mistake,  and  who 
never  know  either  where  they  are 
or  what  they  are  doing.  But  the 
general  tone  of  the  assemblage  was 
that  of  habitues. 

It  is,  however,  not  with  one  of 
the  habitues  that  we  have  now  to 
do ;  for,  among  the  strangers,  sit- 
ting in  a  quiet  corner  and  watching 
the  proceedings  with  interest,  was 
Mark  Warden. 

The  subject  of  the  debate  was  of 
course  political ;  and  much  was 
said  in  the  course  of  it  about  the 
Westminster  election,  with  which 
all  men's  minds  were  then  full.  Sir 
Francis  Burdett  seemed  to  be  the 
hero  of  the  evening  ;  and  if  one  or 
two  of  his  Majesty's  Ministers 
could  have  heard  half  the  epithets 
that  were  heaped  upon  their  names 
whenever  they  were  mentioned, 
they  must  either  have  been  utterly 
overwhelmed  on  the  spot,  or  have 
been  rendered  callous  to  abuse  for 
ever. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  how- 
ever, that  the  speaking  consisted  of 
nothing  but  abuse.  On  the  con- 
trary, Warden  was  surprised  to  hear 


many  pieces  of  real  though  turgid 
eloquence,  especially  on  the  part  of 
the  Irish  element,  and  not  a  little 
good  sense,  put  with  practised  skill. 
It  was  not,  indeed,  a  highly  intel- 
lectual or  cultivated  assembly,  but 
it  was  neither  an  ignorant  nor  a  stu- 
pid one  ;  and  the  forms  of  debate 
were  observed  with  a  strictness  and 
fairness  that  went  far  to  compen- 
sate for  much  want  of  courtesy. 

At  last,  however,  there  was  a 
short  pause  in  the  proceedings,  of 
which  advantage  was  taken  by  a 
man  who  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  to  rise  upon  his  legs  quickly, 
but  a  little  unsteadily.  He  was 
a  big,  burly  fellow,  with  a  heavy 
face,  which,  however,  in  spite  of  its 
far  too  plainly  showing  the  signs  of 
coarse  self-indulgence,  was  neither 
without  some  pretension  to  good 
looks,  nor,  in  spite  of  the  apparent 
contradiction  in  terms,  without 
some  degree  of  refinement.  His 
clothes  were  shabby  in  the  extreme, 
and  negligently  put  on — his  linen 
was  dingy  and  crumpled — he  looked 
as  though  he  were  unfamiliar  with 
the  very  idea  of  soap,  and  as  though 
he  used  the  bluntest  of  razors,  and 
that  but  seldom;  while  his  thick, 
bushy  head  of  hair  was  all  rough 
and  tumbled  about  as  though,  if  he 
did  condescend  to  keep  a  razor,  he 
disdained  even  to  borrow  a  comb. 
He  was  probably  young  in  years, 
but  it  was  difficult  to  say. 

He  was  evidently  well  known 
there,  for  his  rising  was  greeted 
with  much  hammering  of  glasses 
upon  the  tables.  Meanwhile  he 
only  stood  swaying  himself  clum- 
sily about,  and  he  continued  to  do 
so  for  a  full  minute  after  the  ap- 
plause had  come  to  an  end:  but 
the  company  showed  no  sign  of 
impatience,  and  at  last  he  began  to 


His  first  words  were  so  thickly 
spoken  as  to  be  inaudible,  and  a 
murmur  of  disappointment  ran 
round  the  room. 

"  Sure  and  he's  waited  too  lete, 
inthoirely,"  said  one  who  sat  next 
to  Warden. 


338 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


"  But  it's  just  too  airly,"  said  an- 
other. "  The  laddie's  nae  gude  till 
he's  fou." 

"  And  do  you  call  him  sober 
now  1 "  asked  Warden. 

"That  just  depends  upon  a'  the 
ceerrcoomstaunces,"  his  neighbour 
answered,  guardedly. 

But  by  this  time  the  orator  had 
found  both  his  legs  and  his  voice — 
a  big,  resonant  chest-voice  that  left 
his  large  mouth  without  a  taint  of 
thickness  or  huskiness,  and  filled 
the  whole  place  with  its  sound. 

"  Now  we  shall  catch  it  'ot  and 
strong ! "  exclaimed  another  of 
Warden's  neighbours,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  delight. 

And,  sure  enough,  they  did. 
After  a  few  words  to  say  that  he 
was  going  to  support  the  popular 
side,  he  set  himself  to  work  to 
destroy  all  the  arguments  that  had 
been  urged  in  its  favour,  and  to 
ridicule  all  who  had  used  them. 
Then  he  told  the  house  that  it  was 
to  be  supported  on  entirely  other 
grounds;  and,  with  extreme  in- 
genuity, so  twisted  and  distorted 
his  opponents'  arguments  as  to 
make  them  seem  to  be  his  own. 
He  appeared  to  revel  in  paradox, 
and  in  ridicule  of  everybody  and 
everything.  It  was  not  a  speech 
to  convince,  but  it  was  really  great 
art  in  its  way,  and,  indeed,  was  not 
intended  to  convince.  He  was  often 
interrupted,  but  woe  be  to  those 
who  interrupted  him !  for  all  that 
they  got  for  their  pains  were  per- 
sonalities, from  which  they  would 
rather  have  escaped  free.  To  judge 
from  the  difficulty  that  he  found 
in  starting,  he  had  evidently  been 
drinking  more  than  enough;  but 
yet  he  had  all  the  speeches  of  the 
speakers  who  had  preceded  him  at 
his  fingers' ends, — and  not  only  their 
arguments,  but  their  very  words — 
and  not  only  their  very  words,  but 
their  very  tones.  His  own  speech 
was  not  a  magnificent  specimen  of 
real  argument,  but  it  was  really  a 
magnificent  specimen  of  sophistry, 
of  humour,  and  of  sarcasm — even 
of  eloquence;  for  he  not  seldom 


soared  into  true  eloquence,  especi- 
ally towards  the  close.  At  the  same 
time  it  must  be  said  that,  while  but 
few  of  the  speeches  of  the  evening 
had  been  distinguished  by  refine- 
ment of  style,  his  was  full  of  points 
and  allusions  that  render  any  re- 
port of  it  out  of  the  question,  and 
which  were  received  with  that  sort 
of  laughter  with  which  such  an 
audience  receives  what  even  such 
an  audience  is  half  ashamed  to 
hear. 

When  he  sat  down  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  insulting  alike  both 
friends  and  foes ;  and  yet  he  was 
applauded  by  foes  and  friends  alike 
with  something  more  than  the 
knocking  of  tumblers.  Everybody 
had  been  made  angry,  and  yet 
everybody  was  delighted  that  every- 
body else  had  been  put  down. 

"There,  mee  jools— that's  the 
thrue  forrum,  bedad,  anyhow  ! " 
said  the  first  of  Warden's  neigh- 
bours. 

"It's  vara  weel — vara  weel  in- 
deed," said  the  second. 

"  I  sed  as  you'd  get  it  'ot !  "  said 
the  Cockney,  whose  anticipation 
had  been  amply  realised. 

"  Is  he  often  here  1 "  asked  War- 
den. 

"Ye'll  nocht  have  hurrud  urn 
till  noo  1 "  was  the  Scot's  idea  of 
an  answer — question  for  question. 

Warden  glanced  at  his  watch. 
"  Good-night,  I  must  be  going,"  he 
said  to  his  neighbours  generally ; 
and  then,  having  paid  for  what  he 
had  taken  for  the  good  of  the  house, 
picked  his  way  among  the  tables  to 
where  the  late  orator  was  sitting  in 
majestic  repose. 

"  Barton  !  "  he  said. 

"And  who  the  devil "  was  the 

other's  polite  answer,  as  he  swung 
round  brusquely. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me  1  War- 
den of  St  Margaret's." 

"  Warden  of  Mag's  !  By  God !  so 
you  are.  What'll  you  drink  1 " 

"  Nothing  for  me.  I  only  came 
to  see  you." 

"  Well,  here  I  am.     Fire  away." 

"  This  is  a  queer  place,  isn't  it  1 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


339 


1  have  never  seen  the  sort  of  thing 
before,  so,  having  nothing  else  to 
do  to-night,  I  thought  I'd  look  in. 
And  I  have  certainly  been  reward- 
ed. I  didn't  know  you  were  a 
second  Demosthenes." 

"  Waiter  ! — another  !  No — two 
others  :  one  for  this  gentleman." 

"No — nothing  more  for  me.  I 
•suppose  this  is  all  pretty  well  over  ? 
At  least  I  don't  care  to  stay.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  What — am — I — going — to  do  1 
How  the  devil  should  1  know  ?  " 

"  Then,  if  you  don't  know,  come 
;md  have  some  supper  with  me. 

I'm  at  the ." 

Barton  got  up  at  once.  "  I'm 
your  man,"  he  said.  "  Have  some 
"bones,  and  a  bottle  of  port.  We'll 
be  Titans,  and  Port  shall  be  our 
Pelion."  And  so,  taking  Warden's 
urin  to  steady  himself,  he  half 
walked,  half  lurched,  into  the  open 
air.  He  had  not  been  asked  for 
his  reckoning ;  probably  the  land- 
lord considered  his  company  too 
valuable  to  run  the  risk  of  losing 
it. 

It  will  probably  have  been  con- 
jectured that  Warden's  presence  in 
Shoe  Lane  was  not  quite  so  acci- 
dental as  it  professed  to  be.  He 
was  not  likely  to  have  come  from 
Denethorp  to  London  just  now  for 
nothing.  But,  however  this  may 
be,  he  showed  himself  sufficiently 
hospitably  disposed  now  that  he 
was  at  his  journey's  end  ;  for  his 
companion  and  himself  cannot  very 
well  be  accounted  congenial  spirits. 
Nor  did  his  offer  of  hospitality 
appear  to  be  unappreciated.  Bar- 
ton, as  soon  as  the  first  effects  of 
the  open  air  had  passed  away, 
stalked,  not  staggered,  along  in  a 
state  of  high  good-humour,  making 
the  now  half-empty  streets  ring  with 
his  heavy  tread,  his  loud  voice,  and 
his  still  louder  laugh.  It  is  true 
that  he  talked  rather  to  himself 
than  to  his  companion,  and  without 
much  heeding  whether  he  was 
listened  to  or  not :  but  still  he  was 
genial,  after  a  fashion. 

So  they  proceeded  for  some  dis- 


tance,  arm  in  arm,  when  Warden 
stopped  suddenly. 

"  Look  there,  Barton,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  what  is  that  ?  " 

Barton  placed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  and  looked  towards  the  part 
of  the  sky  to  which  the  other  had 
pointed. 

"  That  ?  That  is  a  fire/'  he  an- 
swered. "  Let's  see  it,"  and  he 
hurried  Warden  along  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  centre  of  the  glow. 
Very  soon  they  met  with  others 
hurrying  in  the  same  direction  ; 
and,  before  long,  guided  by  the  in- 
fallible instinct  in  such  matters  that 
belongs  to  a  crowd,  they  found 

themselves  in  front  of  the 

Theatre. 

Any  one  who,  like  Barton,  had 
hurried  there  in  order  to  witness 
a  great  spectacle,  certainly  found 
himself  fully  gratified.  Over  the 
whole  block  of  buildings  of  which 
the  theatre  formed  a  part,  soared 
up  high  into  the  air,  even  as  it 
seemed  to  the  sky  itself,  a  vast  un- 
broken sheet  of  flame  that  looked 
like  a  mirror  of  fire.  The  colour  of 
the  night,  which  was  still  fine  and 
clear,  was  changed  altogether  from 
that  produced  by  the  mixture  of 
white  moonlight  and  the  natural 
blackness  of  the  streets  into  a  uni- 
form dull  redness,  far  more  unbear- 
able to  the  sight  than  the  direct 
blaze  of  such  sunlight  as  those 
gloomy  streets  ever  experienced 
even  on  a  summer  day.  It  was,  in 
a  word,  one  of  those  great  fires 
which  are  the  grandest  sights  of 
great  cities  ;  which  alone  afford  to 
their  inhabitants  any  idea  of  the 
sublimity  of  nature  when  her 
strength  is  for  once  set  free  from 
the  weight  of  bricks  with  which  they 
have  crushed  her  down.  In  this  case 
the  complete  triumph  of  the  flames 
had  been  the  work  of  a  few  minutes 
only.  The  crowd  that  had  hur- 
riedly surrounded  the  doomed 
building  could  do  nothing  in  the 
face  of  such  a  wall  of  heat  and 
light — nothing  but  passively  con- 
template it  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
admiration. 


340 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


Barton  in  his  excitement  pressed 
close  to  the  scene,  dragging  Warden 
with  him.  The  avenue  by  which 
they  approached  the  blaze  was  a 
narrow  street  which  lay  along  that 
side  of  the  house  in  which  were  the 
entrances  to  the  gallery  and  stage. 
As  on  this  side  there  were  no  win- 
dows through  which  any  of  the 
flames  within  might  escape,  so  the 
effect  which  met  their  eyes  was 
made  up  of  a  dense  blackness  sur- 
mounted by  fire,  in  strong  contrast 
with  the  red  glow  of  the  sky  and  of 
the  opposite  houses.  The  danger  in 
case  the  wall  should  fall  outwardly 
was  great :  and  this,  probably,  accor- 
ding to  the  nature  of  crowds  in  gen- 
eral, was  the  reason  why  it  was  pre- 
cisely here  that  the  throng  was 
thickest.  The  broad  shoulders  of 
Barton,  and  his  complete  careless- 
ness about  the  shoulders  of  others, 
as  well  as  for  the  abuse  with  which 
he  was  frequently  assailed,  but 
which  he  was  well  able  to  pay  back 
in  kind,  soon  forced  a  passage  for 
himself  and  for  his  companion ;  and 
there  they  stood  for  some  minutes 
sharing  in  the  dead  silence  around 
them,  which  was  only  broken  by  the 
hissing  of  the  flame,  and  by  occa- 
sional ejaculations  of  delight  when- 
ever the  glow  made  a  sudden  leap 
upward.  Fortunately  the  delight 
of  the  bystanders  was  prevented 
from  being  entirely  complete  by 
their  disappointing  knowledge  that 
the  house  had  been  empty  for  some 
hours,  and  that  consequently  the 
lust  of  horror,  which  is  one  of  the 
chief  attributes  of  a  crowd  under 
such  circumstances,  was  doomed  to 
be  ungratified. 

Presently,  however,  it  seemed  as 
though  Fate  was  for  once  about  to 
bestow  more  than  it  had  promised, 
and  to  provide  a  real  tragedy  after 
the  spectacle. 

Though  no  human  lives  were 
in  immediate  danger,  the  burning 
house,  nevertheless,  contained  what 
was  worth  the  while  of  many  to 
risk  life  itself  to  save.  Close  by 
the  stage-door,  opposite  to  which 
Barton  and  his  friend  were  stand- 


ing, had  gradually  gathered  togeth- 
er, among  others  immediately  con- 
nected with  the  theatre,  a  group 
composed  of  some  of  the  unfor- 
tunate members  of  the  orchestra, 
whose  only  means  of  livelihood 
were  being  consumed  almost  be- 
fore their  eyes.  For  one  with  the 
income  of  a  fiddler  or  trumpeter  to 
lose  his  instrument  is  much  the 
same,  in  its  consequences  to  him,  as 
to  lose  his  very  hands — it  means 
at  least  temporary  ruin,  and  pro- 
bably something  worse  than  ruin, 
to  himself  and  to  those  who  are 
dependent  upon  him.  But  still, 
what  was  to  be  done  1  Who  would 
be  so  rash  as  to  plunge  into  that 
Phlegethon  ? 

Suddenly  Barton  felt  himself,  in 
spite  of  his  shoulders,  thrust  aside  ; 
and,  turning  round,  saw  a  young 
man  who,  like  himself,  had  contriv- 
ed to  reach  the  front,  but,  to  judge 
from  his  appearance  and  figure,  less 
by  dint  of  strength  than  by  force  of 
energy  and  activity. 

The  new-comer,  having  reached 
the  door,  mounted  upon  one  of  the 
steps  outside  it,  and  then  faced 
round  quickly. 

"  Gentlemen  ! "  he  said,  in  a  most 
un  English  accent,  but  in  a  clear 
and  ringing  voice,  "  we  lose  the 
time.  It  has  there  not  more  than 
five  minutes  that  the  theatre  burns 
itself ;  and  it  is  possible  that  our 
instruments  are  not  yet  hurt.  In 
five  minutes  one  shall  have  them — 
me,  at  the  least,  I  shall  have  the 
mine.  Suivez-moi  I " 

And  so,  with  the  air  of  a  captain 
calling  upon  his  company  to  follow 
him  into  the  breach,  he  ran  straight 
through  the  stage-door. 

Such  an  example  is  notoriously 
contagious ;  and  there  were  not 
more  than  one  or  two  of  his  com- 
rades that  did  not  follow — possibly 
their  instruments  were  safe  at  home. 
There  were  even  one  or  two  volun- 
teers, amongst  whom  Barton  was 
conspicuous.  He  had  come  for  the 
whole  spectacle  ;  and  he  was  appa- 
rently not  one  whom  any  instinct 
of  self-preservation  would  restrain 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


341 


from  seeing  all  of  it  that  there  was 
to  be  seen. 

But  there  was  also  one  who, 
without  having  anything  at  stake 
and  without  being  a  volunteer,  also 
accompanied  the  charge.  Mark  War- 
den, grasped  by  Barton  and  pushed 
from  behind,  had  to  enter  the  nar- 
row and  intricate  passages  of  the 
house  whether  he  would  or  no. 
And  though  he  did  not  feel  fear, 
he  would  certainly  have  preferred 
to  be  left  outside.  He  would 
scarcely  have  cared  to  risk  life  for 
life  ;  and  much  less  did  he  care  to 
risk  it  to  satisfy  unproductive  curi- 
osity, or  to  save  somebody  else's 
violin. 

Not  sharing,  therefore,  in  the 
eagerness  with  which  the  rest  ran 
forward,  but  rather  drawing  him- 
self backwards  from  them  as  well 
as  he  could,  he  before  long  found 
himself  alone  in  a  labyrinth  ;  nor, 
so  sudden  and  rapid  had  been  the 
process  of  his  arrival  there,  was  he 
able  to  regain  the  outer  air  without 
a  guide.  So  he  made  up  his  mind, 
as  the  wisest  thing  he  could  do,  to 
wait  there  quietly  till  the  others 
returned,  seeing  that,  if  he  tried  to 
extricate  himself,  he  would  proba- 
bly only  succeed  in  making  matters 
still  worse. 

How  long  he  waited  there  he  did 
not  know,  but  certainly  a  much 
shorter  time  than  it  seemed.  But 
all  of  a  sudden  he  became  terribly 
aware  that  the  passage  in  which  he 
stood  was  beginning  to  fill  rapidly 
with  smoke  ;  and  he  heard,  instead 
of  the  returning  feet  of  his  com- 
panions, an  ill-omened  roar  of 
voices  outside. 

In  another  moment  his  ears  heard 
a  worse  sound  still,  and  that  not 
outside,  but  close  at  hand.  It  was 
as  though  the  whole  building  had 
given  an  audible  shudder,  which 
passed  through  himself  also.  Lift- 
ing his  eyes,  he  saw  a  fearful  sign 
of  doom  indeed.  The  ceiling  was 
cracking  in  long  lines  above  him, 
through  which  rained  a  shower  of 
sparks  ;  and  a  tongue  of  fire,  which 
at  every  beat  of  his  pulse  grew 


longer  and  wider,  had  licked  its 
way  through  the  cornice,  and  was 
writhing  on  and  on  towards  him 
through  the  air. 

The  roaring  of  flame,  the  falling 
of  beams,  were  now  the  only  sounds 
he  heard.  The  whole  world  seemed 
to  have  suddenly  faded  away,  and 
to  have  left  him  alone  with  instant 
death. 

Who  may  describe  the  terror, 
the  despair,  of  a  moment  when 
a  lifetime  of  horror  seems  crushed 
into  the  space  of  the  falling  of 
a  single  grain  of  sand  1  It  was 
not  even  as  though  a  struggle  for 
life  was  still  possible.  With  his 
energy  unimpaired  he  could  do 
nothing  but  wait  for  the  end,  and 
pray  that  it  might  be  soon. 

And  yet  he  did  not  lose  his  pre- 
sence of  mind.  But  that  only  made 
his  utter  powerlessness  all  the  more 
terrible  to  bear.  The  most  abject 
terror  is  nothing  to  what  he  has  to 
undergo  who  retains  his  senses  and 
his  strength  only  to  find  in  them 
additional  instruments  of  torture. 

Meanwhile  the  orchestra  had  been 
reached;  those  who  could  find  them 
were  already  hurrying  away  with 
their  instruments  by  another  en- 
trance— for  the  passage  leading  to 
the  stage-door  was  no  longer  prac- 
ticable— and  in  another  instant  the 
hand  of  the  young  musician  who 
had  led  the  way  would  have  grasp- 
ed the  instrument  for  whose  sake 
he  had  entered  the  house  of  fire, 
when  Barton,  who  was  close  to  him, 
suddenly  exclaimed, 

"Good  God!  where  is  Warden?" 

He  heard  the  exclamation,  and 
turned.  A  word  or  two,  rapidly 
uttered,  passed  between  him  and 
Barton ;  and  then  at  once,  forget- 
ting his  violin,  and  in  spite  of  the 
suffocating  smoke-clouds  that  were 
thick  enough  almost  to  destroy  with- 
out the  aid  of  flame,  he  dashed  back 
through  the  perilous  entrance  from 
which  his  companions  were  now 
flying  in  confusion.  Barton  would 
have  followed ;  but  no  sooner  did 
he  attempt  to  do  so  than  his  pas- 
sage was  barred  by  the  sudden  de- 


342 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


scent  of  a  burning  beam,  so  that  he 
had  perforce  to  make  the  best  of  his 
way  out  with  the  rest. 

Warden  had  just  given  himself 
up  for  lost.  His  lungs  were  already 
more  full  of  smoke  than  of  air,  and 
he  could  already  feel  upon  his  face 
the  hot  breath  that  glowed  from  the 
fiery  tongue  that  had  now  come  so 
near  as  almost  to  have  broadened 
into  a  sheet  of  flame,  when,  borne 
in,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  upon  a  blaz- 
ing cloud,  stood  before  him  the 
figure  of  the  young  musician. 

"  Quick  ! "  cried  out  the  latter  in 
French,  "quick — in  another  mo- 
ment  " 

Unaware  of  the  risk  that  had 
been  run  by  a  stranger  for  his  sake, 
thinking  only,  if  he  could  be  said 
to  think  at  all,  that  it  was  to  save 
himself  that  his  guide  had  returned, 
Warden  followed  him  into  the 
street. 

It  was  indeed  only  a  moment 
that  had  lain  between  them  both 
and  certain  death.  There  was 
barely  time  for  them  to  regain  the 
outside  of  the  house,  when  a  crash, 
followed  by  a  sympathetic  cry  from 
the  crowd,  told  that  the  heavy  roof 
had  fallen  in,  and  that  all  was  over. 

Then  rode  up  a  troop  of  the  Life- 
Guards  ;  but,  except  for  their  ad- 
ding to  the  effect  of  the  scene  by 
reflecting  the  red  and  white  light 
of  the  flame  from  their  helmets 
and  cuirasses,  they  might  just  as 
well,  for  any  good  they  found 
themselves  able  to  do,  have  re- 
mained quietly  in  their  barracks. 
Foot  -  Guards,  and  volunteers  in 
uniform,  also  mixed  with  the 
crowd  ;  and,  all  too  late,  and  yet 
as  quickly  as  had  been  possible, 
came  the  galloping  of  fire-engines 
from  all  directions — just  in  time 
for  their  drivers  to  see  and  hear 
the  terrible  crash  that  told  of  the 
fall  of  the  outer  walls  themselves. 
Then  the  flames,  after  a  last  leap 
upward,  suddenly  sank  down  into 
the  crater  thus  formed,  and  the 
tragedy  was  wholly  at  an  end. 

For  although  not  a  single  life 
had  been  lost,  even  by  the  falling 


of  a  brick  or  of  a  beam,  it  was 
nevertheless  a  real  tragedy  that  had 
just  been  played ;  for  the  sudden 
destruction  of  a  great  theatre  means 
worse  than  death  to  hundreds. 
Then  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany who  happened  to  be  present 
became  able  to  think  of  their 
losses,  the  .pickpockets  of  their 
gains,  the  respectable  spectators  of 
going  home,  and  the  rabble  of 
beer,  the  carpenters  who  had  lost 
their  tools  and  the  musicians  who 
had  lost  their  instruments  of  sui- 
cide. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  lost  that  sight 
for  a  thousand  pounds/'  said  Bar- 
ton, turning  carelessly  to  the  young 
musician  who  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing just  behind  him.  "  Damned 
lucky,  though,  that  the  walls  fell 
in  instead  of  out.  It  was  within 
the  turning  of  a  brick  that  some  of 
us  never  saw  a  theatre  again,  out- 
side or  in.  Sic  me,  non  se,  ser- 
vavit." 

On  hearing  himself  addressed, 
the  other  started  as  from  a  dream. 

"  You  call  it  lucky ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  tone  of  scorn  that 
was  as  un-English  as  his  accent. 

Barton  first  stared,  and  then 
laughed  good-humouredly.  "  Did 
you  want  a  brick  on  your  head, 
then?  I  didn't — at  least  not  be- 
fore supper.  After  that,  per- 
haps  " 

"Monsieur?" 

"  Ah,  vou  ate  oon  fronggais  ?  je 
'asked  —  demandais  vou  si  vous 
wanted,  you  know,  oon  brick  soor 
voter  fate  ?" 

"  As  well  there  as  on " 

"As  on  what?" 

"  As  on  that — as  on  my  violin." 

"You  belong  to  the  orchestra, 
then  ? " 

"  I  did,  I  suppose." 

"  Poor  devil !  then  I'm  damned 
sorry  for  you."  He  was  perfectly 
sober  now,  and  yet  he  spoke  lightly. 
Nevertheless,  as  he  spoke  he  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  breeches'  pocket. 
But  it  came  out  empty. 

"  Curse  it ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  not 
a  farthing.  Why,  I  had  ever  so 


1870.] 


Earl's  Den?.— Part  V. 


343 


many  shillings  this  morning — four, 
at  least.  I  say,  Warden — do  you 
carry  a  purse  1  Just  lend  me  some- 
thing or  other." 

Warden,  who  had  now  fairly  re- 
covered his  composure,  but  was  still 
ignorant  of  his  obligations  to  his 
preserver  from  death,  slowly  drew 
out  his  purse  and  handed  it  to 
Barton,  who  held  it  out,  without 
looking  to  see  what  it  contained,  to 
the  unfortunate  musician.  "  Never 
mind  the  fiddle,"  he  said  ;  "  one's 
as  good  as  another,  I  suppose." 

But  he  to  whom  it  was  offered 
drew  back,  placed  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  and  bowed. 

"  Je  suis  gentilhomme"  he  said, 
with  some  dignity. 

"  A  gentleman  are  you  1  Then 
go  and  be  damned  for  one,"  shouted 
Barton;  and,  taking  Warden's  arm, 
stalked  off  again. 

"  That  burnt-out  son  of  a  fiddle 
calling  himself  a  gentleman!"  he 
said,  as  they  continued  their  pro- 
gress. "  Why,  I  shall  be  calling 
myself  one  next  —  or  even  you, 
Warden." 

His  companion  swallowed  the 
impertinence  silently,  although  he 
did  not  like  it  by  any  means.  He 
also  did  not  choose  to  notice  that 
Barton  had  forgotten  to  return  the 
purse. 

They  soon  arrived  at  the  hotel, 
which  was  not  far  from  the  scene 
of  the  fire ;  and  the  bones  having 
been  made  bare  and  the  port  re- 
newed, the  latter  recovered  his 
temper. 

"  Barton,"  said  Warden,  after  a 
short  time,  and  without  having 
made  any  allusion  to  their  adven- 
ture, "  I  always  knew  you  were 
the  best  of  us  all,  and  that  those 
blockheads  of  dons  didn't  know 
a  good  man  when  they'd  got 
him.  But  I  had  no  idea  you  could 
do  what  you  have  been  doing 
lately." 

"  Pooh !  one  must  get  one's 
liquor  somewhere." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that — I  mean 
something  still  better." 

"  And  what's  that  1 " 


"  It  is  really  the  best  thing  of 
the  kind  I  ever  saw — as  good  in  its 
way  as  your  trochaics  on  the  Proc- 
tors. They  were  superb  ;  I  know 
them  by  heart  still ;  but  I  almost 
think  this  beats  them.  I  wish  you 
had  done  it  in  Greek,  though,"  he 
added  with  a  smile,  as  he  handed 
him  a  copy  of  the  famous  squib. 

Barton  took  it,  looked  at  it  with 
one  eye,  seemed  puzzled  for  a  min- 
ute, and  then  exploded  into  a  roar 
of  laughter,  which  he  did  not  at- 
tempt to  check. 

"  Oh,  this  1 "  he  said  at  last. 
"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,  though  !  I 
was  afraid  it  wasn't  strong  enough." 

"  It's  quite  strong  enough,  I  as- 
sure you." 

"  Ha — ha — ha  !  Do  you  want  it 
made  stronger  1  I'll  just  add  a  line 
or  two  now,  if  you  like.  I  feel  in 
the  humour.  Look  here " 

"  Are  you  turned  so  venomous  a 
radical,  Barton  ? " 

"I?  Damme,  no.  What  do  I 
care  for  your  politics  and  stuff] 
Tom  Prescot  's  a  devilish  good  fel- 
low— ten  times  what  you  are,  War- 
den :  but  I'd  write  like  a  Tory  for 
sixpence." 

"  No,  no,  Barton,  that  won't  do. 
A  man  can't  do  a  thing  like  that 
twice  in  his  life." 

"  I  bet  you  I  could,  though." 

"  I  would  take  your  wager,  if  I 
were  not  sure  you  would  lose." 

"Come — what  will  you  bet  I 
don't  do  it  ? " 

"  A  thing  as  good  as  this  on  the 
other  side  1  Against  Prescot  him- 
self ?" 

"  Against  the  devil,  if  you  like." 

"  Well  then,  I  lay  you  ten  guin- 
eas to  half-a-crown,  you  can't  write 
a  squib  on  Prescot  as  good  as  this 
is." 

"  Done  !  Waiter  !  Pen— ink- 
paper." 

"  But  surely  you  won't  do  it  at 
once  1 " 

"Just  the  time.  Can't  write  in 
the  morning — never  could.  Now 
or  never.  Damn  it,  though — just 
keep  the  ink-bottle  steady.  I  must 
keep  my  finger  on  my  left  eyelid,  I 


344 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


see — capital  plan  when  the  letters 
get  mixed  up.  Here  goes." 

Pressing  two  fingers  over  his 
left  eye,  and  swaying  and  nodding 
over  the  table  —  for  he  had  by 
this  time  drunk  more  than  enough 
to  render  any  ordinary  man  incap- 
able of  doing  anything — he  dashed 
at  the  paper  and  wrote  rapidly  in  a 
sprawling  hand,  laughing  to  him- 
self from  time  to  time  with  enjoy- 
ment of  his  own  work.  At  the  end 
of  an  hour  or  rather  more,  during 
which  he  had  consumed  the  whole 
of  another  bottle  of  port,  the  task 
was  done.  He  threw  himself  back 
triumphantly  in  his  chair,  upsetting 
the  ink-bottle  in  the  process,  hurled 
the  pen  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  tossed  the  paper,  all 
smeared  and  blotted,  but  not  quite 
illegible,  to  Warden.  "  There  you 
are,"  he  said.  "  That'll  wash." 

Warden  read  it  over  quietly ;  and 
then,  without  a  word,  handed  two 
bank  -  notes  to  the  author,  who 
pocketed  them  forthwith,  and  then 
called  out — 

"  Waiter  !  a  bottle  of  brandy ! 
and  now  we'll  make  a  night  of 
it." 

Alas  for  Warden !  Before  long 
he  began  to  think  that  he  had  fallen 
into  the  clutches  of  a  demon — that 
he  had  raised  a  fiend  from  whom 
he  should  never  be  able  to  free 
himself.  The  hour  was  already 
very  late  ;  but  many  other  hours 
flew  by,  and  still  Barton  sat  there, 
drinking  brandy,  talking,  quoting, 
spouting  Greek,  and  boasting — all 
in  a  style  which,  though  always 
coarse,  was  at  first  amusing  and 
even  witty,  but  very  soon  degener- 
ated into  such  sheer,  unutterable 


filth,  devoid  of  either  wit  or  hu- 
mour, that  even  Warden,  who  was 
not  particular,  and  who  was  not 
listening  to  him  for  the  first  time, 
was  amazed.  At  last,  sleepy  and 
weary  as  he  was,  and  almost  over- 
come by  the  reaction  that  had  fol- 
lowed upon  his  escape  from  such 
extreme  danger  as  that  in  which 
he  had  been  placed  so  short  a  time 
since,  the  disgusting  monotony  of 
his  guest's  talk  became  torture. 
If  the  man  would  but  get  drunk 
enough  to  be  put  into  a  hack- 
ney-coach and  sent  away  !  But  no 
— the  more  he  drank,  the  more 
he  talked,  the  clearer  grew  his 
voice,  and  the  steadier  his  hand, 
although,  no  doubt,  he  would  have 
found  it  impossible  to  rise  from 
his  chair.  Warden  made  as  many 
hints  as  he  could  about  his  own 
fatigue  ;  but  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  to  the  bottle  as  to  Barton. 
Nor  did  he  dare  to  march  off  to 
bed,  for  fear  of  what  might  happen ; 
for  the  waiters  had  retired  long  ago. 
Five  o'clock  struck,  and  there  sat 
Barton  :  six  o'clock,  and  he  sat 
there  still :  seven  o'clock,  and  the 
house  was  stirring  ;  but  he  seemed 
more  immovable  than  ever.  At 
last,  without  remembering  how, 
Warden  dropped  asleep  in  his  chair 
from  sheer  exhaustion  ;  and  when 
again  he  woke,  the  first  thing  he 
saw  was  Barton,  curled  up  upon 
the  hearth-rug,  sleeping  like  a 
child. 

"  There's  one  comfort,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  rather  revenge- 
fully, as  he  took  his  way  wearily 
to  the  Denethorp  coach :  "  the 
beast  must  be  killing  himself — and 
not  by  inches." 


CHAPTER    XII. 


Everybody  who  is  not  of  a  purely 
lymphatic  temperament  must,  dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  day,  accumu- 
late a  certain  amount  of  ill-temper, 
which  has  to  be  let  out  somehow 
or  other.  On  the  whole,  the  most 
pleasant  people  to  deal  with  are 


those  who  let  it  evaporate  as  it 
comes,  spreading  it  over  every  part 
of  the  day  and  over  everybody  with 
whom  they  come  in  contact — them- 
selves, their  friends,  and  strangers 
impartially ;  for  the  result  is  that 
their  ill-temper  is  dealt  out  in  such 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


345 


infinitesimal  doses  at  a  time  as  to 
annoy  nobody  very  much.     Others, 
again — and  this  is  by  no  means  a 
bad  plan — reserve  theirs  for  some 
particular  period  of  the  twenty-four 
hours,  such  as   breakfast -time   or 
the  hour  before  dinner,  when  no- 
tLing  that  anybody  says   or  does 
signifies  anything  to  anybody.  But 
there  are  some — -and,  unfortunately, 
these  form  the  majority — who  re- 
serve theirs  for  particular  people  ; 
who  are  all  that  is  delightful  to  the 
world  at  large,  but  who,  at  home,  are 
bears  or  tigers.     So  common  is  this 
practice,  that  a  person  who  is  excep- 
tionally genial  in  society,  is  seldom 
one   with   whom   it   is   altogether 
pleasant  to  live.     Now,  Angelique 
Lefort,  like  everybody  else,  had  her 
annoyances,  and,  consequently,  her 
passages  of  crossness ;  and  as  she 
was  far  too  amiable  a  person  to  dis- 
play these  to  the  world,  she  was 
forced  to  let  herself  out  either  in 
solitude   or  among  her  slaves   at 
home,  when  she  happened  to  have 
them  at  hand.     It  is  very  doubtful 
if  Hugh  Lester  would  have   con- 
tinued to  be  quite  so  much  in  love 
had  he  had  the  command  of  a  magic 
mirror  for  the  rest  of  that  day. 
It  was  mainly  with  Marie  that  she 
was  put  out  for  having  interrupted 
her  tete-a-tete  at  so  exactly  the  wrong 
moment ;  but  it  was  not  so  much 
upon  her  cousin  that  the  avenging 
cloud  settled   as  upon  the  rest  of 
the  household.     The  children  were 
snubbed   to  their  hearts'   content, 
until  Ernest  settled  down  into  sul- 
lenness  and  Fleurette  into  tears  ; 
and  even  the  mild  old  father  of  the 
family  found  his  coffee  bitter.    But 
as    everything   that    their    divine 
Angelique  said  or  did  was  always 
necessarily    right,    she    was    only 
petted  and  sympathised  with  all 
the  more — silently,  that  is,  for  no 
one  dared  to  say  a  word  to  her, 
except  Ernest,  who  was  not  over- 
fond  of  his  cousin,  and  who,  in  con- 
sequence, got  as  severe  a  reproof 
from  Marie  as  she  was  capable  of 
bestowing. 

But,  fortunately  for  her,  the  days 


of  magic  mirrors  had  long  gone  by, 
so  that  Hugh  went  his  way  with  no 
image  of  her  in  his  mind  save  such 
as  she  had  afforded  him  in  person. 
After  his  interview  with  his 
agent  was  over,  he  went  home  to 
Earl's  Dene,  and,  as  was  his  habit, 
reported  to  his  aunt  and  her  guest 
all  that  he  had  learned  of  the  pro- 
gress of  affairs  in  the  town.  But 
his  heart  was  not  in  his  story,  for 
he  had  already  obtained  the  triumph 
for  which  he  cared  the  most.  His 
real  business  now  was  to  render  to 
Miss  Clare  the  explanation  that 
was  due  to  her  as  mistress  of  Earl's 
Dene  from  her  heir  and  adopted 
son,  and  which  he  felt  ought  not  to 
be  delayed. 

Nevertheless,  manly  as  he  was  in 
all  essential  things,  he  could  not 
but  feel  a  little  nervous  about  tell- 
ing the  old  lady  that  there  was  to 
be  an  heiress  to  Earl's  Dene  as  well 
as  an  heir — or,  as  he  intended  to 
put  it  to  her,  that  she  was  to  have 
a  daughter  as  well  as  a  son.  He 
had  all  his  life,  like  most  of  those 
about  her,  been  a  little  afraid  of 
her,  in  spite  of  his  experience  of 
her  affection  for  him  ;  arid  perhaps 
the  enormity  of  proposing  to  marry 
Miss  Raymond's  dependant  seemed 
a  little  greater  now,  as  a  matter  of 
confession,  than  it  did  when  he 
was  actually  urging  his  suit. 

Fortunately  or  unfortunately, 
however,  according  as  it  might 
have  turned  out,  he  could  find  no 
opportunity  of  telling  her  his  story 
in  the  course  of  that  evening  :  at 
least  he  thought  he  could  find 
none,  which  is  practically  the  same 
thing.  While  smoking  his  night- 
ly cigar,  however,  he  made  up 
his  mind  that,  come  what  come 
might,  he  would  tell  it  the  next 
morning ;  and  resolved,  not  out  of 
deference  to  the  advice  of  Mark 
Warden,  but  in  order  to  compel 
himself  to  keep  his  resolution,  that 
he  would  refrain  from  calling  in 
Market  Street  until  his  story  was 
told. 

Next  morning,  then,  he  rose  with 
a  full  intention  of  doing  what  was 


346 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


obviously  right,  and,  when  break- 
fast was  over,  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  Miss  Clare  that  he  wished 
to  speak  with  her,  when  she  herself 
anticipated  him  by  saying,  when 
Miss  Raymond  had  left  the  room, 

"  Hugh,  you  know  how  I  despise 
such  things  ;  but  look  at  this  that 
some  man  in  the  street  was  impu- 
dent enough  to  throw  at  me  yes- 
terday." And  she  gave  him  the 
crumpled  piece  of  paper  that  she 
had  kept  in  her  pocket. 

He  read  the  warning,  and  blushed 
to  his  hair. 

"What  is  this,  aunt?"  he  asked, 
angrily. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  to 
ask  you,"  she  answered.  "  One 
knows  what  things  people  write 
and  say  at  elections,  but  this  is 
such  an  extraordinary  thing  to 
say." 

"  And  did  any  one  dare " 

u  I  told  you.  It  was  thrown 
into  the  very  carriage — into  my 
very  lap.  Really  people  here  seem 
to  have  lost  all  respect,  all  decency. 
And  yet  this  could  not  have  been 
done  without  some  meaning  or 
other.  I  suppose  they  have  got 
hold  of  some  story  of  your  meeting 
Miss  Lefort  in  the  lodge  park  when 
you  first  came  down." 

"  No,  aunt ;  I  do  not  think  it  is 
that." 

"  Just  let  me  speak  kindly  to 
you,  Hugh.  It  is  not  the  first 
time  that  I  shall  have  given  you 
advice,  nor,  if  you  take  it,  will  that 
be  for  the  first  time  either.  I  am 
an  old  lady,  you  know,  and  may 
talk  about  such  things ;  and,  as 
you  may  have  guessed,  perhaps  I 
have  not  always  lived  so  much  out 
of  the  world  as  I  have  since  you 
have  known  me." 

"  My  dear  aunt,  I " 

"Listen  to  me  first,  please.  I 
can  make  all  manner  of  allowances. 
This  Miss  Lefort  is,  I  hear,  a  re- 
spectable girl.  Now " 

"  But,  aunt " 

"  Wait,  please.  Now — you  know 
what  I  mean — I  should  be  very 
sorry  indeed  to  think  that  you, 


meaning  no  harm  even,  as  I  am 
sure  you  would  not,  had  been  put- 
ting any  nonsensical  ideas  into  the 
head  of  any  young  girl  who  is  good 
and  respectable.  I  do  not  ask  you 
any  questions " 

"  But  I  assure  you " 

"  But  I  do  wish  to  ask  you — and 
now,  of  all  times — not,  by  any  con- 
duct of  yours,  to  give  the  people  of 
the  town  occasion  to  speak  ill  of 
Earl's  Dene.  You  are  almost  a 
Clare,  you  know,  and  should  re- 
member our  motto.  The  French 
have  a  saying  which  to  my  mind  is 
a  very  noble  one,  when  rightly  used, 
that  'Noblesse  oblige.'  We,  my 
dear  Hugh,  are  in  a  position  to  set 
an  example,  not  only  of  right  con- 
duct, but  of  conduct  that  should  be 
without  a  suspicion  of  wrong.  We 
must  give  up  our  amusements  for 
the  sake  of  our  duties.  You  un- 
derstand me,  I  know." 

"  Quite,  aunt ;  but " 

"And  just  think  for  a  moment. 
This  girl  is  the  sister  of  Miss  Ray- 
mond's companion " 

"  Cousin,  aunt." 

"  Well,  almost  the  sister — of  Miss 
Raymond's  servant,  in  fact.  It  can- 
not be  decent  that  you  should  give 
people  occasion  to  say  that  you  are 
on  too  intimate  terms  with  her,  no 
matter  how  contemptible  may  be 
those  who  say  it.  Besides,  it  is 
not  fair,  not  kind,  to  the  girl  her- 
self, to  whom,  in  her  position,  cha- 
racter is  everything ;  and  people 
can  only  couple  your  name  with 
hers  in  one  way." 

"  Aunt -" 

"  That  is  all  I  wanted  to  say  to 
you.  And  now  I  will  destroy  this 
wretched  scrawl.  Are  you  going 
into  the  town  to-day  ?" 

Now  was  the  time  to  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it — now,  if  ever.  It 
need  scarcely  be  said,  however, 
that  Hugh  did  not  take  advantage 
of  it. 

In  effect,  he  found  it  impossible. 
It  was  not  only  that  Miss  Clare 
was  always  a  difficult  person  to 
talk  to  when  she  had  got  some 
fixed  notion  into  her  head  ;  it  was 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


347 


not  only  that  she  had,  so  far  as  she 
had  been  able,  trained  him  in  habits 
of  passive  obedience  from  his  earli- 
est boyhood.  It  was  by  no  means 
these  circumstances  alone  that  scat- 
tered his  resolutions  of  the  night 
and  of  the  morning.  It  was  partly 
a  higher  feeling,  partly  a  lower, 
than  was  founded  upon  any  aspect 
of  the  relation  in  which  he  stood 
to  his  aunt  that  had  closed  his 
lips. 

To  begin  with  the  lower.  He 
somehow  could  not  help  feeling 
a  little  conscience-stricken  in  the 
matter ;  and  though  a  touch  of 
conscience  is  by  no  means  a  proof 
that  a  man  has  done  wrong,  it  is  at 
any  rate  a  proof  of  his  not  being 
satisfied  that  he  has  done  right. 
Of  course  Miss  Clare  had  obviously 
and  utterly  mistaken  the  true  state 
of  the  case  ;  she  had  mistaken,  not 
only  his  intentions,  but  the  very 
person  towards  whom  they  were 
directed.  Now  the  mistake  about 
the  person  was  not,  in  itself,  of 
very  much  consequence ;  but  if 
she  had  so  strongly  objected  to  the 
mere  suspicion  of  a  flirtation  with 
one  of  the  two  cousins,  what 
•would  she  have  had  to  say  to  the 
idea  of  marriage  with  either  of 
them  1 

Now  there  is  a  theory  about  mes- 
alliances which  accounts  for  a  great 
many  things.  No  man  ever  feels 
much  offence  at  the  idea  of  another 
man's  marrying  beneath  him  ;  but 
TA  hen  he  hears  of  a  lady  running  off 
•with  a  groom,  or  being  guilty  of  any 
similar  escapade,  he  is  both  aston- 
ished and  disgusted.  In  like  man- 
ner, even  as  men  are  tolerant  of 
each  other's  condescensions,  and 
intolerant  of  those  of  women,  wo- 
men are  not  altogether  intolerant 
of  mesalliances  on  the  part  of  their 
own  sex,  but  bestow  the  weight  of 
their  disgust  upon  such  social  of- 
fences on  the  part  of  men,  without 
considering  the  unfrequency  of  the 
one  or  the  frequency  of  the  other. 
In  her  young  days,  it  may  be  re- 
membered, she  had  herself  been 
just  the  person  to  marry  beneath 


herself  merely  for  the  sake  of  doing 
something  outre  and  heroic ;  but, 
full  as  she  was  of  all  manner  of 
prejudices,  the  condescension  of  the 
heir  of  Earl's  Dene  to  a  Miss  Le- 
fort  would  have  seemed  the  depth 
of  degradation,  whether  he  should 
condescend  by  way  of  marriage  or 
no  ;  and  she  had,  in  the  course  of 
her  conversation  with  him,  showed 
what  she  thought  about  the  matter 
as  plainly  as  possible,  though  less 
perhaps  by  the  mere  words  she 
used  than  by  her  manner  of  saying 
them.  Of  course,  Hugh  could  not 
be  expected  to  share  her  feelings 
in  this  matter,  if  only  for  the  rea- 
son that  she  was  a  woman  and  he  a 
man  ;  yet  still,  although  in  addition 
to  this  he  was  full  of  youthful 
impulse  and  she  already  old,  he 
deeply  in  love  and  she  full  of  social 
pride,  he  could  not  help  to  some  ex- 
tent feeling,  though  unconsciously, 
that  he  had,  after  all,  been  doing 
something  that  a  lady  would  in- 
stinctively feel  to  be  wrong  ;  and, 
as  a  gentleman,  he  was  touched  in 
conscience  accordingly,  though  it 
might  be  ever  so  little. 

But,  as  has  been  said,  a  higher 
sentiment  had  been  also  aiding 
to  bring  about  his  silence.  He, 
too,  fully  admitted  that  noblesse 
oblige;  and  he,  too,  believed  in  the 
Clares  almost  as  much  as  Miss  Clare 
herself  could  have  desired.  Not 
only  so ;  not  only  did  he  accept  the 
traditions  of  his  family  and  of  his 
class  for  gospel  ;  but  he  was  at 
heart  a  good  fighter,  although  of 
late  he  had  rather  neglected  the 
battle  in  which  he  was  engaged. 
And  now  it  was  certainly  not  the 
time  for  him  to  make  his  own  af- 
fairs a  stumbling-block  in  the  way 
of  the  victory  for  which  his  friends 
were  striving.  What  he  had  to  do 
for  the  present  was  to  fight  for  vic- 
tory, though  but  for  their  sakes,  as 
though  he  still  cared  about  it  for  his 
own.  It  was  the  country  gentleman's 
principle  of  conduct — to  do  what 
was  right  in  his  own  county,  from 
repelling  an  invading  army  to  sit- 
ting as  a  silent  and  superfluous 


348 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


member  of  his  Court  of  Quarter 
Sessions  ;  and  to  consider  every- 
thing to  be  of  importance  that  con- 
cerns the  spot  of  earth  in  which 
God  has  placed  him.  The  true  im- 
portance of  the  Denethorp  election 
was  no  doubt  very  small  indeed, 
but  he  never  thought  so  ;  and  the 
serious  and  earnest  pride  of  Miss 
Clare,  though  it  did  not  affect  his 
love  for  Angelique,  yet  made  him 
remember  that  he  had  something 
to  do,  as  he  considered,  for  his 
country,  and  for  the  institutions  in 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve. Now  it  was  obvious  enough 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  a 
confession  to  Miss  Clare  on  the  spot 
would  be  worse  than  inopportune  ; 
and  so  it  was  that  a  little  want  of 
readiness  and  self-confidence,  some 
difficulty  in  explaining  himself,  a 
long  habit  of  respect  and  obedience, 
and  a  great  deal  of  honourable  un- 
selfishness, all  acting  together  at 
the  same  moment,  caused  him  to 
hold  his  tongue. 

"Shall  you  not  then  be  going 


into  the  town?"  repeated  Miss 
Clare,  seeing  that  he  paused. 

"  No— I  do  not  think  I  shall.  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  be  wanted  to- 
day. By  the  way,  how  splendidly 
Warden  is  working  for  us !  White 
is  full  of  him." 

"  So  I  hear,  and  so  I  can  see  too. 
It  is  satisfactory  in  these  days  to 
see  a  young  man  of  promise  who 
does  not  think  it  fine  to  be  a  radi- 
cal." She  paused,  and  sighed. 
u  What  shall  you  do  with  yourself, 
then  ?  Ride  with  Alice  1 " 

But  this  Hugh  could  not  do.  He 
needed  to  be  alone  after  his  dis- 
comfiture ;  he  had  to  think  how  he 
should  overcome  his  aunt's  preju- 
dices, and  how  he  should  act,  when 
the  election  was  over,  if  he  should 
find  them  invincible. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  have  some- 
thing to  attend  to  here.  I  don't 
think  I  can." 

And  Miss  Clare,  as  Alice  returned 
to  the  room  in  her  riding-habit, 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
sighed  again. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


The  next  morning  Angelique  rose 
with  a  heavy  and  anxious  heart  to 
hear,  as  she  expected,  of  her  lover's 
quarrel  with  his  aunt,  which,  from 
what  she  knew  of  their  respective 
characters,  she  judged  to  be  inevit- 
able. It  was  not  only  that  she 
feared  the  consequent  failure  of 
her  scheme  ;  she  feared  also  the 
loss  of  her  situation  with  Miss  Ray- 
mond— in  short,  that  she  would 
have  grasped  at  a  shadow  only  to 
lose  the  solid  meat.  But  the  morn- 
ing passed,  and  the  afternoon,  and 
still  Hugh  did  not  come.  Had  she 
been  really  in  love  with  him,  she 
could  not  have  desired  to  see  him 
more  ;  and  it  was  with  a  sinking 
of  the  heart  that  at  last,  towards 
evening,  the  servant  put  a  note 
into  her  hand,  directed  in  a  hand- 
writing which  she  guessed  to  be  that 
of  Hugh.  A  groom  from  Earl's 
Dene  was  waiting  for  an  answer. 


"A  letter  from  Earl's  Dene?" 
asked  Marie. 

"  Only  a  note  from  Miss  Ray- 
mond," she  answered;  "I  have  a 
book  of  hers  that  she  wants  re- 
turned. I  must  go  and  look  for  it. 
I  know  I  have  it  somewhere  among 
my  things." 

As  soon  as  she  reached  her  own 
room  she  tore  the  note  open  with 
a  trembling  hand. 

"  Dearest,"  she  read,  "I  have  not 
been  able  to  speak  to  my  aunt  yet ; 
nor,  indeed,  do  I  think  I  shall  be 
able  to  till  the  election  is  over. 
She  would  be  very  excited  to  hear 
of  it,  so  I  had  better  wait  till  we 
have  done  with  the  contest.  How 
I  wish  it  was  over,  I  need  not  say. 
I  am  longing  to  see  you,  and  count- 
ing the  hours  till  to-morrow,  when  I 
shall  come  to  you  whatever  happens 
— before  twelve  if  I  can.  I  cannot 
believe  in  my  happiness  yet  unless 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


349 


I  see  you — it  is  all  like  a  dream. — 
H.  L." 

She  both  smiled  and  sighed  with 
relief,  and  forgot  all  her  anxiety  in 
a  moment. 

"  He  is  afraid  of  Miss  Clare  after 
all,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "  He 
\\ill  never  tell  her  now !  " 

So  she  took  a  pencil  and  scrib- 
bled her  answer. 

"  My  dear  Hugh, — How  strange 
it  seems  to  begin  so ! — I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  do  all  for  the  best, 
and  doubt  not  all  will  be  well.  I 
can  wait — I  have  trusted  you  with 
too  much  not  to  trust  you  altogether 
now! — A.  L. 

"  Of  course  I  will  be  in  to-mor- 
row morning." 

This  she  carried  to  the  man  with 
hor  own  hands,  and  she  spent  all 
the  rest  of  the  evening  in  a  state 
of  temper  as  angelic  as  her  name. 

"  Did  you  find  the  book  ? "  asked 
Marie. 

"No— I  could  not  find  it.  I 
suppose  Miss  Raymond  must  have 
got  it  herself  without  knowing  it." 

But  though  her  own  placidity 
was  restored,  the  rest  of  the  Lefort 
family  had  by  no  means  so  much 
reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the  state 
of  things.  The  teaching  work  of 
the  old  Frenchman  had  lain  prin- 
cipally among  the  families  of  the 
mills — that  is  to  say,  of  the  oppo- 
sition ;  and,  ever  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  contest,  he  had  found 
himself — why,  he  could  not  under- 
stand—  looked  upon  coldly  in  all 
quarters.  In  many  cases,  even, 
his  services  were  suddenly  dis- 
pensed with.  Now  the  number  of 
French  students  was  of  course 
never  too  large  in  Denethorp ; 
and  though  Monsieur  Lefort  en- 
joyed a  monopoly  of  those  that 
tli ere  were,  a  pupil  more  or  less 
made  a  considerable  difference  to 
him.  Even  at  the  best  of  times  he 
found  it  sufficiently  difficult  to  get 
along  respectably,  and  to  pay  his 
way.  He  was  obliged  to  dress 
tolerably  well ;  he  had  two  young 
children  to  feed  and  educate  and 
clothe  :  he  had  to  support  Marie, 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIII. 


who  could  not  be  spared  from  the 
household  and  the  children  to  a 
farther  extent  than  that  of  taking 
one  or  two  very  cheap  pupils,  whom 
she  taught  with  Ernest  and  Fleur- 
ette ;  and  the  long  illness  of  his 
wife  had  burdened  him  with  many 
debts.  Worst  of  all,  he  was  far  too 
mild  and  despondent  a  man  to 
make  a  really  good  fight  of  it ;  and 
he  was  too  blind  to  see  what  was 
going  on  even  in  his  own  family. 

Among  other  places  where  he 
taught  was  a  boarding-school,  which 
has  been  mentioned  already,  and 
was  kept  by  a  lady  whose  respecta- 
bility was  of  the  extreme  sort.  It 
was  patronised  chiefly  by  the  trades- 
people of  Denethorp  and  Redches- 
ter,  and  was  the  French  master's 
best  stronghold ;  for  to  learn  French 
was  there  de  rigueur,  as  much  even 
as  to  learn  the  use  of  the  globes.  On 
this  day  he  had  been  there  to  give 
his  lessons  as  usual ;  but  instead 
of  being  allowed,  as  usual,  to  go 
straight  to  the  schoolroom,  he  was 
asked  to  speak  with  Mrs  Price  her- 
self in  her  room  of  state.  She  was 
a  strong-minded  person,  rather  of 
the  dragon  type,  like  so  many 
school-mistresses  of  the  old  style  ; 
and  she  ruled  her  school  as  Miss 
Clare  would  have  liked  to  rule 
Denethorp.  Her  notions  of  de- 
corum and  propriety  were  terribly 
strict ;  and,  altogether,  a  private 
interview  with  her  was  rather  a 
thing  to  be  feared,  not  only  by  her 
pupils,  but  by  her  teachers  also. 
But  the  age,  ugliness,  respectability,- 
and  meekness  of  Monsieur  had  won 
her  heart ;  and  so  she  had  gener- 
ally left  him  pretty  well  alone. 

But  now  she  was  stiff,  even  for 
her. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr  Lefort." 

He  bowed,  and  sat  down. 

"I  think,  Mr  Lefort,  you  have 
now  known  me  for  some  time  1" 

"  I   have    had    that    happiness, 
madame." 

"  Very  well.     And  you  know  the 
school,  too  1  " 

"I  think  so  by  this  time,  ma- 
dame." 

2  B 


350 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


"And  you  are  acquainted  with 
the  character  it  bears  1 " 

"  That  it  is  of  the  highest.  Yes, 
madame." 

"  Character,  Mr  Lefort,  is  every- 
thing." 

"  Assuredly,  madame/' 

"And  do  you  feel  justified,  Mr 
Lefort,  in  coming  here  day  after 
day  and  week  after  week  to  teach 
in  a  school  whose  character  is  such 
—  is  such  —  as  you  admit  it  to 
be?" 

"  Madame  ? " 

"  I  say  do  you  feel  justified,  Mr 
Lefort  1  That  is  the  question." 

"  I  do  not  understand,  madame." 

"  I  thought,  Mr  Lefort,  that  you 
were  a  respectable  man.  In  you  I 
did  not  think  myself  deceived.  But 
it  is  not  that.  I  know  what  men 
are  too  well  to  be  surprised  at — 
at — anything.  But  you  must  be 
aware  that  as  long  as  your  family 
go  on  as  they  do,  you  are  not  a  fit 
and  proper  person  to  be  the  in- 
structor of  young  ladies  of  respect- 
ability." 

Mr  Lefort  became  stiff  in  his 
turn.  "  I  must  beg  you  to  explain 
yourself,  madame.  What  have  you 
heard  of  my  family  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  ask,  do  you  1 " 

11  Certainly,  I  ask." 

"  All  the  world  knows  it." 

"And  what  does  all  the  world 
Know?" 

"  I  blush  for  you,  Mr  Lefort !  I 
blush  for  your  grey  hairs  !  " 

"  I  am  not  conscious,  madame, 
that  I  have  any  reason  to  blush  for 
them." 

"So  much  the  worse — so  much 
the  worse,  Mr  Lefort." 

1  But  this  must  be  some  slander. 
I  will  ask  you " 

"Ask  your  daughter,  sir— ask 
Miss  Lefort,  who  is  the  talk  of  the 
whole  town." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  Marie — the  best 
girl  in  the  whole  world1?  For 
shame,  madame." 

"Yes,  for  shame,  indeed!  Ask 
her,  as  you  pretend  you  do  not 
know  !  And  you  will  please  to  con- 
sider our  engagement  at  an  end.  I 


will  pay  you,  of  course,  instead  of 
the  usual  notice  ;  and  I  owe  you 
something  besides,  I  believe.  You 
will  be  good  enough  to  let  me  have 
the  account  at  once." 

"  A  gentleman  does  not  pretend, 
madame.  Yes,  I  will  ask  Marie — 
not  you  any  more,  who  accuse  her, 
and  will  not  say  why  ;  and  I  will 
not  take  your  money — no,  not  a 
penny — not  even  when  you  apolo- 
gise to  her,  as  you  will  !  " 

He  had  some  blood  left  in  his 
dried-up  veins,  after  all ;  and  he 
dashed  out  of  the  room  as  if  he  had 
been  younger  by  thirty  years,  leav- 
ing Mrs  Price  petrified  and  rather 
doubtful. 

No  doubt  he  did  well  to  be 
angry,  though  not  from  a  practical 
point  of  view,  seeing  that  he  had 
already  anticipated  the  money  that 
he  had  so  scornfully  refused.  But 
he  changed  his  mind  about  men- 
tioning the  matter  to  Marie ;  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  dis- 
tress her,  as  indeed  it  seemed  to 
insult  her,  by  asking  her  what  it  all 
meant,  and  he  had  too  much  con- 
fidence in  her  to  really  suspect 
anything  wrong.  He  would  almost 
as  soon  have  suspected  Angelique 
herself.  The  calumny,  whatever  it 
might  be,  must,  of  course,  be  traced 
to  its  source  at  once,  but  not  by 
means  of  her  who  was  doubtless  the 
most  ignorant  of  its  existence.  He 
did  not  even  speak  of  his  dismissal 
when  he  got  home,  but  only  said 
that  he  should  not  be  at  the  school 
as  usual  the  following  morning. 
Meanwhile  he  considered  to  whom 
he  should  apply  for  advice. 

One  effect  of  his  not  going  out 
the  next  day  was  that  he  spoiled 
the  chance  of  anything  like  a  tete-a- 
tete  between  his  niece  and  Hugh, 
who  came  according  to  his  promise. 
She  just  whispered  to  her  lover  that 
no  one  knew  anything  about  their 
engagement  as  yet ;  a  communica- 
tion at  which,  in  truth,  he  was  more 
surprised  than  disappointed. 

But  he  was  fated  to  be  still  more 
surprised.  He  was  about  to  leave, 
after  a  very  short  and  unsatisfactory 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


351 


visit,  when  Monsieur  Lefort  said  to 
him, 

"Mr  Lester,  should  you  think 
me  very  presuming  if  I  ask  your 
advice  about  something  that  con- 
cerns myself  1 " 

"  If  I  thought  myself  able  to  ad- 
vise you  in  anything " 

"  Then  would  you  let  me  walk 
with  you  a  few  steps  in  your  own 
direction  1 " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  have 
your  company.  I  am  in  no  hurry/' 

As  soon  as  they  were  in  the  street 
Monsieur  Lefort  told  him  of  his 
interview  with  Mrs  Price. 

"I  could  not  speak  to  her  any 
ir  ore,"  he  said,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  story,  "and  I  could  not 
distress  Marie.  What  had  I  better 
do  to  find  out  what  it  means  1 " 

Lester  frowned  angrily.  "  I  am 
glad  you  did  not  mention  it  to  Miss 
Lefort  or  to — to  her  cousin.  I,  too, 
have  heard  something  of  this.  I 
am  ashamed  that  the  Denethorp 
people  should  be  such  idiots — for 
myself,  I  should  not  care  a  straw, 
bat  if  you  are  to  suffer  it  must  be 
stopped  at  once.  It  is  to  injure  me 
that  these  absurd  stories  are  put 
about." 

"You,  Mr  Lester?'; 

"  Yes  ;  in  my  election." 

"  But  how " 

"  I  scarcely  like  to  tell  you,  it 
seems  so  absurd.  People  pretend 
to  have  noticed  that  I  am  too  much 
at  your  house." 

"  Eh  lien  !  and  what  then  1  " 

"  They  join  my  name  with  that 
of  Miss  Lefort,  your  daughter,  it 
seems  ;  and  they  have  the  pleasant 
and  charitable  idea  about  me  that 
I  can  be  after  no  good." 

"Then,  Mr  Lester,  you  should 
have  done  one  of  two  things.  You 
should  have  told  me,  or  discon- 
tinued your  visits.  You  should 
hr.ve  remembered  the  value  of  a 
girl's  good  name,  when  she  has 
m -thing  else." 

"  Indeed  you  wrong  me.  How 
could  I  have  done  either,  when  it 
wis  only  the  day  before  yester- 
day that  the  report  came  to  my 


own  ears  1    And  I  have  not  been 
since." 

"  But  you  came  to-day." 

"  Monsieur  Lefort,  let  us  under- 
stand each  other.  I  did  come  to- 
day, but  it  was  not  to  see  your 
daughter." 

"  Was  it,  then,  to  tell  me  what 
you  had  heard  ? " 

"  It  was  not." 

"What  was  it  for,  then?" 

"  It  was  to  see  your  niece." 

"What!  Ange-lique?" 

"Yes.     I  love  her." 

"  Grand  Dieu  !  " 

"And  I  would  make  her  my 
wife." 

Monsieur  Lefort  was  so  utterly 
taken  aback  that  he  could  not 
speak  for  many  instants.  At  last 
he  said, 

"  And  does  she  know  it  1 " 

"  I  have  told  her  so,  and  she  has 
given  me  hope." 

"And  when  was  this?  How 
long  has  she  known  it  ? " 

"She  must  have  known  it  for 
long.  But  I  did  not  tell  her  so 
till  when  I  was  last  here." 

"  You  have  done  wrong,  Mr  Les- 
ter— very  wrong." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  You  have  done  very  wrong.  I 
know  enough  of  English  ways  to 
know  that." 

^But  I  am  my  own  master.  I 
am  serious  in  what  I  say.  I  mean 
rightly  and  honestly.  In  what 
have  I  done  wrong  1 " 

"  That  may  all  be  very  true.  I 
do  not  doubt  you  mean  well.  But 
you  should  have  thought  a  little  of 
us,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  what  matters  the  chatter 
of  a  townful  of  malicious  idiots  ? " 

"  Nothing  to  you,  perhaps.  But 
to  us  it  means  ruin." 

"But  when  she  is  my  wife? 
What  can  harm  you  then  ?  " 

"  In  a  matter  like  this,  Mr  Les- 
ter, you  will  pardon  me  for  speak- 
ing of  your  own  affairs.  You  have 
made  them  mine  also.  I  presume 
that  Miss  Clare  does  not  know  of 
this  intention  on  your  part." 

"Not  yet." 


352 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


"  So  I  thought.  No.  If  you  do 
not  consider  us,  we  must  consider 
you.  People  would  blame  us  with 
justice  if  we  were  the  cause  of 
your  ruin." 

"  But  if  Angelique " 

"  If  Angelique  is  the  good  and 
brave  girl  I  take  her  for,  she  will 
see  it  in  the  same  light  that  I  see 
it.  I  will  speak  to  her,  and  then 
she  or  I  will  write  to  you.  In  the 
meanwhile  do  me  the  favour  of 
coming  to  see  us  no  more.  You 
cannot,  with  honour,  condescend 
to  us,  nor  we  ascend  to  you.  I 
daresay  you  will  think  I  say  hard 
things,  but  you  will  think  better 
one  day.  And  you  must  remember 
that  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  and  that  I  love  Angelique 
as  if  I  were  hers." 

"  No  ;  I  cannot  consent  to  that. 
I  cannot  give  her  up  like  this.  If 
she  loves  me " 

"  That  can  make  no  difference  if 
she  cannot  be  your  wife/' 

"But  surely  Angelique  can  judge 
for  herself." 

"  No  doubt.  But  surely  you 
would  not  have  her  judge  blindly." 


"But  if  she  has  decided  al- 
ready ? " 

"  Mr  Lester,  this  argument  will 
prove  endless.  As  a  gentleman, 
I  trust  you  will  not  come  to  us 
while,  as  you  see,  your  visits  are 
likely  to  do  us  a  fatal  injury.  If 
you  do,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  think 
of  you  badly,  which  I  am  far  from 
doing  now.  And  I  should,  in  my 
own  self-defence,  feel  it  my  duty 
to  communicate  with  Miss  Clare. 
Just  think — it  is  a  question  now 
neither  of  you  nor  of  Angelique, 
but  of  Marie." 

Lester  did  think,  and  then  said, 
frankly, 

"  I  will  not  give  up  Angelique. 
But  I  will  give  you  my  word  not 
to  call  in  Market  Street  until  after 
the  election  is  over,  on  condition 
that  you  will  let  me  write  oiice  to 
Angelique  to  explain  why.  I  might 
do  so  without  your  permission,  I 
know  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  feel  that 
you  can  trust  me." 

"  And  I  do  trust  you.  And  you 
shall  have  an  answer." 

And  so,  upon  this  understanding, 
they  parted,  mutually  dissatisfied. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


When  Monsieur  Lefort  returned 
home  after  this  conversation,  he -felt 
terribly  fatigued.  His  life  was  one 
of  chronic,  monotonous  trouble, 
and  the  excitement  of  the  last  four- 
and- twenty  hours  had  been  too 
much  for  him.  Little  used  to  the 
occurrence  of  anything  unusual,  he 
found  himself  both  physically  and 
mentally  incapable  of  speaking 
either  to  Marie  or  to  Angelique  of 
what  was  upon  his  mind ;  and  so 
he  drank  his  coffee  in  silence,  won- 
dering the  while  how  long  he  should 
be  able  to  afford  himself  his  only 
luxury.  Angelique  was  curious  to 
know  what  had  passed  between 
her  uncle  and  Hugh,  but  the  silence 
of  the  former  reassured  her.  After 
all,  she  had  not  much  to  fear  from 
him — he  was  not  Miss  Clare.  But 
still  she  liked  things  to  go  on  with- 


out unpleasant  scenes ;  and  if  she 
cared  about  anything,  she  cared  for 
the  good  opinion  of  Marie. 

She  was,  however,  to  a  certain 
extent  enlightened  as  to  the  position 
of  matters  by  a  letter  which  she 
received  from  Hugh  that  very  even- 
ing, and  which  her  uncle  handed 
to  her  in  a  deprecating  sort  of  way. 
When  she  had  read  it  she  saw  clearly 
that  her  best  course  would  be  to 
trust  to  fortune,  seeing  that  she  had 
secured  her  fish,  and  that  she  could 
rely  upon  Miss  Clare's  being  kept 
in  ignorance  for  the  present.  After 
all,  if  her  uncle  should  make  a  fuss 
— and  she  had  never  yet  known 
him  do  so  about  anything — she 
could  manage  him  somehow  ;  and 
from  Marie  she  had  nothing  to  fear 
but  an  "Angelique/" 

And  so  the  nomination  of  the 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


353 


riemberforDenethorp  was  brought 
rearer  by  another  day.  Warden 
had  returned  from  London,  and 
t  ad  slept  off  his  fatigue ;  and  Marie 
had  something  else  to  think  about 
than  the  humours  of  her  cousin. 
And  so,  on  the  whole,  Angelique 
had  no  very  great  cause  to  be  dis- 
satisfied. Madam  Clare  could  not 
live  for  ever,  and  then 

For  his  part,  Hugh  had,  during 
the  last  day  or  two,  been  rather 
more  attentive  to  his  aunt's  guest 
than  usual :  not  by  any  means  of 
set  purpose,  or  with  any  intention 
cf  throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
anybody,  but  simply  because  he 
somehow  felt  that  he  had  not  of 
lite  paid  her  as  much  attention  as 
mere  politeness  required — perhaps 
to  some  extent  also  on  the  same 
principle  that  makes  a  schoolboy, 
who  has  been  guilty  of  some  great 
piece  of  mischief  which  he  would 
rather  not  have  found  out,  unnatu- 
rally well  behaved  in  other  respects. 
Not  that  Miss  Raymond  much  cared. 
Bhe  liked  him  very  much,  but  she 
was  by  no  means  perpetually  think- 
ing of  love  and  marriage.  When 
she  rode,  she  rode  to  ride,  and  not 
to  flirt.  The  interest  which  she 
took  in  the  election  itself  arose 
from  her  being  readily  interested 
in  everything  that  went  on  about 
her,  and  from  its  interesting  her 
friends,  and  not  from  any  special 
cause  connected  with  the  candidate 
himself.  Nevertheless,  the  dust 
did  find  its  way  into  Miss  Clare's 
eyes  all  the  same. 

But  one  day,  on  returning  from 
a  ride  with  Miss  Raymond,  which 
had  been  pleasant  to  her,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  anxieties,  not  unplea- 
sant to  her  cavalier,  the  latter  was 
told  that  a  gentleman  was  waiting 
in  the  library  to  see  him,  whose 
card  bore  the  name  of  Lieut.  Moun- 
tain, R.N. — a  name  that  he  recog- 
rised  as  that  of  a  retired  naval 
officer  who  lived  at  Redchester, 
find  amused  the  evening  of  his  days 
with  local  politics  and  agitation. 

"  I  have  the  honour  of  address- 
ing Mr  Lester?"  he  asked,  al- 


though he  knew  Hugh  by  sight 
perfectly. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  Mr  Mountain." 

"  I  call,  sir,  as  the  friend  of  Mr 
Prescot." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  has  ob- 
tained for  me  the  honour  of  a  com- 
munication from  Mr  Prescot '] " 

"  I  said  as  the  friend — as  the 
friend,  sir — of  Mr  Prescot,  who  is, 
sir,  as  you  may  be  aware,  the  popu- 
lar candidate  for  the  representation 
of  this  borough." 

"  I  am  certainly  aware  that  he  is 
a  candidate,  but  whether  he  is  the 
popular  one " 

"Mr  Prescot,  sir,  feels  that  he 
has  cause  to  complain  of  your  con- 
duct towards  himself  personally.'7 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that. 
He  does  not  expect  me  to  retire 
from  the  contest,  I  suppose  ?  For, 
except  by  opposing  him,  I  do  not 
know  what  reason  I  can  have  given 
him  to  complain." 

"  Sir,  this  is  a  most  serious  busi- 
ness, and  I  beg  you  will  treat  it 
seriously.  Mr  Prescot  feels  that 
you,  by  yourself  or  by  your  agents, 
have  acted  towards  him  in  a  way 
not  becoming  in  one  gentleman  to- 
wards another." 

"Sir!" 

"  You  will  understand,  sir,  that 
I  desire  to  proceed  in  this  affair 
with  all  courtesy.  Perhaps,  sir, 
you  may  not — I  say  you  may  not 
— be  aware  that  there  has  been 
published  in  this  town  an  infamous 
libel." 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that ; 
but  I  should  hardly  have  thought 
that  Mr  Prescot  would  have  charged 
me  with  attacking  my  own  friends." 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  sir,  that 
you  deny  all  knowledge  of  what  I 
allude  to  1 " 

"  You  may  understand  that  I 
don't  understand  a  word  you  say." 

"  I  allude  to  this,  sir."  And  he 
produced  a  copy  of  Barton's  last 
performance,  which  had  been  flying 
about  the  town  all  day,  but  had 
not  as  yet  found  its  way  to  Earl's 
Dene. 

Hugh  read  it. 


354 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  V. 


[March 


"  And  does  Mr-  Prescot  mean  to 
say  that  he  can  think  me  the  author 
of  a  thing  like  this?" 

"  Mr  Prescot,  sir,  has  reason  to 
believe  that  he  knows  who  the 
author  is,  and  he  has  excellent  rea- 
son to  believe  that  you  know  who 
it  is  as  well  as  he.  And  he  thinks, 
sir,  that  it  is  an  infamous  publica- 
tion." 

Hugh  considered  for  a  moment. 
"  Could  it  be  Warden  himself  1 " 
he  thought.  It  did  not  seem  to  be 
unlikely.  But  as  he  did  not  choose 
to  guess, 

"  Well,  it  has  been  published 
now,"  he  said,  "  and  can't  be  un- 
published again.  What  does  Mr 
Prescot  expect  me  to  do  ? " 

"  He  demands  an  immediate 
apology,  sir,  for  this  slanderous 
and  unjustifiable  attack." 

"  An  apology  1  How  can  I  apo- 
logise for  what  I  know  nothing 
about  1  I  am  sorry  it  appeared,  of 
course  ;  but  really  I  think  that  he 
is  the  very  last  person  who  ought 
to  complain  of  it." 

"An  apology,  sir,  and  an  im- 
mediate suppression." 

"  He  must  know,  Mr  Mountain, 
and  so  must  you,  that  suppression 
is  impossible.  And  I  have  done 
nothing  that  will  admit  of  an 
apology." 

"  Then,  sir,  do  I  understand  that 
you  refuse  to  apologise  ] " 

"  Most  distinctly." 

"On  your  own  responsibility ? " 

"On  my  own  responsibility  — 
whatever  that  may  mean." 

"  Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  in  that 
case  there  can  be  but  one  termina- 
tion ? " 

"If  Mr  Prescot  thinks  I  have 
wronged  him,  of  course  I  am  ready 
to  give  him  proper  satisfaction." 

"Perhaps,  sir,  you  had  better 
consult  some  friend.  I  shall  re- 
main at  the  King's  Head,  Dene- 
thorp,  and  will  give  you  two  clear 
days  to  consider.  If  by  that  time 
I  hear  from  any  friend  of  yours 
that  you  are  still  in  the  same  mind, 
or  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  at  all, 
I  will  consider  that  the  rest  of  this 


affair  is  to  be  arranged  in  the  only 
way  that  will  then  be  open  to  my 
principal." 

"  Will  you  take  any  refreshment, 
Mr  Mountain?"  He  rose  to  ring 
the  bell. 

"Good- day,  sir.  And  I  trust 
you  will  think  better  of  it  by  to- 
morrow." 

And  so,  to  add  to  his  difficulties, 
he  found  himself  engaged  in  a  duel 
with  the  rival  candidate.  "  So  we 
may  not  have  to  go  to  the  poll  after 
all,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  then 
wrote  to  an  acquaintance  of  his  at 
the  Redch ester  Barracks,  asking  him 
to  meet  him  the  next  day. 

It  will  seem  at  first  sight  absurd 
enough  that  so  apparently  slight  a 
matter  should  assume  what  would 
be  held  in  these  days  so  serious  an 
aspect.  The  licence  of  an  election 
excuses — or  at  least  used  to  excuse 
— much  hard  and  even  foul  hitting. 
But  this  case  was  exceptional,  as 
might  very  easily  indeed  be  proved 
were  the  effusions  of  Dick  Barton 
fit  to  appear  in  type.  There  is  a 
limit  of  insult  beyond  which  a  can- 
didate for  a  borough,  long-suffering 
as  he  must  needs  be,  cannot  be  ex- 
pected to  stand;  and  Prescot  was 
not  only  the  re  verse  of  long-suffering, 
but  it  was  just  his  sorest  corns  up- 
on which  Barton  had  deliberately 
trampled  in  such  a  manner  that  no 
man,  at  least  in  those  times,  could 
possibly  let  the  matter  pass  without 
resenting  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
though  Lester  entirely  disapproved 
of  Warden's  proceeding,  and  was 
himself  entirely  innocent,  he  felt 
himself  bound  to  support  his  friend 
through  thick  and  thin,  in  respect 
of  what  had  been  done  in  his  own 
service;  and  besides,  he  considered 
that  Prescot  was  the  last  man  who 
had  any  right  to  complain.  At  all 
events,  he  felt  sure  that  his  oppon- 
ent, even  if  he  had  had  any  just 
reason  for  complaint,  had  not  the 
faintest  right  to  anything  approach- 
ing an  apology,  and  less  even  from 
Warden  than  from  himself  :  and  so 
he  was  more  than  ready  to  stand  by 
the  consequences  of  refusing  to  give 


1370.] 


JSarl's  Dene.— Part  V. 


sr.5 


one.  And  so,  what  with  Prescot's 
vary  natural  anger — seeing  that  he 
had  been  tricked  and  rendered  ridi- 
c  ilous  by  means  of  his  own  weap- 
ons— and"  what  with  Hugh's  chival- 
rous determination  to  bear  upon 
his  own  shoulders  the  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  a  proceeding  of 
which  he  entirely  disapproved,  only 
one  termination  of  the  quarrel  was 
possible.  Indeed,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  his  chief  feeling  about  the 
matter  was  one  of  vanity  at  being 
engaged  in  his  first  "  affair." 

The  next  day,  Captain  Seward 
— who,  by  the  way,  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  counsel  peace 
— conveyed  Hugh's  final  answer  to 
the  King's  Head ;  and  a  meeting 
vras  arranged  to  take  place  in  a 
convenient  meadow  about  half-way 
between  Denethorp  and  Redchester. 

The  interval  between  a  man's 
fi  rst  challenge  and  its  result  is  apt 
to  pass  very  much  as  though  it 
were  part  of  a  dream  ;  and  as  such, 
at  least  in  the  case  of  Hugh  Lester, 
it}  ought  to  be  described.  Nor  is 
tlie  dream  altogether  of  an  unpleas- 
ant kind,  in  spite  of  what  sober- 
minded  people  may  think,  when 
one  has  hot  blood  in  one's  veins, 
and  is  convinced  that  it  is  the 
right  and  chivalrous  thing  to  do. 
But  hot  blood  is  apt  to  grow 
feverish,  and  fevers  have  their 
chills.  And  though  love  by  no 
means  makes  a  man  less  inclined 
to  fight,  but  rather  the  contrary,  it 
does  make  a  man  less  inclined  to  be 
killed. 

He  could  not  help  regretting,  as 
he  walked  about  the  place  at  night, 
on  the  eve  of  the  meeting,  his  pro- 
mise to  Monsieur  Lefort  that  he 
would  not  attempt  to  see  Angelique, 
for  now  it  was  quite  on  the  cards 
that  he  might  see  her  no  more — 
that  he  might  have  to  leave  the 
world  without  even  bidding  her 
farewell.  In  answer  to  his  last 
letter,  he  had  received  the  slightest 
and  most  clandestine -looking  of 
notes,  reassuring  him  of  her  patience 
and  trust  in  him;  and  upon  this 
te  had  lived  for  many  days.  But 


now  his  soul  required  stronger 
meat  than  written  words,  which 
had  been  read  and  kissed  until  their 
sweetness  had  grown  almost  stale. 
And  his  desire  was  all  the  stronger, 
since  it  could  not  possibly  be 
gratified.  He  had  written  five  let- 
ters in  case  of  accident — one,  full 
of  explanation  and  of  gratitude,  for 
Miss  Clare ;  one  to  Warden,  full 
of  thanks  and  exhortations  to  fight 
the  battle  still  upon  his  own  account 
— making  him  in  effect  his  political 
heir ;  one  to  an  old  college  friend, 
full  of  kind  remembrances  to  every- 
body; one  to  his  servant,  full  of 
commissions ;  and  one  to  Angel- 
ique,  full  of  love.  But  this  was 
but  a  sorry  substitute  for  what  he 
longed  to  say  and  do,  after  all ; 
and  his  cigar  tasted  bitterly. 
Nevertheless  he  slept  well,  and  in 
the  morning  was  as  cool  and  as 
well  prepared  as  a  man  who  thinks 
he  is  doing  his  duty  should  always 
be.  In  fact,  the  morning  was  al- 
ways his  best  time. 

An  early  hour  had  been  fixed  for 
the  meeting,  and  he  found  Captain 
Seward  waiting  for  him  with  a  trap 
at  the  bend  of  the  road  beyond  the 
bridge. 

They  drove  off  rapidly ;  and  the 
freshness  of  the  air  soon  put  Hugh 
into  unforced  spirits.  They  had 
not  a  very  great  way  to  go,  and 
they  found  themselves  the  first  on 
the  ground. 

Presently,  however,  from  the  op- 
posite direction,  came  up  another 
trap,  containing  Lieutenant  Moun- 
tain, a  surgeon  from  the  barracks, 
and  the  great  Mr  Prescot  himself. 

Both  the  captain  and  the  lieut- 
enant were  pretty  well  used  to  the 
business ;  and  as  the  last  resort 
was  now  inevitable,  the  forms 
and  ceremonies  were  got  through 
quickly,  and  the  two  opponents 
were  soon  in  their  places,  waiting 
for  the  signal  to  fire. 

Now,  Lester  was  an  admirable 
shot,  and  knew  it.  Of  course  he 
did  not  aim  to  kill,  but  he  must  aim 
to  wing,  almost  as  a  matter  of  self- 
defence.  He  fired,  but,  in  order  to 


356 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  III. 


[March 


avoid  the  chance  of  killing,  gave 
himself  too  wide  a  margin,  and 
missed  altogether. 

Had  he  conspicuously  fired  wide, 
his  opponent  might  very  likely,  un- 
der the  circumstances, have  thought 
that  enough  had  been  done  for 
honour ;  but,  as  it  was,  the  latter 


having  seen  the  general  direction 
of  his  adversary's  pistol,  aimed 
straight  and  low. 

The  next  instant  Hugh  was  lying 
in  the  arms  of  the  surgeon.  The 
ball  had  passed  into  his  side,  and 
he  seemed,  in  the  eyes  of  all,  to  be 
faint  with  the  faintness  of  death. 


END   OF  THE   FIRST  BOOK. 


THE   OPENING   OF  THE   SUEZ   CANAL  : 

AS  COMMUNICATED  TO  BULLION  BALES,   ESQ.    OF  MANCHESTER, 
BY  HIS  FRIEND  MR  SCAMPER. 


PART  III. 


MY  DEAR  BALES,  —  Did  it  ever 
occur  to  you  what  important  illus- 
trations of  national  character  might 
be  obtained  from  a  study  of  na- 
tional oaths  ?  I  don't  mean  fan- 
tastic expressions,  such  as  Bob 
Acres'  "  odds  triggers  and  flints," 
or  Mr  Brisk's  "  let  me  perish/'  but 
the  vernacular  outpourings  of  over- 
charged minds  venting  themselves 
otherwise  than  in  goodwill  towards 
men.  It  has  been  acutely  observed 
how  much  ballads  have  to  do  with 
the  creation  of  national  sentiments, 
but  nobody,  so  far  as  I  know,  has 
traced  the  relation  between  charac- 
ter and  oaths.  I  will  explain  why 
I  have  begun  my  letter  with  the 
above  question.  The  idea  was 
suggested  to  me  as  I  lay  in  bed 
the  morning  after  the  Khedive's 
ball  at  Kasr  el  Nilo,  somewhere 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock. 
You  will  remember  that  I  had  re- 
tired to  rest  the  same  morning  be- 
tween four  and  five,  after  being 
very  actively  employed  for  more 
than  twenty-four  hours,  and  you 
may  suppose  that,  notwithstanding 
the  crowd  of  thoughts  likely  to  pre- 
sent themselves  in  my  first  solitude, 
I  was  not  long  in  falling  asleep. 
I  slept  till  after  eight,  and  should 
probably  have  done  so  till  after 
eleven  had  I  been  suffered  to  take 


mine  ease  in  mine  inn.  But  fate 
ordered  things  her  own  way ;  my 
rest  was  rudely  broken,  and  it 
was  broken  by  a  concordia  dis- 
cors  of  execrations  ;  that  is  to 
say,  there  was  entire  concord 
and  unanimity  as  to  the  consign- 
ment which  every  railer  was  mak- 
ing of  his  neighbour's  immaterial 
and  material  being,  but  a  harsh, 
incongruous,  and  anti-morphic  clam- 
our used  to  express  the  same.  Had 
I  been  a  rash  and  irascible  man,  it 
is  possible  that,  on  being  disturbed, 
I  might  have  offered  my  mite  where 
so  many  rich  men  were  casting 
their  gifts  into  the  treasury  of 
condemnation  ;  but  being,  as  you 
know,  a  model  of  self-restraint,  I 
fell  to  moralising  on  what  I  was 
obliged  to  hear,  and  propounded  to 
myself  that  little  theorem  concern- 
ing oaths  and  character  which  I 
have  just  passed  on  to  you.  I 
would  have  preferred  to  sleep  on, 
it  is  true,  but  as  to  getting  into  a 
rage,  because  in  such  a  place  I 
couldn't,  that  would  have  been  in- 
excusable. When  young  Bailey 
was  supposed  to  be,  like  young 
Lycidas,  dead  ere  his  prime,  and 
not  to  have  left  his  peer,  Mrs 
Gamp  observed  that  "  he  was  born 
into  a  wale,  and  must  take  the 
kinsequences  of  sich  a  sitiwation ; " 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


357 


and  in  like  manner,  as  I  think, 
every  man  who  went  skylarking  to 
the  Suez  fetes  was  bound  to  take 
the  consequences  of  whatever  situa- 
tion he  might  fall  into.  For  my 
pirt  the  wale  to  which  I  had  be- 
taken myself,  though  not  always  a 
smooth  arid  flowery  wale,  had  left 
me  with  few  losses  or  injuries,  and 
had  presented  many  delights.  I 
began  to  feel  on  good  terms  with 
Fortune,  and  was  not  prone  to  be- 
lieve that  every  little  inconvenience 
Mas  really  for  my  ultimate  damage; 
therefore,  I  say,  I  did  not  fall  into 
great  wrath,  but  lay  and  rested  my 
limbs,  though  I  could  not  sleep. 
Sleep  !  well,  it  would  have  been 
difficult.  The  occasion  of  the  row 
I  could  pretty  well  guess.  The 
s~ate  of  the  hotel  the  evening  be- 
fore gave  sure  token  of  what  would 
happen  next  day.  The  bells,  I 
fancy,  were  unanswered,  and  soon 
rendered  dumb  by  fierce  pulling; 
the  water,  too,  though  raised 
tli rough  pipes  (Nile  water,  Bales), 
had  unfortunately  failed  that  morn- 
ing (not  a  very  serious  privation,  by 
the  by,  to  many  of  the  honourable 
comminators) ;  boots  and  clothes 
were  unbrushed ;  coffee  was  not 
forthcoming  ;  all  the  world  had  got 
out  of  bed  on  the  wrong  side,  and 
with  one  consent  was  raising  its 
cheerful  voice.  But  as  the  world 
is  no  longer  of  one  speech  and  of 
one  language,  its  cheerful  voice  was 
of  necessity  of  many  sounds,  though 
of  very  even  intensity  while  it  rav- 
ed. There  were  shrieks  and  howls, 
roars  and  squalls,  gutturals  and 
sibilants,  liquids  and  solids,  rolling 
sonorous  oaths,  oaths  that  went 
off  as  sharp  as  crackers,  earnest 
v/icked  oaths,  appealing  tragic 
oaths,  despairing  oaths,  sudden 
frantic  oaths  in  chorus  indicating 
t  hat  the  skirt  of  a  fellah  was  seen  in 
the  far  distance,  composite  poetical 
oaths,  oaths  of  sublime  simplicity. 
And  there  lay  I  amused,  while 
Chinamen,  Germans,  Yankee-doo- 
dles, Gauls,  English,  Parthians  and 
Medes  andElamites,  Cretes  and  Ara- 
bians, every  man  in  his  own  tongue, 


gave  utterance  to  what  Friday  cal- 
led "  de  great  dam." 

Well,  I  lay  and  thought  that  if 
ever  again  I  should  know  the  de- 
lights of  a  winter  evening  and  an 
easy-chair,  I  would  make  a  profound 
philosophic  inquiry  into  the  oaths 
of  all  nations;  and  you  should  ask 
Blackwood,  who  is,  I  know,  a  friend 
of  yours,  to  give  it  a  place  in  *  Maga ' 
— will  you  1 

At  last  the  tumult  began  to  sub- 
side, the  speakers  dropped  away 
hither  and  thither,  and  a  few  only 
of  the  most  eloquent  were  yet 
breathing  out  threatenings.  These 
last,  too,  died  away  in  low  anathe- 
mas. The  corridors  became  toler- 
ably quiet,  and  I  could  hear  the 
wretched  feltahs  creeping  cautiously 
from  their  holes  and  pattering  along 
the  floor  as  they  went  about  their 
daily  work.  There  was  no  more 
chance  of  quiet,  and  besides,  there 
was  a  bright  sun  shining  in  at  my 
window ;  therefore,  though  they 
had  waked  me  too  soon,  I  did  not 
slumber  again,  but  got  up,  and  had 
a  refreshing  wash — wash,  I  say — for 
Bales,  my  boy,  I  have  not  lived  in 
Manchester  for  nothing.  I  foresaw 
that  water  might  be  at  a  premium  ; 
and  the  night  before,  amid  all  the 
hurry  of  arrival  and  dressing  for  the 
ball,  arranged,  through  a  baksheesh 
of  one  franc,  to  have  a  sitz-bath 
brought  then  into  my  chamber, 
and  there  filled  with  Nile  water. 
Oblige  me  by  mentioning  this  on 
'Change  —  in  the  hearing  of  old 
Pinch,  if  you  can  manage  it.  He  got 
to  windward  of  us  in  that  matter 
of  the  maddapollans,  but  I  mean 
to  show  him  a  trick  of  Egypt  when 
I  get  back. 

Cairo  viewed  by  day  proved  quite 
as  prepossessing  as  when  viewed  by 
lamp-light.  I  opened  my  window 
and  stepped  out  on  the  balcony,  in 
my  dressing-gown,  to  reconnoitre. 
It  was  a  delicious  morning,  of  about 
the  temperature  of  the  English 
June.  Palm-branches  stirred  gently 
against  the  purple  sky  ;  groves  and 
plains  stretched  toward  the  city 
from  a  not  very  distant  horizon ; 


358 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


[March 


and  mosques  and  minarets  inter- 
spersed among  high  and  principally 
modern  houses,  all  standing,  or  ap- 
pearing to  stand,  among  trees  and 
gardens,  formed  the  foreground  of 
a  very  different  landscape  from 
those  which  met  us  in  the  desert. 
This  was  my  first  impression  from 
Grand  Cairo ;  but  it  was  a  false  and 
hasty  impression,  very  unlike  any 
of  the  images  of  the  same  renowned 
city  which  I  have  carried  away 
stamped  on  my  brain,  to  remain 
there  till  death  us  do  part.  Modern 
Cairo  is  no  more  the  Cairo  of  the 
mind  than  Ismai'l  Pasha,  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  patent-leather  boots,  is 
Haroun  al  Raschid.  In  both  cases 
the  modern  forms  are  the  natural 
creations  of  moving  time,  and  pos- 
sibly great  improvements  on  the 
old  —  "but  oh  the  difference  to 
me!" 

I  needed  not,  however,  to  have 
been  so  hasty  in  making  my  moan 
over  the  things  of  yore.  However 
incompatible  past  and  present  may 
be  elsewhere,  it  is  certain  that  in 
Cairo  they  coexist.  A  turn  to  your 
left,  ten  steps  down  an  alley,  and 
you  have  gone  back  six  centuries 
at  least,  out  of  the  sight  of  houses 
five  storeys  high,  with  plate-glass 
windows  and  gas  and  water  service, 
into  the  real  presentment  of  the 
'  Arabian  Nights/  If  you  can  be 
amazed  this  transition  must  aston- 
ish you.  You  don't  for  the  moment 
reflect  that  it  isn't  Bagdad,  it  is  so 
exactly  like  the  Bagdad  that  you 
have  read  and  dreamed  about. 
There  are  the  little,  close,  narrow 
passages,  crowded  with  Mussul- 
mans, Jews,  Greeks,  Copts,  veiled 
women,  saucy  boys,  and  donkeys, 
jabbering,  shouting,  struggling,  arid 
staring,  despite  the  filth  and  stench. 
There  are  the  tall,  old,  curiously- 
built  houses,  with  a  little  stall  on 
the  ground-floor  of  each,  just  large 
enough  to  hold  the  proprietor  and 
possibly  his  man  or  boy  assistant, 
and  some  of  the  wares.  It  is  likely 
that  all  the  merchandise  may  be  con- 
tained in  the  shop  when  the  vendors 
are  out  of  it;  but  while  they  are  there, 


room  is  made  for  them  by  ranging 
half  of  the  stock  outside  on  the 
door-posts  or  on  little  benches. 
The  floors  of  the  boutiques  are 
raised  a  little — say  two  feet — off 
the  ground ;  above  that  level  the 
fronts  are  all  open,  with  neither 
doors  nor  windows.  Cross-legged 
on  the  floor,  with  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  sits  the  dealer,  if  he  be  an 
Egyptian,  while  his  assistant  ar- 
ranges wares  and  recommends  them 
to  passengers.  A  Jew  or  Greek 
proprietor  may  occasionally  be  seen 
seated  on  a  chair  somewhere  about 
the  premises.  Many  of  the  trades 
have  their  own  particular  quarters 
in  the  bazaar.  Goldsmiths  and 
jewellers  are  all  together;  silver- 
smiths have  their  proper  alleys  ; 
and  silks,  cloth -of -gold,  and  em- 
broidered stuffs,  by  far  the  most 
showy  of  the  merchandise,  are  con- 
gregated in  their  separate  neigh- 
bourhood. The  less  one  sees  of 
the  places  where  the  necessaries 
of  life  are  sold  the  better.  The 
butchers',  bakers',  confectioners', 
and  fruiterers'  establishments,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  distract  attention 
from  the  dirt  and  meanness,  are 
disgusting.  In  looking  at  them  it 
is  a  comfort  to  remember  that  there 
is  a  modern  Cairo  where  your  pro- 
visions are  bought.  Grocers,  chem- 
ists, medicine-vendors,  tobacconists, 
and  chandlers,  have  none  of  them 
very  inviting  magazines ;  and  as 
for  a  bookseller  and  stationer,  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  seen  such  a 
thing  in  all  the  old  part  of  the  city. 
You  very  soon  find  out  that  the 
gold,  silver,  jewels,  curiosities,  and 
ornamented  cloths  are  the  wares 
that  attract  you  most ;  to  them  you 
go  again  and  again — but  one  walk 
through  the  region  of  necessaries 
and  household  stuff  will  probably 
suffice.  Yet  in  these  latter  you 
find  all  manner  of  memories  stirred 
up.  You  recognise  that  intelligent 
cobbler  who  sewed  Cassim's  body 
together,  and  afterwards,  with  a 
bandage  over  his  eyes,  found  his 
way  through  the  intricate  streets  to 
the  very  door  whither  he  had  once 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


359 


been  conducted  blindfold.  There 
he  is  in  his  little  box,  just  as  he 
sat  when  Morgiana  accosted  him. 
And,  by  the  by,  is  not  that  Mor- 
giana herself  that  has  just  walked 
up  to  his  stall,  with  a  long  veil  and 
a  fillet  round  her  forehead  1  Then 
that  doctor's  shop,  with  all  its 
nastiness,  can  be  no  other  than  the 
shop  of  Ebn  Thaher ;  and  that  old 
party  with  the  turban  and  yellow 
slippers  must  be  Ebn  Thaher  him- 
self, the  man  who  contrived  love- 
meetings  for  Schemselnihar  and 
the  Prince  of  Persia.  The  vener- 
able old  fruiterer  opposite  I  can 
also  call  by  name ;  I  have  known 
him  for  many  many  years,  although 
I  never  saw  him  in  the  flesh  be- 
fore. He  is  Abdallah,  and  he 
was  once  very  kind  to  King  Be- 
der.  Indeed  it  all  looks  terribly 
familiar,  suggesting  the  operation 
of  magic,  from  the  venerable 
dervish  and  staid  dealer  down  to 
the  ragamuffin  faithful  with  their 
clamour,  amongst  whom  you  long 
to  see  the  renowned  Cadi  appear 
with  his  dreaded  satellites  and  the 
supple  wand  so  effectual  in  admin- 
istering the  bastinado.  But,  as  I 
said  before,  you  leave  these  regions 
for  the  gold  and  jewels,  where  the 
paths  are  by  contrast  clean.  No 
sooner  do  you  appear  than  there 
are  fellows  at  you  on  each  side. 
For  a  moment,  perhaps,  you  are  dis- 
tracted, but  you  recover  your  Anglo- 
Saxon  self-possession  and  incline 
to  your  right  or  left  without  at  all 
knowing  which  is  preferable.  The 
dealer  who  has  got  you  immediate- 
ly exhibits  his  shawls,  necklaces, 
slippers,  robes,  and  so  on,  recom- 
mending the  same  furiously.  You 
admire  them  all,  but  fix  your  eyes 
on  something,  a  santal-wood  fan 
perhaps,  which  you  think  you  will 
buy.  The  conscientious  tradesman, 
who  has  been  watching  your  look, 
immediately  resolves  to  add  about 
eighty  per  cent  to  the  price,  and 
as  its  you  three  and  a  half  napole- 
ons, assuring  you  that  it  will  ruin 
him  to  part  with  the  article  at  that 
figure,  but  that  he  has  taken  a 


liking  to  you,  and  is  resolved  that 
you  shall  be  gratified.  You  think 
even  the  three  and  a  half  rather 
strong  ;  but  the  vendor,  who  is  an 
impulsive,  open  -  hearted  fellow, 
rather  than  you  shall  be  balked, 
bids  you,  in  Allah's  name,  take  the 
fan  for  sixty-five  francs  —  why 
should  two  or  three  miserable 
livres  prevent  the  dealing  1  You 
pay  your  money,  but  are  not  with- 
out misgivings  that  a  little  more 
patience  and  firmness  might  have 
procured  you  a  better  bargain. 
There  are  some  indications  that  you 
have  been  mistaken  for  a  flat — as, 
for  example,  the  gathering  of  a  very 
importunate  crowd  around  you,  and 
the  shoutings  of  some  individuals 
in  that  crowd  to  respectable  mer- 
chants further  on,  who,  on  hearing 
the  shouts,  assiduously  unlock  their 
caskets  and  expand  their  gimcracks. 
You  are  a  little  abashed  at  first, 
and  show  symptoms  of  hesitation, 
but,  recollecting  that  this  will 
never  do  for  a  free-born  Briton 
among  a  gang  of  ignorant  savages, 
you  resolve  to  show  the  villains 
that  you  know  what  you  are  about, 
and  that  if  you  suffer  yourself  to  be 
imposed  upon  it  is  only  because 
such  is  your  pleasure.  So  you 
swagger  suddenly  up  to  a  bawling 
shopman,  don't  wait  for  him  to 
entice  you,  but  at  once  take  up  a 
gold  necklace,  hung  with  sequins 
and  crescents,  and  demand  the  price. 
"  Four  napoleons,"  replies  the  dealer, 
who  can  speak  very  badly  every 
European  language,  and  has  care- 
fully got  up  his  English  numerals. 
**  Of  course,  then,  it  is  gold/'  you 
say.  "  Oh  no — silver  gilt,"  replie  J 
the  just  Mohammedan  ;  "if  gold, 
fifteen  napoleons,"  and  he  spreads 
out  his  five  fingers  three  times. 
This  candour  rather  shakes  your 
resolution ;  still,  for  the  sake  of  your 
own  self-respect,  you  must  suggest 
abatement.  Three  napoleons,  you 
remark,  are  quite  enough.  The 
seller  signifies  by  a  gesture  that  he 
is  amused  by  the  facetiousness 
which  you  are  pleased  to  exhibit. 
Secretly  you  waver,  but  you  deem 


360 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


it  expedient  not  to  give  in  too 
quickly,  so  you  turn  away  to  some 
other  object  and  begin  to  examine 
it;  whereupon  the  Arab  sets  to 
work  with  diligence,  wrapping  the 
necklace  in  soft  paper  and  packing 
it  in  a  box  of  card — you  soon  see 
why.  He  presents  the  box  to  you, 
with  a  smile,  saying,  "  Give  tree." 
You  got  off  a  napoleon  any  way, 
but  still  you  think  these  fellows' 
prices  have  a  wonderful  margin,  the 
extent  of  which  it  will  be  well  to 
ascertain.  So  you  walk  on,  your 
crowd  of  followers  having  increased, 
and  the  shouts  sent  before  you  up 
the  alley  being  louder  than  before. 
You  want  another  necklace  and  so 
you  look  at  one.  Five  napoleons  are 
asked.  "  Two,"  you  say.  "  Impos- 
sible/'is  the  reply.  "Two is  enough." 
"  No,  four."  You  try  your  former 
trick  and  turn  away  to  other  goods. 
Your  diversion  is  permitted  for  a 
moment,  but  in  a  minute  the  neck- 
lace is  again  pushed  before  you. 
"  Four,  cheap  !  "  You  turn  away 
impatiently,  when  a  bystander  in- 
terferes. "  Gold,  good,  four."  You 
turn  savagely  round  at  this  intruder, 
who,  however,  only  smiles  and 
enters  into  an  energetic  conversa- 
tion with  the  master  of  the  shop, 
then  he  looks  towards  you  and 
says  persuasively  "  Tree."  This  is 
rather  disgusting,  and  you  move 
away.  Your  crowd,  however,  re- 
mains, and  there  is  no  shouting. 
You  feel  yourself  almost  forsaken 
as  you  approach  a  stall  on  the  other 
side,  where  a  grave  Turk  preparing 
for  you  takes  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  But  you  are  not  permitted 
to  speak  to  him  at  present.  Your 
whole  former  following  moves  up, 
headed  by  the  owner  of  the  last 
necklace,  who  holds  out  the  orna- 
ment, saying,  "Give,  give."  You 
are  angry,  and  refuse  to  be  in- 
terrupted ;  you  stalk  resolutely  for- 
ward. "Two,  give?"  persists  the 
vendor.  "  Go  to  the  devil !  "  you 
say.  Then  the  Turk  in  front  comes 
to  your  aid  and  exhibits  his  trea- 
sures. The  other  fellow  is  disap- 
pointed, and  withdraws ;  but  the 


gentleman  who  so  kindly  interfer- 
fered  in  your  behalf  demands  bak- 
sheesh, which  you,  if  you  are  wise, 
administer  with  your  cane.  Finally 
you  buy  a  necklace  from  the  Turk 
for  thirty  francs,  which  is  some- 
where about  its  value  in  Cairo.  The 
crowd  come  up  again,  but  perceiv- 
ing that  your  education  has  advanc- 
ed, take  part  with  you  now,  and 
enjoy  the  discomfiture  of  the  traders, 
whom  you  treat  without  ceremony, 
depreciating  their  wares,  and  offer- 
ing for  them  a  tenth  of  what  they 
ask. 

At  one  of  the  stalls  I  saw  a  face- 
tious young  gentleman  who  endea- 
voured to  attract  custom  by  his 
sprightly  manners.  A  circlet  for 
a  lady's  head,  made  of  gold,  purple, 
and  embroidery,  caught  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  moved  it  about  with  my 
hand,  observing  its  appearance  in 
different  lights ;  whereupon  the 
youth,  pulling  off  first  his  turban, 
and  then  a  linen  cap,  showed  his 
close-shaven  head,  and  put  the  circle 
thereon  for  me  to  admire  the  effect. 
For  this  performance  he  demanded, 
but  did  not  get,  baksheesh,  neither 
did  he  at  that  time  sell  the  band. 

The  parade  of  so  much  gorgeous 
stuff  in  so  poor  a  place  produces  an 
effect  of  barbarous  grandeur  which 
is  rather  impressive.  Most  likely 
the  same  goods  exhibited  in  a  com- 
modious, well-fitted  European  shop, 
would  make  a  very  paltry  show. 
But  undoubtedly  imagination  is 
busily  at  work  here,  and  it  is  much 
wiser  to  believe  that  things  are  as 
you  see  them,  than  to  seek  to  re- 
move the  glamour.  Everything  in 
Egypt  is  more  or  less  enchanted. 
If  the  "  Nights  "  were  written,  as 
some  of  the  learned  have  supposed, 
by  an  Egyptian  or  Egyptians,  their 
magic  is  accounted  for.  The  diffi- 
culty in  that  land  is  not  to  believe 
in  marvels. 

The  night  after  the  ball  Cairo 
was  illuminated — rather  there  were 
illuminations  in  Cairo,  but  they  were 
not  general.  True  to  my  instincts 
I  desired  to  see  the  old  part  of  the 
city  in  the  glare  of  artificial  light; 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


361 


and  accordingly,  after  dinner,  I 
again  trudged  off  to  the  narrow 
streets.  All  was  gloomy  there, 
however,  and  as  the  ways  were 
neither  smooth  nor  clean  I  found 
groping  my  way  far  from  pleasant. 
After  I  had  walked  some  time  a 
glare  of  light  appeared  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  a  confused  noise  indi- 
cated that  something  was  astir. 
The  light  came  nearer,  and  so  did 
a  series  of  loud  shouts,  which  at 
last  took  the  sound  of  Iluarda, 
huarda,  as  three  or  four  Arabs  ran 
by  bearing  torches,  and  were  im- 
mediately followed  by  a  coach  con- 
taining several  persons,  after  which 
came  two  more  torch-bearers.  It 
seemed  that  something  sensational 
was  going  on  among  the  natives, 
for  more  cries  of  Huarda,  huarda, 
and  more  coaches  were  soon  per- 
ceived. Some  of  these  had  mount- 
ed guards  as  well  as  the  runners 
with  the  torches,  and  some  of  them 
contained  ladies  from  the  great 
harems,  whose  veils  could  be  seen 
as  the  torch-light  flashed  on  them. 
There  being  no  footway,  one  had 
to  cling  closely  to  the  walls  to 
avoid  the  tramp  and  wheels,  so  I 
made  the  best  of  my  way  back  to 
broader  streets.  Ere  I  was  quite 
out  of  the  ancient  region,  I  saw,  in 
a  place  where  some  of  the  houses 
and  shops  were  still  open  and 
lighted,  a  turbaned  and  bearded 
orator  holding  forth  to  a  not  very 
numerous  nor  select  audience  in 
front  of  an  uninviting  cafe.  I  re- 
mained to  listen  to  him,  but  of 
course  could  comprehend  nothing 
but  his  earnest  delivery  and  his 
gestures,  with  which  the  hearers 
seemed  much  impressed.  First  I 
thought  he  was  a  political  mob- 
orator,  until  I  reflected  that  amid 
all  her  plagues  Egypt  was  free  from 
this  one.  Then  I  imagined  that  it 
m  ust  be  a  holy  man  preaching  and 
giving  wisdom  by  the  wayside  to 
irreligious  Mussulmans.  But  it 
was  the  things  of  my  former  life 
that  were  misleading  me.  What 
had  brawling  Kadicals  or  street-ran- 
ters to  do  there  in  Egypt  ?  No,  it 


was  a  very  different  sort  of  party, 
though  perhaps  of  imagination  all 
compact  with  the  disturbers  that  I 
first  thought  of.  The  fellow  was, 
no  doubt,  a  story-teller,  and  relat- 
ing some  wonders  of  love,  or  war, 
or  enchantment,  for  the  delight  of 
the  faithful  after  the  manner  of  his 
kind.  The  ears  of  (I  will  not  say 
the  unwashed,  which  is  not  a  very 
distinguishing  epithet  in  Egypt, 
but  of)  the  illiterate  are  regaled 
with  amusing  stories  instead  of 
sedition  or  snuffling  inspiration. 
The  deeds  of  Antar,  or  some  other 
romance,  had  been  preparing  the 
poor  men  for  pleasant  dreams  and 
healthy  slumber,  not  sending  them 
home  full  of  envious  thoughts  and 
railing  accusations,  or  of  terrifying 
images  of  Gehenna. 

Afterwards  I  found  the  illumi- 
nations, which  hardly  repaid  me  for 
my  tramp.  An  avenue  here  and 
there  was  brilliantly  lighted,  but 
the  most  luminous  place  was  the 
great  square.  Here  things  looked 
very  gay,  and  the  population  were 
promenading  the  area  and  appar- 
ently enjoying  the  amusements, 
forming  little  knots  round  pro- 
fessors of  different  sciences,  all  of 
which  I  thought  but  poorly  repre- 
sented. There  was  a  juggler,  very 
slow  and  with  stale  tricks  ;  some 
dancers  of  a  most  uninteresting 
type  ;  some  musicians  and  singers 
who  were  a  caution  ;  confectioners 
with  forbidding  stalls.  I  was  glad 
to  go  to  bed  and  sleep. 

Not  that  even  this  was  to  be  a 
compensatory  night.  Five  o'clock 
was  our  appointed  hour  of  reveille, 
and  an  hour  before  the  swearing 
could  begin  we  were  to  start  for 
the  Pyramids.  And  it  was  so  :  at 
twenty  minutes  before  five  I  awoke 
and  lit  a  candle,  shaking  off  dull 
sloth ;  at  five  o'clock  I  early  rose  ; 
at  six  I  stood  in  the  lobby  amid 
sleepers  on  sofas  and  in  cloaks,  who 
had  no  holes  like  the  foxes,  nor 
nests  like  the  birds  of  the  air,  and 
who  had  not  been  educated  up  to 
the  Oriental  resource  of  laying  their 
heads  in  tombs.  We  were  not  go- 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


ing  to  start  in  a  very  great  hurry, 
but  our  experience  of  the  establish- 
ment taught  us  that  an  early  break- 
fast, and  an  early-packed  basket  of 
provender,  would  be  achieved  with 
difficulty,  if  achieved  at  all.  All 
was  achieved,  though  at  some  ex- 
pense of  time  and  breath,  and 
while  it  was  yet  cool  morning  we 
had  started  for  Ghizeh.  The  drive 
through  the  city  in  the  early  hours 
lias  its  peculiar  gratification.  You 
see  the  place  far  more  with  its  nat- 
ural aspect  at  that  time  than  at 
any  other.  Very  few  Europeans 
are  astir;  but  the  Moslems,  who  are 
all  early  risers,  are  about  their 
usual  business.  We  were  scarcely 
clear  of  the  streets,  when,  passing 
under  the  arch  of  an  aqueduct,  we 
encountered  a  person  of  some  dis- 
tinction, Jew  or  Arab,  seated  upon 
an  ass  and  ambling  quietly,  es- 
corted by  a  large  attendance  on 
foot.  He  was  richly  and  tastefully 
dressed,  and  his  long  flowing  robes, 
in  great  measure  covering  the  don- 
key, saved  the  rider  from  the  ridi- 
culous appearance  which  a  Euro- 
pean so  mounted  would  present. 
The  Sheik  or  Rabbi,  or  whatever 
he  was,  preserved  an  entirely  dig- 
nified mien,  and  forced  you  to 
think  of  Balaam  the  son  of  Beor. 
Strings  of  camels  passed  us  laden 
with  long  sawn  timbers,  with  casks, 
with  packages ;  there  were  oxen 
and  buffaloes  in  droves  ;  there  were 
country  people  in  troops.  A  few 
well-mounted  equestrians  passed  us, 
but  these  were  exceptional.  Most 
of  the  travellers  were  on  foot.  A 
good  deal  of  work,  such  as  drain- 
ing, road-making,  and  fencing,  was 
going  on,  the  labourers  being  women 
and  men  in  about  equal  proportions. 
The  women,  who  wore  no  veils, 
must  have  been  of  a  very  low  class 
indeed.  The  country  through  which 
we  passed  was  for  the  most  part 
bearing  crops,  but  was  not  much 
varied  in  feature.  The  air  was  still 
fresh  and  exhilarating  when  we 
reached  the  village  of  Old  Cairo. 
Here  was  pointed  out  to  us  a  mo- 
dest Christian  church,  said  to  be 


the  very  house  in  which  the  Holy 
Family  dwelt  when  they  fled  into 
Egypt.  The  houses  in  the  village 
were  neat,  and  adjacent  was  a 
large  barrack  with  defensible  walls. 
We  were  just  beginning  to  find 
it  warm,  when,  turning  sharp  to 
the  right  and  passing  a  few  houses, 
we  saw  our  way  stopped  by  the 
Nile.  When  I  saw  the  river  yes- 
termorn,  its  presence  made  the 
pulses  leap  and  set  the  brain  a-spin- 
ning ;  but  it  might  have  been  the 
Tagus,  or  the  Essequibo,  or  the 
Mersey,  or  any  other  full  stream, 
for  all  the  emotion  it  could  produce 
at  present.  It  was  not  the  stream, 
but  its  hither  bank,  which  forced 
the  beholder's  attention.  The  road 
led  down  to  a  narrow  strand,  all 
along  which,  boats  as  thick  as  they 
could  possibly  lie  were  packed, 
with  their  prows  on  the  beach.  It 
seemed  as  if  nothing  could  be  eas- 
ier than  to  hire  one  of  these,  shove 
out,  and  cross  or  navigate  the  river. 
But  it  would  appear  to  be  a  law  of 
Egyptian  life  that  no  transaction  of 
the  kind  shall  be  effected  decently 
and  in  order.  As  land  differs  from 
water,  so  there  was  a  difference  be- 
tween the  scene  on  this  beach  and 
that  which  I  witnessed  at  the  Suez 
railway  station ;  but  in  respect  of 
the  utter  confusion  that  reigned  in 
each,  they  were  the  same.  There 
was  no  wheel  nor  steam-engine 
to  help  the  noise  on  the  river's 
bank,  and  therefore,  probably,  it 
was  that  the  human  voice  was  more 
freely  drawn  upon  to  keep  up  the 
requisite  clatter  in  the  latter  situa- 
tion. To  this  day,  I  cannot  conceive 
what  all  the  discussions  were  about. 
There  were  plenty  of  passengers 
wanting  boats,  and  there  were 
plenty  of  boats  wanting  passengers ; 
but  the  difficulty  was  to  get  a  pas- 
senger into  a  boat.  There  was  no 
sign  that  customers  and  boatmen 
were  making  their  little  bargains. 
Most  of  the  boats  were  without 
men  on  board ;  and  the  owners 
were  pacing  lip  and  down  the 
strand,  exchanging  observations  at 
the  top  of  their  voices  with  every 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


363 


person  whom  they  encountered. 
The  customers  were  doing  exactly 
the  same  thing.  How  such  proceed- 
ings could  ever  end  in  embarkations 
I  cannot  imagine.  In  the  back- 
ground were  the  carriages  or  other 
conveyances  in  which  some  of  the 
company  had  arrived,  carts  laden 
with  provisions  and  merchandise, 
horses,  oxen,  and  one  or  two  camels ; 
the  middle  strand  was  covered  by 
people  moving  to  and  fro  and  talk- 
ing loudly,  as  I  have  above  de- 
scribed, and  by  donkeys  ;  in  front, 
and  down  a  pretty  steep  and  rug- 
ged descent,  were  the  boats,  uncon- 
scious of  the  row  that  was  being 
made  about  them  in  the  world.  I 
never  in  my  life  witnessed  such  an 
unmeaning  scramble.  It  was  some- 
thing like  the  motion  you  observe 
on  first  disturbing  an  ant-hill,  only 
that  this  never  did  resolve  itself 
into  any  order.  And  as  for  the 
noise,  there  may  be  some  effects  of 
machinery  equally  disagreeable  to 
the  ear,  but  I  don't  think  that  any 
other  human  organs  could  equal  it. 
The  comparison  of  many  waters,  and 
so  on,  would  wholly  fail :  this  was  a 
noise  of  many  Egyptians,  and  like 
nothing  else. 

N"ow  my  party  and  I  were  in 
no  particular  hurry,  so  we  waited 
a  while  and  amused  ourselves  with 
the  dresses  and  outcries  and  incom- 
prehensible motions  of  the  crowd. 
When  we  had  had  enough  of  these, 
we  did,  what  I  recommend  every 
one  to  do  who  may  find  himself  at 
thit  perplexing  ferry — we  desired 
our  donkey-men  (who  must  be  en- 
gaged on  this  side)  to  see  to  getting 
the  donkeys  and  themselves  across, 
and  then  we  boarded  and  took  pos- 
session of  a  craft,  speaking  no  word 
good  or  bad  to  any  man.  After  a 
time,  the  owners,  during  a  pause  in 
their  horrible  vociferation,  espied 
us  and  came  on  board,  with  their 
appetite  for  jabber  painfully  excit- 
ed, and  wanted  to  draw  us  into 
foolish  disputation,  which  we,  with 
storn  forbearance,  declined.  We 
likewise,  with  sterner  forbearance, 
retrained  from  knocking  them  into 


the  river,  and  in  the  end  had  our 
heavenly  patience  rewarded  by 
being  pushed  away  from  the  land. 
The  waters  at  this  time  had  more 
than  half  subsided,  and  were  of  a 
clear  brown  colour;  but  the  stream 
was  still  strong,  insomuch  that,  with 
sails  and  oars  together,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  hit  the  landing-place  on  the 
opposite  bank.  The  island  of  Raw- 
dah,  just  below  our  course  of  tran- 
sit, is  said,  we  were  told,  to  be 
Moses'  birthplace — on  what  author- 
ity I  am  unable  to  say.  A  fresh 
breeze  made  the  water  pleasant; 
but  there  were  not  many  craft 
about  —  a  small  steamer  or  two, 
that  was  all.  Only  two  or  three 
other  boats  crossed  at  the  same 
time  with  us,  and  we  flattered  our- 
selves that  we  had  got  clean  away 
from  the  Babel  on  the  Cairo  bank, 
the  sound  of  which,  sunk  to  a  mur- 
mur of  confusion,  reached  us  in  the 
mid -channel.  But  they  change 
their  bank,  not  their  affliction,  who 
run  across  the  Nile  at  this  point. 
On  the  further  shore  was  another 
scene  of  confusion  and  babbling 
awaiting  us,  to  get  through  which, 
and  to  find  our  donkeys  and  our 
provender,  took  us  a  good  half-hour, 
during  which  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  examining  what  looked  like  a 
corn-market.  In  a  small  square, 
heaps  of  different  kinds  of  grain 
were  exposed  on  sheets  —  wheat, 
rye,  barley,  maize.  The  wheat,  or 
what  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
such,  was  darker  in  colour  than 
any  that  we  grow  at  home,  and 
rounder  in  the  grain.  There  was 
no  very  great  quantity,  and  the 
sellers  appeared  to  be  of  the  very 
lowest  of  the  population.  Several 
young  girls  without  veils,  and  ap- 
parently of  a  very  low  class,  were 
selling  fruit  in  the  same  place. 

After  a  certain  interval  of  choos- 
ing and  mounting,  every  one  of  our 
party  was  mounted  on  a  donkey. 
The  donkeys  are  saddled  with  large 
soft  pads  covered  with  red  leather, 
and,  as  a  general  rule,  the  same 
saddle  may  be  used  by  either  sex 
indifferently.  The  donkey  -  men 


364 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  III. 


[March 


were  urgent  that  our  ladies  should 
sit  astride,  which  was  of  course  per- 
emptorily objected  to.  The  diffi- 
culty of  the  saddle  was  got  over 
somehow,  and  we  started.  It  is 
one  peculiarity  of  the  donkey-sad- 
dle that  both  stirrups  are  attached 
to  one  long  leather  running  loosely 
through  a  groove  under  the  seat. 
You  do  well,  therefore,  to  maintain 
an  even  balance ;  for  should  you 
allow  your  weight  to  incline  to  one 
side,  the  treacherous  stirrup  will 
give  way,  and  you  may  be  un- 
donkeyed. 

We  soon  got  on  to  a  good  broad 
road,  which  lasted  all  the  way  to 
Ghizeh.  Why  we  could  not  have 
taken  our  carriages  across  and 
driven  I  never  discovered.  Don- 
keys seemed  to  be  the  custom  of 
that  road,  and  accordingly  it  was 
covered  with  groups  on  donkeys. 
Neither  were  all  ladies  scrupulous 
as  to  attitude,  as  some  ladies  had 
that  day  shown  themselves  to  be. 
Of  those  we  met  or  passed — and 
their  name  was  legion — a  good  half 
crossed  their  saddles  in  male  fashion. 
It  was  observable,  too,  that  a  good 
many  gentlemen  unsexed  them- 
selves to  maintain  the  balance  of 
attitudes,  and  preserve  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things.  These  assumed 
a  reciprocal  position — one  which 
an  old  drill-sergeant,  once  known 
to  me,  who  was  a  superficial  clas- 
sic, and  got  muddled  about  his  v's, 
would  have  spoken  of,  in  reference 
to  the  other,  as  vivd  voce,  meaning,  O 
unsophisticated  Bullion,  vice  versa. 
They  let  their  legs  dangle  both  on 
one  side,  and  showed  how  easily 
they  could  adapt  themselves  to  any 
need — that  is,  half  of  them  were 
spilt,  and  the  others  laughed ;  after- 
wards the  others  were  spilt  too. 

It  is  time  that  I  gave  over  this  non- 
sense about  donkeys  ;  and,  indeed, 
we  were  now  reaching  a  point  where 
large  thoughts  forced  their  way  in- 
to the  mind.  Since  we  crossed  the 
river  we  had  been  jogging  along 
very  merrily  across  marshes,  and 
cultivated  land,  and  canals,  seeing 
not  much  worthy  of  remark  in  the 


husbandry  or  the  landscape,  and 
excessively  merry  and  noisy,  when 
suddenly  we  were  aware  of  the 
presence  of  the  three  Pyramids, 
and  interrupted  our  mirth  like 
chidden  infants.  The  skirts  of  past 
time  were  looming  over  us ;  the 
religion  of  the  place  overcame  us. 
These  were  the  precincts  of  pre- 
eminent antiquity,  where  the  spirits 
of  departed  centuries  gather  round 
the  oldest  existing  works  of  man. 

Perhaps  I  had  formed  an  extra- 
vagant idea  of  the  effect  which  the 
Pyramids  would  produce  by  their 
size,  for  the  size  did  not  at  first 
impress  me  much.  Indeed  I 
thought,  when  first  we  began  to 
see  them  plainly,  we  must  be  far- 
ther distant  than  we  proved  to  be. 
Another  half -hour  of  expectation 
and  urging  of  donkeys,  and  a  turn 
to  the  right  up  a  rather  steep 
ascent,  brought  us  face  to  face  with 
the  work  of  Cheops  ! 

My  first  perception  was  of  an 
effort  of  mind  to  take  in  the  truth 
of  what  I  saw.  Our  minds  at  home 
are  pretty  well  educated  to  the 
comprehension  of  antiquities  such 
as  we  in  Europe  possess,  and  I  think 
we  habitually  associate  the  ideas  of 
old  things  with  fragments,  rotten- 
ness, damp  weeds,  and  pity  for  fal- 
len greatness.  It  is  not  easy,  then, 
for  a  mind  so  trained  to  believe 
that  these  solid  structures,  compact, 
symmetrical,  and  uninjured,  save 
by  scratches  of  barbarism,  belong 
to  a  period  in  comparison  of  which 
the  birth  of  all  our  ruins  was  but  as 
yesterday — to  believe  that,  though 
they  can  still  challenge  Time  and 
Vandal,  they  are  little  young'er 
than  Day  and  Night !  Now,  I  say, 
Bales,  that  this  is  a  thing  hard  to 
be  understood — I  say  that,  when 
you  look  at  the  strong,  regular 
Pyramids,  with  their  massive  blocks 
and  even  joints,  you  come  short  of 
their  greatest  significance  till  you 
have  reflected  that  the  world's  whole 
history — its  empires,  its  wars,  its 
religions,  its  works,  its  knowledge, 
— all  that  it  still  possesses,  and  the 
greater  all  that  it  has  lost  for  ever, 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


365 


— have  come  into  existence  since 
Cheops  and  his  fellows  wrought  the 
mighty  masonry  which  is  now  con- 
fronting you.  When  I  thought  of 
the  works  of  all  succeeding  men, 
the  passage,  once  and  twice  put 
aside,  would  suggest  itself  again, 
not  profanely,  "  They  shall  perish, 
but  thou  shalt  endure ;  they  all 
shall  wax  old  as  doth  a  garment ; " 
but  for  the  Pyramids,  there  they 
stand,  the  testaments  of  those  nour- 
ished in  nature's  youth  :  must  we 
call  them  the  excellency  of  her 
strength;  or  has  she  since  reared, 
and  will  she  rear  again,  such  strong 
men  as  Cheops  and  Chephrenes  and 
Mycerinus?  Well,  we  have  some 
portion  of  their  spirit  in  us  now  if 
we  may  say  no  more.  Men  of  the 
nineteenth  century  have  pierced  the 
Isthmus  from  sea  to  sea,  and  these 
at  least  may  stand  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Pyramids  and  not  be  ashamed. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  visitors  at 
Ghizeh  that  day,  and  the  face  of 
the  great  Pyramid  was  covered 
with  climbing  tourists  and  the 
Arab  assistants.  This  was  hardly 
an  advantage,  but  a  traveller  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  his  own  uses  of 
what  he  sees,  independently  of  the 
proceedings  of  others ;  and  indeed 
it  was  interesting  to  observe  how 
little  the  solemnity  of  the  mass  was 
disturbed  by  the  escalade  of  two  or 
three  hundred  human  insects,  many 
of  whom  clearly  knew  and  cared 
nothing  about  the  pile,  except  as  a 
thing  to  be  ascended  and  descended. 

I  saw  one  gentleman  who  had 
escorted  two  ladies  to  the  top  and 
back  refreshing  them  and  himself 
after  the  labour.  He  was  beam- 
ing with  satisfaction,  having  done 
Cheops  the  distinguished  honour 
of  inscribing  the  name,  Thomas 
Smith,  on  the  apex.  "I  done  it 
well ;  it  was  on  the  very  top — 
damme,  there  couldn't  be  none 
higher,"  observed  Mr  Smith,  in 
strong  Lancashire,  as  he  wiped  the 
Buss  foam  from  his  lips  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat.  All  the  world, 
however,  does  not  refresh  after  the 
manner  of  Mr  Smith.  For  the  poor 

VOL.  GVII. — NO.  DCLIII. 


ignorant  foreigner,  who,  perhaps 
when  Egypt  is  twice  as  old  as  she 
now  is,  will  hardly  have  been  edu- 
cated up  to  the  appreciation  of 
treble  X,  there  were  water-carriers, 
with  long  jars  of  ancient  figure, 
slung  like  quivers  across  their 
shoulders.  Each  jar  had  a  metal 
tube  projecting  from  its  mouth,  so 
as  to  be  about  three  inches  higher 
than  the  carrier's  shoulder;  and 
when  any  wretched  devil  of  a  water- 
drinker  desired  to  moisten  his  clay 
he  bought  a  draught,  which  the 
waterman  drew  cleverly  by  giving 
his  left  shoulder  a  certain  twist 
into  a  position  which  allowed  the 
water  to  run  over  the  shoulder  and 
be  caught  in  a  glass  or  cup  which 
he  held  before  his  breast. 

The  whole  neighbourhood  is  cov- 
ered with  sand,  but  the  sand  is  not 
sufficiently  deep  in  the  hollows  to 
entirely  efface  the  features  of  the 
ground.  There  is  a  fall  north  and 
south  from  the  Pyramids,  and  you 
go  down  a  sandy  wearying  road  to 
find  the  valley  in  which  the  Sphinx 
is  half  buried  in  sand.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  the  nose  of  this  monster 
has  been  very  roughly  handled,  and 
that  the  features  generally  are  much 
damaged.  It  was  told  me  that  the 
Mamelukes  used  to  make  the  figure 
a  target  for  musket-practice  —  the 
wretches  !  The  back  and  haunches 
are  still  clear  of  sand,  but  the  paws 
and  the  entrance  to  the  temple, 
which  is  between  the  fore  legs,  are 
invisible.  There  was  a  rumour  that 
Ismail  was  about  to  have  the  whole 
figure  cleaned  for  the  Emperor's  in- 
spection, but  this  was  never  done 
while  I  could  benefit  by  it,  if  it  was 
done  at  all. 

You  need  a  veil  while  you  tra- 
verse this  ground,  and,  if  the  wind 
will  allow  you,  you  should  spread 
your  umbrella,  as  the  sun  is  very 
hot.  I  carried  my  umbrella  for 
some  time,  but  in  turning  the 
north-west  angle  of  the  Pyramid  it 
was  caught  by  a  little  whirlwind 
and  turned  inside  out  in  an  instant, 
while  my  eyes  and  mouth  were 
filled  with  sand.  The  inside  of  the 
2  c 


366 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


Pyramid  is  insufferably  hot.  You 
scramble  down  a  very  steep  des- 
cent and  arrive  at  the  sarcophagus- 
chamber,  which  is  all  that  you  can 
reach  except  with  extraordinary 
means,  and  then  you  find  the  Arab's 
cajidle  or  torch  to  be  next  to  use- 
less, and  you  see  nothing  to  reward 
your  exertion,  but  are  glad  to  return 
to  cooler  air  and  daylight. 

Unless  you  go  to  measure  or 
explore,  the  sight  is  soon  seen. 
Such  vast  objects  are  easily  taken 
in  by  the  eye  :  it  is  by  the  mind 
that  they  are  long  of  comprehen- 
sion. We  did  not  tarry  near  them 
late  in  the  day,  but  it  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  rest  and  refresh 
a  little  after  our  survey.  And  while 
sitting  in  the  shade,  I  thought  how 
much  the  great  builders  had  been 
assisted  by  the  climate.  Even  these 
huge  structures  must  have  present- 
ed a  very  different  appearance  had 
they  stood  so  long  in  a  more  north- 
ern latitude.  Our  stoutest  granite 
yields  in  time  to  the  weather ;  and 
we  see  castles  and  cathedrals  ruined 
by  the  decomposition  of  the  stone 
after  a  few  hundred  years,  and  the 
images  of  crusaders  fairly  washed 
from  their  tombstones.  But  this 
consideration  ought  not  to  diminish 
in  our  eyes  the  achievements  of  the 
Egyptian  builders.  It  is  only  fair 
to  credit  them  with  a  full  know- 
ledge of  the  means  at  their  dispos- 
al, and  their  fitness  for  the  end  in 
view.  In  a  country  where  stone 
must  perish,  men  who  would  emu- 
late Cheops  must  hit  on  some  other 
method  of  keeping  their  memory 
whole  for  thousands  of  years. 

Well,  Bales,  I  have  looked  on  the 
Pyramids  of  Ghizeh,  and  have  car- 
ried away  recollections  that  shall 
afford  me  pleasant  thought  to  the 
end  of  my  days.  We  were  a  very 
sober  party  when  we  set  out  on  our 
return  to  Cairo  ;  but  we  met 
troop  after  troop  of  visitors,  all 
hastening  to  the  scene  which  we 
had  just  left,  and  little  by  little 
we  became  pretty  lively  again. 
On  the  way  we  halted  to  see  a  gar- 
den-palace of  the  Khedive",  built 


in  the  style  of  the  Alhambra, 
and  exceedingly  beautiful.  The 
grounds  in  which  it  stands  are  taste- 
fully and  elaborately  laid  out  with 
grottoes,  terraces,  and  artificial 
water.  There  was  profusion  of 
flowers  and  fruits,  many  of  which 
were  gathered  and  offered  to  us  by 
the  attendants.  After  loitering 
here  for  half  an  hour  we  reached 
the  gates  of  another  palace,  and 
entered  the  enclosure,  as  we  were 
permitted  to  do  everywhere,  that 
we  might  look  at  the  building  and 
grounds.  This  was  clearly  a  resi- 
dence, as  there  were  servants  in  the 
viceregal  livery  in  the  colonnade, 
and  other  signs  of  habitation.  As 
we  walked  up  through  the  parterre 
in  front,  we  came  upon  a  strong 
gang  of  labourers  making  some  al- 
terations in  the  drives  and  fences. 
They  were  working  under  a  task- 
master, who  bore  a  strong  stick, 
and  continually  laid  it  on  when 
things  were  not  done  exactly  to  his 
liking.  We  wished  to  see  the  in- 
terior of  the  palace,  and  on  request- 
ing to  be  allowed  to  do  so  were 
told  that  if  we  had  come  a  little 
earlier  we  might  certainly  have  en- 
tered ;  but  the  Emperor,  to  whom 
this  palace  was  assigned  during  his 
visit,  was  expected  back  from  a 
drive  immediately.  "  Indeed  here 
he  comes,"  said  the  officer  to  whom 
we  had  applied ;  and  we  had  barely 
time  to  withdraw  to  the  other  side 
of  the  drive  when  the  Emperor 
and  Crown-Prince  drove  up  in  a 
low  carriage  and  alighted,  their 
suite  coming  up  in  two  or  three 
similar  carriages.  Nobody  seemed 
to  resent  our  lounging  about  the 
domain,  and  the  great  personages 
very  graciously  returned  our  salu- 
tation before  they  passed  in.  Of 
course  we  now  left  the  front  drives ; 
but  not  the  least  objection  was 
made  to  our  visiting  the  gardens 
in  rear  and  the  stables,  after  look- 
ing at  which  we  moved  off  towards 
the  river  to  engage  a  passage  across, 
as  fortunately  we  were  not  to  re- 
turn by  that  babel  near  Old  Cairo. 
Some  of  the  party,  however,  who 


1870.] 


Tlie  Opening  of  tla  Suez  Canal.— Part  III. 


367 


had  lingered  about  the  precincts  of 
the  palace,  came  now  running  to 
call  us  back,  and  to  tell  us  that  we 
would  all  be  sent  over  in  a  boat  of 
the  Khedive's.  Accordingly,  we 
returned,  and  embarked  by  a  pri- 
vate stair  on  board  a  small  steam- 
er, which  speedily  transported  us 
to  the  other  side,  where  we  found 
carriages,  and  were  taken  to  our 
betel,  after  a  very  fatiguing  but 
most  delightful  day's  excursion. 

I  went  with  a  party  to  see  Cairo 
races.  We  reached  the  course  with 
difficulty,  seeing  that  the  last  mile 
of  our  drive  thither  was  over  some 
remarkably  heavy  ground,  without 
trace  of  a  road,  where  the  horses 
gave  in  repeatedly,  and  across 
which  we  should  scarcely  have  had 
the  will  to  proceed  had  we  not  seen 
the  world  of  Cairo  all  zealously  toil- 
ing through  the  same  slough;  By  dint 
of  whip  and  coaxing  we  established 
ourselves  at  last  opposite  the  grand 
stiind,  and  released  for  a  while  our 
unfortunate  horses.  The  attend- 
ance was  worthy  of  better  sport ; 
there  was  much  beauty  and  much 
European  fashion,  and  such  a  ming- 
ling of  the  costumes  of  all  nations 
in  carriages  and  on  horseback  as 
composed  a  very  gay  scene.  The 
stand  was  well  filled,  and  every- 
thing seemed  got  up  for  the  occa- 
sion with  much  care;  the  course, 
however,  looked  heavy.  Tickets 
had  been  presented  to  us  for  this 
as  for  most  other  amusements.  I 
should  mention  that  before  the 
racing  began  there  was  a  field-day 
of  the  Khedive's  troops  on  a  further 
part  of  the  plain.  About  five 
thousand  of  all  arms  turned  out  and 
manreuvred  for  a  short  time  very 
respectably.  Service  in  the  army 
seems  to  be  here  the  best  instead  of 
the  worst  calling  that  a  man  can 
take  to  ;  and  I  have  an  idea  that 
those  Egyptian  troops  would  be 
effective  in  the  field.  It  is  quite 
clear  that  they  are  heartily  en- 
deavouring to  be  so,  and  that  they 
are  conforming  to  the  best  Euro- 
pean usages  as  far  as  their  religion 
and  customs  will  allow.  Their 


music  is  rather  barbarous,  so  far  as 
I  had  opportunity  of  judging ;  and 
I  suppose  it  was  their  best  military 
bands  that  attended  at  the   race- 
course, and  gave  us  the  Emperor's 
hymn  as  the  Emperor  and  Khedive" 
came  on  to  the  course,  and  after- 
wards maltreated  a  number  of  fa- 
vourite pieces.     One  of  the  early 
races,  and  I  think  the   one  best 
worth  winning,  was  gained  by  a 
horse  of  the  British  Consul-General 
—a  plate  of  £300.      But  all  the 
races  were  very  slow  affairs,  not 
excepting  the  camel-race,  which  for 
its  novelty  I  waited  to  see,     It  was 
a  stupid  business,  the  most  interest- 
ing part  of  which  was  to  observe 
how  the  Arab1  riders  endured  the 
jolting  of  the  long  trot.     The  race 
was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  three 
miles,  and  after  the  first  round  of 
the  course,  the  four  or  five  camels 
that  started  were   so  far  asunder 
that  all  interest  in  the  competition 
was  at  an  end.  •  I  left  the  course 
before  the  sports  had  well  reached 
their  height,  ancl  went  back  into 
the  city  to  procure  a  little  cash,  of 
which  somehow  or  other  I  had  run 
very  short.      At  the  Bank  of  the 
Delta,  or  some  other  bank  where  I 
presented  my  circular  note  (for  I 
have   forgotten  the    name  of  the 
establishment,  though  I 'could  find 
their    house    of(  "business   readily 
enough),  one  of  fjh&  clerks,  reading 
my   name,  came',  upw  to   his  little 
wicket  and  made  a  keen  survey  of 
my  countenance,  T  TKen  he  said, 
"  Mr  Scamper,  f  rojp  ^Tanchester,  is 
it  ]"  to  which  I  repijed  that  I  came 
from  Manchester.     ***JSb,  sir,"  said 
he,  "  I  remember  you  well,  and  Mr 
Bales ;  I  hope  he  is  stiH  flourish- 
ing.    Sharp  business  man  that,  and 
no  mistake  ! !  "     It  was  that  young 
fellow  Keene,  whom  we  thought  a 
little  too  much  interested  in  that 
Cleansweep    absconding   business. 
Well,  you  see  how  these  men  get 
on ;   he  has  got  a  red  beard  and 
mustache  now,  and  is  a  person  of 
some  consequence,  I  can  tell  you. 

I  was  going  straight  home  with 
my  bag  of  money,  when  at  a  street- 


368 


Tlie  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


corner  a  little  wretch  who  appeared 
to  be  deformed,  his  chest  projected 
so,  ran  up  and  asked  baksheesh  in 
the  usual  way.  As  I  bore  down 
upon  him  without  paying  the  least 
attention  to  his  petition,  he  had  to 
skip  aside ;  but  in  another  instant 
he  was  again  before  me,  and  putting 
his  hand  into  his  bosom  he  drew 
out  a  snake  about  a  foot  long,  and 
put  it  on  the  pavement  right  in 
my  path.  It  was  my  turn  to  skip 
aside  now,  and  I  did  so  before  the 
shock  of  so  unexpectedly  seeing  the 
reptile  had  passed.  Immediately 
the  urchin  drew  out  another  snake 
and  placed  it  by  the  first.  I  was 
composed  enough  now  to  look  at 
them,  though  from  a  respectful  dis- 
tance, and  I  marked  the  beautiful 
way  in  which  the  two  snakes  made 
their  contortions  in  exactly  parallel 
curves,  as  if  they  had  been  drilled 
to  it.  After  betraying  this  much  of 
interest  in  the  little  villain  (whom 
even  the  fastidious  Saturday  will 
probably  allow  me  to  call  a  street 
Arab),  I  felt  bound  to  give  baksheesh. 
When  he  put  out  his  hand  to  re- 
ceive my  donation,  I  looked  behind 
the  front  of  his  only  garment  into 
his  bosom.  He  wasn't  deformed ; 
he  had  a  nest  of  about  fifty  snakes 
there — aspics  of  the  Nile,  for  any- 
thing I  know.  They  made  my 
blood  run  cold. 

With  all  the  vigour  which  the 
Government  exhibits  and  incul- 
cates, there  is,  somehow,  an  im- 
mense idle  population  in  Cairo. 
Idle  fellows  are  about  everywhere. 
They  seem  ready  enough  to  get  a 
job ;  but  whether  they  would  take 
to  continuous  labour,  and  whether 
they  could  get  it  if  they  would,  are 
questions  which  I  have  not  solved. 
They  seemed  exceedingly  sharp, 
and  a  great  number  of  them  could 
express  themselves,  after  a  fashion, 
in  three  or  four  foreign  tongues. 
The  little  ragamuffins  remind  one 
exceedingly  of  the  Neapolitan  small 
fry.  The  boys  are  much  better  look- 
ing than  the  girls ;  children  of  both 
sexes  have  the  most  beautiful  teeth 
.and  gums  I  ever  saw.  Except  at 


the  ball  at  Ismailia,  I  never  heard 
of  any  of  our  party  losing  so  much 
as  a  handkerchief;  and  it  was  wor- 
thy of  remark  not  only  that  every- 
thing turned  up  right  in  the  end, 
but  that  people  who  got  the  chance 
handling  of  our  property  took  care- 
ful note  of  what  they  received,  and 
gave  an  account  of  all  when  their 
service  was  done.  I  feel  certain 
that  they  are  not  all  naturally 
rogues,  though  they  are  not  reg- 
istered Al  in  respect  of  honesty; 
and  that!  though  they  may  be  idle 
and  thriftless  (I  have  no  proof 
that  they  are  so),  there  is  the 
making  of  a  fine  people  in  them. 
The  Arab  villages  are  the  most 
shocking  places  I  ever  saw.  The 
houses,  if  houses  they  may  be  called, 
are  simply  shelters  of  the  very  mean- 
est construction — very  little  above 
the  lairs  of  beasts.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  any  household 
property — not  even  of  a  bed.  I 
fancy  that  the  shaggy  garments 
which  they  wear  serve  them  for 
night  as  well]  as  day ;  indeed  it 
is  clear,  by  many  infallible  signs, 
that,  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians,  they  never  can  be 
changed.  Their  cooking,  such  as 
it  is,  is  done  out  of  doors :  washing 
may  be  left  altogether  out  of  the 
account. 

My  visit  to  the  noted  Citadel  oc- 
cupied a  morning  very  pleasantly. 
As  a  place  of  strength  there  is  not 
much  in  these  days  to  be  said  for 
it ;  but  as  occupying  commanding 
ground  it  deserves  the  praise  of  en- 
abling those  who  enter  it  to  enjoy 
a  glorious  panorama.  The  city,  old 
and  young,  the  Nile,  the  green 
fields,  the  ranges  of  hills,  the  palm- 
trees,  the  desert,  all  bathed  in  that 
purple  atmosphere  which  I  have 
so  often  spoken  of,  and  stretching 
away  into  distances  which  show  no 
horizon,  but  fade  into  a  rosy  cloud, 
afford  a  series  of  sights  which  de- 
light by  some  influence  beyond 
their  mere  grandeur  or  beauty. 
There  is  witchcraft  about  the  whole 
sight ;  a  charm  hangs  not  so  much 
over  the  landscape  as  over  you,  the 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal.— Part  III. 


369 


beholder,  which,  while  it  makes  you 
thoroughly  enjoy,  keeps  suggesting 
that  it  is  an  unsubstantial  pageant,  a 
glorious  vision  from  which  you  will 
awake.  Believe  me  it  is  very  deli- 
cious idleness  to  wander  about  these 
heights ;  but  there  are  other  things 
to  be  seen  besides  the  views.  One 
of  the  buildings  contains  a  large 
hall,  rich  in  ornament  and  of  dazzl- 
ing brilliancy,  with  that  fairy-palace 
appearance  so  often  met  with  in  the 
East.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  a 
mosque,  from  seeing  many  believers 
at  their  prayers  and  prostrations, 
but  I  believe  it  was  only  that  the 
hour  of  prayer  happened  to  arrive 
while  I  was  there  ;  for  when,  by  the 
voice  of  the  muezzin  or  other  signal, 
they  are  made  aware  that  the  time 
has  come,  they  commence  their  de- 
votions without  regard  to  place  or 
spectator. 

A  bronze  gate,  backed  by  a  rich 
curtain  on  your  right  as  you  enter 
the  hall,  indicates  that  there  is 
some  inner  apartment.  A  Mussul- 
man presents  himself  with  a  key  in 
his  hand,  and,  after  receiving  bak- 
shiesh,  opens  the  gate.  You  enter 
arid  find  yourself  in  a  well-lighted 
arid  rather  gay-looking  room,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stands  the  tomb  of 
Mehemet  Ali,  the  first  viceroy.  The 
tomb  itself  is  of  marble,  very  rich, 
and  highly  ornamented.  It  was  a 
rather  different  looking  place  from, 
one  of  our  sepulchral  vaults,  Bales. 

One  of  the  sights  of  the  Citadel 
is  Joseph's  Well.  The  tourist  who 
has  not  properly  primed  himself  is 
apt  to  prick  up  his  ears  at  this 
n;ime,  and  to  fancy  that  he  has 
struck  the  trail  of  the  patriarch 
who,  he  knows,  got  fourteen  years 
with  hard  labour  somewhere  here- 
about for  going  abroad  insufficient- 
ly dressed.  Was  the  digging  of  this 
well,  then,  the  substitute  for  the 
crank  and  the  mill?  Is  it  the 
living  record  of  how  Joseph  and 
his  butler  and  baker  fellow-sufferers 
were  made  to  toil  when  their  feet 
were  hurt  in  the  stocks  and  the  iron 
entered  into  their  souls  ?  Or  is  it 
a  great  achievement  of  Joseph  in 


after  years,"  when,  having  passed 
triumphantly  through  the  terrors 
of  adversity  and  the  prison,  and 
the  still  more  dreadful  outrages  to 
which  the  unprotected  male  was  in 
that  day  subject,  he  was  governor 
over  all  the  land  of  Egypt,  and 
wielded  its  mighty  labour  power  ? 
Pooh  !  not  a  bit  of  it.  The  Joseph 
who  made  the  well  and  gave  his 
name  thereto  is  a  very  different 
person  from  the  great  interpreter 
of  dreams,  and  yet  he  is  an  old 
acquaintance,  too,  as  you  will  own 
at  once  if  I  call  him  by  his  other 
name  of  Saladin.  It  was  that  re- 
nowned Moslem  who  dug  the  well, 
and  he  dug  it  nearly  three  hundred 
feet  deep,  down  to  the  level  of  the 
Nile ;  the  object  being,  of  course, 
to  secure  water-supply  for  the  gar- 
rison in  case  of  siege.  A  winding 
gallery  descends  round  and  round 
the  well  from  the  top  to  the  base, 
having  windows  at  certain  levels 
looking  into  the  well.  To  get  up 
thissspiral  incline  is  rather  a  stiff 
pull. 

I  could  not  loiter  here  as  I  was 
tempted  to  do,  my  time  being  short, 
but  had  to  start  off,  regardless  of 
dust  and  heat,  to  visit  the  tombs  of 
the  pachas.  These  are  in  a  large 
building  all  raised  above  the  ground, 
and  well  lighted.  Each  tomb  is 
built  up  in  two  or  three  tiers,  the 
large  block  at  the  base  being,  as  I 
understood  it,  merely  a  pedestal, 
the  centre  and  somewhat  smaller 
block  containing  the  body,  and  the 
uppermost  and  smallest  block  being 
solid.  The  tombs  are  of  marble, 
and  richly  gilt  and  painted,  the 
inscriptions  being,  of  course,  in 
Arabic.  From  the  foot  of  each 
rises  a  marble  pillar,  on  the  top  of 
which  is  a  device  announcing  the 
rank  and  sex  of  the  personage  who 
sleeps  below.  A  fez  indicates  a 
pacha.  Ladies  and  princes  have 
their  separate  signs.  Many  tombs 
are  covered  with  baize  or  holland  as 
a  protection  from  the  dust.  There 
are  two  or  three  large  chambers  full 
of  these  tombs. 

From  the  tombs  we  went  into  the 


370 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


[March 


city  to  see  different  mosques,  before 
entering  which  they  made  all  of 
the  masculine  gender  take  off  our 
boots.  Ladies— not,  of  course,  from 
a  feeling  of  gallantry,  but  because 
an  unveiled  woman  moving  about 
at  her  pleasure  bothers  them  en- 
tirely, and  is  a  thing  which  their 
laws  and  regulations  do  not  recog- 
nise— are  allowed  to  keep  their  feet 
covered.  The  mosques  are  not  very 
splendid,  but  some  of  them  appear 
to  be  very  old.  The  interiors  of 
most  are  almost  empty. '  A  wooden 
pulpit  stands  against  the  wall,  and 
the  floors  are  handsomely  laid.  In 
one  we  saw  through  an  iron  grating 
some  very  sacred  spot  (whether  a 
tomb  or  not  I  could  not  learn), 
where  perpetual  prayer  is  made  day 
and  night  by  a  succession  of  priests, 
each  of  whom  remains  on  duty  for 
a  set  time,  and  is  then  relieved  by 
another.  In  another  mosque  was 
the  tomb  of  Ali's  sister,  a  very 
sacred  place,  fenced  round  with 
bronze  railings,  which  the  people 
approached  and  kissed  devoutly  as 
the  toe  of  the  black  St  Peter  is 
kissed  at  Rome. 

When  I  could  command  an  hour 
or  two  I  liked  to  spend  them  in  the 
wonderful  old  bazaars  where  no- 
thing seems  to  become  obsolete. 
The  gold  bazaar,  for  instance,  is  a 
labyrinth  of  close  dirty  alleys  and 
foul  puddles  where  you  may  very 
soon  lose  yourself.  In  these  dark, 
mean,  and  intricate  passages,  where, 
with  extended  arms,  you  may  touch 
both  sides  at  once,  and  where  a 
donkey  can  hardly  pass,  are  col- 
lected the  jewellers  and  working 
goldsmiths,  who,  some  workmen 
and  some  merely  sellers,  are  doubled 
up  in  their  little  boxes  as  the  shop- 
men are  in  the  fancy  bazaar.  Here, 
however,  there  is  no  display  of 
dazzling  wares  to  conceal  the 
poverty  of  the  region.  You  must 
ask  for  what  you  want,  and  when 


you  do  so  a  dreadfully  dirty  Turk 
unlocks  a  safe  which  you  have  not 
before  seen,  and  produces  orna- 
ments in  plenty,  or  offers  to  make 
them  to  order.  Ornaments  for  the 
person  were  what  seemed  most  to 
abound,  and  these  not  of  a  very 
elaborate  or  expensive  description. 
But  it  was  the  quaint  old  place  that 
was  so  well  worth  seeing,  the  gos- 
siping idle  population,  the  crowd, 
mixed  up  with  donkeys,  pushing 
through  the  gates  and  ways,  whifti 
are  exactly  of  the  same  class  as  those 
which  lead  to  life,  and  which  so 
few  discover.  A  walk  hither  makes 
you  quickly  understand  how  Har- 
oun,  and  Mesrour,  and  Giafar  found 
out,  by  personal  observation,  so 
much  of  what  was  going  on  in  Bag- 
dad. They  had  only  to  elbow  their 
way  through  places  like  this  to  un- 
derstand a  great  deal  of  everybody's 
business.  I  never  saw  anything 
that  resembled  the  body  of  a  lady 
in  a  sack  on  its  way  to  the  river;  but 
there  were  Sindbads  and  Hindbads 
in  plenty,  barbers  and  barbers'  bro- 
thers, all  ready  to  talk,  hunchback 
tailors,  Jewish  physicians,  and  here 
and  there  a  jovial-looking  fellow, 
with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
who  might  be  Abon  Hassan,  the 
Arabian  Christopher  Sly.  And,  in 
answer  to  Master  Doubloon  Bales's 
criticism,  be  good  enough  to  inform 
that  ingenuous  youth  that  the 'Thou- 
sand and  One  Nights'  belong  as  much 
to  Egypt  as  to  Arabia  or  Persia, 
and  are  understood  to  describe 
Arab  life  in  one  as  much  as  in  the 
other.  If  he  can  get  hold  of  the 
edition  of  1 846,  of  the  Rev.  E.  Fors- 
ter's  translation,  he  may  there  read 
in  the  Introduction,  that  Mr  Lane, 
the  writer  on  Egypt,  considered  the 
author  or  authors  to  have  been 
Egyptian.  It  would  appear,  how- 
ever, that  many  of  the  purely  Egyp- 
tian stories  are  lost.*  We  have 
Cairo,  nevertheless,  introduced  in 


*  "  This  traveller  (Dr  Clarke)  obtained  a  transcript  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights,'  which 
was  brought  to  him  in  four  quarto  cases,  containing  one  hundred  and  seventy-two 
tales,  separated  into  one  thousand  and  one  portions  for  recital  during  the  same 
number  of  nights.  This  valuable  acquisition  was  unfortunately  lost,  an  event 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  IIL 


371 


thestory  of  All  Cogia,and  the  scene 
of  the  adventures  of  the  Prince  and 
the  King  of  the  Genii  is  Cairo.  He 
is  a  sharp  lad,  that  Master  Doub- 
loon, but,  as  Mr  Weller  said  to  the 
young  gentleman  in  the  hairy  cap, 
*'  He'd  better  not  show  that  fine 
edge  too  often,  in  case  anybody  was 
to  take  it  off."  There  was  one  race 
of  caliphs  here,  Fatimites,  I  be- 
lieve, who  exercised  all  the  author- 
ity, spiritual  and  temporal,  of  the 
B  igdad  and  Damascus  caliphs,  un- 
til they  degenerated,  and  the  last 
of  them  was  dethroned  by  Saladin, 
who  assumed  the  royal  but  not  the 
sacerdotal  office,  he  having  no  pre- 
tence to  the  latter,  as  he  could  not 
claim  to  be  in  any  way  related  to 
tLe  Prophet.  The  tombs  of  these 
caliphs  and  their  families  may  be 
seen  to  the  east  of  Cairo.  They 
are  plain  in  comparison  with  those 
oi  the  pachas,  and  are  erected  in 
small  mosques,  each  mosque  con- 
taining three  or  four  tombs.  They 
date  from  the  tenth  to  the  twelfth 
century,  and  neither  buildings  nor 
tombs  are  very  carefully  preserved. 
One  large  hall  near  the  caliphs' 
tombs  is  fitted  all  round  with  large 
strong  doors,  very  securely  closed, 
except  one  pair  of  folding-doors, 
which  I  saw  open.  They,  when 
shut,  concealed  a  series  of  shelves 
reaching  almost  to  the  roof,  on 
which,  no  doubt,  had  rested  the 
bodies  of  true  believers,  but  which 
were  empty  now,  except  for  some 
fragments  of  wood  which  lay  about. 
Whether  the  closed  cupboards  Were 
likewise  empty  or  were  full  I  could 
not  discover.  The  door  of  this 
chamber  is  of  massive  iron,  and 
presents  a  most  imposing  parade  of 
security.  The  fastening  is  a  short 
stick  run  through  the  staples,  which 
any  child  may  remove  at  pleasure. 
The  great  burying-place  of  the  city 
is  here,  where  the  caliphs  lie  ;  and 
there  are  tombs  of  all  classes,  some 


highly-ornamented  buildings,  some 
plainer  sepulchres,  and  the  great 
mass  simple  graves,  each,  how- 
ever, having  its  distinguishing  mark 
of  the  family,  or  trade,  or  sex  of 
the  tenant. 

On  the  way  back  from  the  necro- 
polis, I  passed  through  the  horse- 
market  and  the  camel-market,  both 
exceedingly  unsavoury  places.  The 
jades  in  the  former  were  pitiable 
creatures,  fit  only  for  the  kennel. 
Of  the  camels  I  could  not  judge, 
but  I  should  not  think  any  that  I 
saw  there  a  very  valuable  or  desir- 
able animal.  Had  there  been  more 
spare  time  and  less  aroma,  I  would 
have  waited  to  observe  some  of  the 
dealing. 

The  On  of  Scripture  has  been 
identified  by  the  learned  with  He- 
liopolis.  Every  traveller  makes  a 
day's  excursion  from  Cairo  to  pay 
this  ancient  place  a  visit,  and  in 
one  sense  goes  over  it,  but  never- 
theless does  not  see  very  much — 
not  even  ruins.  What,  then,  has 
become  of  the  city  that  it  should 
so  utterly  have  perished  ]  Well,  a 
great  deal  of  it,  we  are  informed,  is 
just  where  it  was,  and  the  reason 
why  we  cannot  see  it  when  we  go 
there  is,  that  it  is  under  our  feet. 
The  fate  of  the  cities  of  the  plain — 
volcanoes,  earthquakes,  Vandals — 
are  suggested  to  the  European  mind 
when  this  fact  is  stated,  but  a  min- 
ute's reflection  suffices  to  determine 
that  their  agency  has  not  operated 
here.  There  has  been  no  violent 
outbreak  of  nature,  no  sudden  visi- 
tation of  divine  wrath,  no  barba- 
rian irruption  to  blot  out  ancient 
On.  The  cause  of  its  disappearance 
is  a  phenomenon  as  regular  in  its 
occurrence  as  the  rising  and  set- 
ting of  the  sun — a  power  that  has 
wrought  steadily  since  the  days  of 
Noah.  Egypt  truly  is,  as  Herodotus 
said,  the  gift  of  the  Nile,  but 
she  is  not  a  sudden  munificence, 


which  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  because  many  of  the  tales  related  to  Syrian  and 
Egyptian  customs  and  traditions,  which  have  not  been  found  in  any  other  copy  of 
tlie  same  work."— From  '  A  View  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Egypt,'  by  the  Rev.  M. 
Eussell,  LL.D. 


372 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


a  capricious  endowment.  Sines  its 
first  act  of  bounty  in  the  youth  of 
time  the  river  has  never  ceased  to 
give;  if  it  should  cease,  Egypt 
would  be  one  desert.  We  know 
how  year  by  year  the  revivifying 
waters  overspread  the  land,  and  we 
ought  to  reflect  that  the  fertilising 
slime  then  deposited  is  every  year 
an  addition  to  the  soil  of  the  Delta 
— a  thin  layer  almost  inappreciable 
as  a  unit,  but  very  effectual  when 
multiplied  by  a  hundred  or  a  thou- 
sand. In  the  course  of  centuries, 
then,  the  gift  of  the  Nile,  over- 
spreading year  by  year  the  site  of 
the  old  city  On,  has  at  length  buried 
its  buildings  and  remains.  The 
account  given  to  me  stated  that 
Heliopolis  stood  on  undulating 
ground,  and  that  the  present  gen- 
eral level  is  at  the  height  of  its 
greatest  eminences.  Possibly  it 
may  hereafter  be  thought  worth 
while  to  disinter  these  interesting 
remains,  but  until  that  is  done  the 
traveller's  visit  to  the  place  will  be 
to  little  purpose.  The  most  strik- 
ing object  there  is  the  obelisk,  dat- 
ing probably  from  the  reign  of 
Amenemes  of  the  Xllth  dynasty. 
It  stood  before  the  great  temple  of 
Athom  or  the  sun,  and  is  all  that 
now  remains  of  that  great  temple, 
parts  of  which  have  been  carried  to 
Rome  and  to  Constantinople.  The 
obelisk  is  inscribed  on  three  faces 
with  hieroglyphics,  to  this  day 
perfectly  sharp  and  distinct,  and  is 
said  to  bear  the  name  of  Osortasen 
or  Sesortasen. 

Not  far  from  the  obelisk  is  the 
tree  known  as  Mary's  sycamore.  It 
is  large  and  spreading,  and  doubt- 
less very  old ;  but  whether  so  old 
as  the  flight  of  the  Holy  Family  into 
Egypt,  as  we  were  told  it  is,  may 
be  doubted.  It  has  been  climbed 
so  often  that  there  are  now  estab- 
lished tracks  up  the  trunk  and 
along  the  branches.  By  this  very 
scale  I  mounted  and  examined  its 
parts.  I  found  that  I  followed 
in  the  footsteps  of  a  very  literary 
crowd  of  predecessors,  the  interest- 
ing facts  of  whose  visits  were  re- 


corded on  the  bark.  On  this 
occasion  England  did  not  appear 
to  have  all  the  glory  to  herself,  as 
beside  the  names  of  the  celebrated 
travellers  William  Smith  and  John 
Jones  appeared  those  of  Alphonse 
Blancbec,  Karl  Schafkopf ,  Giovanni 
Battista  Scioccone,  and  of  several 
other  distinguished  Europeans. 

It  may  have  appeared  to  you, 
Bales,  an  omission  that,  writing  to 
a  man  of  such  well-known  reverence 
for  facts  and  figures,  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  difference  of  height 
between  low  and  high  Nile.  It 
would  have  appeared  still  stranger 
to  you  if  you  had  been  here  with 
me  and  witnessed  the  extreme  diffi- 
culty which  I  experienced  in  find- 
ing any  one  who  knew  or  cared 
about  it.  The  rise  of  the  river  is 
the  event  of  the  year  on  which  their 
very  lives  depend,  and  yet  to  find 
information  so  hard  of  access ! 
The  Egyptians'  are  said  to  be  kept 
purposely  in  the  dark  by  their 
Government,  which  keeps  a  meter, 
and  issues  notices  of  the  rise  so 
notoriously  fabricated  for  fiscal  pur- 
poses, that  perhaps  the  mystified 
natives  have  given  up  in  despair 
the  attempt  to  be  well  informed. 
This  does  not  account  for  the  indif- 
ference on  the  same  subject  of 
Europeans,  of  whom  many  that  I 
chanced  to  fall  in  with  could  tell 
me  nothing  on  the  subject,  and 
others  told  what  was  incorrect.  Of 
course  I  made  it  out  at  last.  It  is 
25  English  feet,  more  or  less,  at 
Cairo ;  higher  up  the  stream  the 
rise  is  from  35  to  48  feet ;  while  at 
the  mouths  it  is  scarcely  4  feet. 
"A  nilorneter/'  says  Sir  Gardner 
Wilkinson,  "stood at  Eileithyias  in 
the  age  of  the  Ptolemies ;  there 
was  one  at  Memphis,  the  site  of 
which  is  still  pointed  out  by  tradi- 
tion ;  that  of  Elephantine  remains 
with  its  scales  and  inscriptions  re- 
cording the  rise  of  the  Nile  in  the 
reigns  of  the  Roman  emperors ;  a 
movable  one  was  preserved  in  the 
temple  of  Serapis  at  Alexandria 
till  the  time  of  Constantine,  and 
was  afterwards  transferred  to  a 


1370.] 


The  Opzning  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  II L 


373 


Christian  church;  the  Arabs  in 
700  A.D.  erected  one  at  Helwan, 
which  gave  place  to  that  made 
about  715  by  the  Caliph  Suleyman 
in  the  Isle  of  Roda,  and  this  again 
was  succeeded  by  the  'Mekeeas'  of 
Mamoon,  A.D.  815,  finished  in  860 
by  Motawukkal  -  al  -  Allah,  which 
has  continued  to  be  the  Govern- 
ment nilometer  to  the  present  day.'J 
I  never  half  drank  my  fill  of  the 
sights  and  doings  of  Cairo ;  for 
before  we  were  well  aware  or  in 
a  ay  way  willing  to  go,  came  the  in- 
evitable day  of  departure.  Some- 
how hearts  don't  get  very  heavy 
in  that  atmosphere,  but  still  it  was 
difficult  in  preparing  for  our  exodus 
to  keep  the  spirits  up  to  anywhere 
near  concert-pitch.  Indeed  it  was 
rather  a  piece  of  luck  for  the  said 
spirits  that  they  got  moved  as  they 
did  by  the  sight  of  some  highly- 
imaginative  accounts  which  the 
manager  of  the  hotel  had  by  this 
time  become  sufficiently  tranquil 
to  compose.  The  friend  with  whom 
I  travelled  to  Cairo,  and  with  whom 
I  purposed  to  proceed  to  Alex- 
andria, had  an  instinctive  fore- 
knowledge that  the  merits  of  these 
productions  could  not  be  fully 
appreciated  at  one  perusal,  espe- 
cially such  a  perusal  as  we  might 
b<3  able  to  give  them  at  parting. 
He  therefore  pressed  on  the  publi- 
cation of  the  interesting  documents, 
and  by  dint  of  some  salutary  threat- 
ei lings  as  to  non-payment,  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  them  to  light. 
When  they  did  appear,  wrath  for 
a  time  displaced  regret,  our  great 
minds  descended  to  the  details  of 
filthy  lucre,  and  we  dissected  the 
whole  of  these  arithmetical  delu- 
sions. Kising  from  this  great 
council  we  rent  every  one  his 
clothes,  and  decreed  that  the  man 
who  had  done  this  thing  should 
surely  die.  Which,  translated  into 
the  barbarisms  of  the  West,  Bales, 
does  not  mean  that  we  desired  the 
death  of  the  sinner,  but  rather  that 
ho  should  turn  from  his  wickedness 


and  lower  his  demands.  To  the 
better  attainment  of  which  end  we 
besought  my  friend  and  travelling 
companion  to  put  lance  in  rest  on 
behalf  of  us  the  lambs,  and  to  do 
battle  with  the  wolf.  Right  man- 
fully did  he  fulfil  his  devoir :  he 
had  some  experience  of  the  lupine 
nature,  and  like  Anna  Soror  blar- 
neying the  pious  ^Eneas,*  or  Mrs 
Todgers  decimating  the  veal  cutlets, 
he  selected  for  his  attack  the  ten- 
derest  places  in  the  manager's  sys- 
tem, who,  nothing  daunted,  threw 
before  his  body  his  warlike  shield 
of  brass.  Our  champion  did  val- 
iantly, pressing  the  foe  till  he  had 
to  abandon  his  items  one  by  one, 
and  making  havoc  with  his  sixes 
and  sevens : — 

f(  In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand, 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment ; " 

by  the  end  of  which  time  the  wolf 
surrendered  at  discretion.  Every 
one  of  us  benefited  largely  by  the 
result  of  this  encounter.  I  got 
relieved,  I  remember,  of  a  heavy  per- 
centage ;  and  an  Italian  gentleman, 
whom  the  wolf  had  marked  for  a 
peculiar  prey,  profited  to  the  extent 
of  one- third  of  a  heavy  bill.  So 
this  little  episode  and  the  thought 
that  we  had  got  the  settling  done 
overnight  was  some  comfort. 

Getting  to  the  railway  was  not 
an  easier  or  pleasanter  operation 
than  getting  from  it  had  been.  We 
had,  however,  daylight  for  the 
former ;  and  if  I  were  to  describe 
to  you  the  babel  at  the  booking- 
office,  I  should  only  repeat  the  de- 
scriptions of  Egyptian  babels  with 
which  I  have  formerly  seasoned  my 
epistles,  save  in  this  respect,  that 
the  last  babel  was  under  cover,  and 
in  a  confined  space — a  thrice  con- 
founded confusion,  the  science  of 
obstructiveness  brought  to  perfec- 
tion, the  most  involved  disorder, 
and  the  most  distracting  uproar  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable. 
It  was  a  serious  look-out  this  time, 
too,  for  there  was  no  unlimited  de- 


Sola  viri  mollis  aditus  et  tempora  noras." — ^Eneid,  IV. 


374 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal. — Part  III. 


[March 


lay ;  the  train  was  intended  to  start 
punctually — that  is  to  say,  within 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  or  an 
hour  of  the  time  prescribed — where- 
fore we  had  need  of  circumspection, 
and,  after  using  our  utmost  efforts, 
narrowly  escaped  being  left  behind. 
Our  seats  were  at  last  obtained,  but 
the  means  by  which  we  got  them 
would  not  have  stood  a  severe  scru- 
tiny. I  am  afraid  that  bribery 
and  corruption,  and  intimidation 
amounting  to  personal  chastise- 
ment, might  have  been  so  plausibly 
imputed,  that  nothing  but  the  ver- 
dict of  an  independent  and  en- 
lightened jury  offered  the  least 
chance  of  establishing  our  inno- 
cence, and  that  palladium  is  not  to 
be  found  here.  Baksheesh  and 
cowhide  are  very  coarse  machinery. 
I  grant  you,  Bales,  that  we  do 
things  more  politely  in  the  West, 
carefully  withholding  the  mirror 
from  nature,  and  never  shocking 
vice  with  the  sight  of  her  own 
image. 

The  journey  to  Alexandria  occu- 
pied, as  well  as  I  remember,  five 
hours.  We  reached  the  city  by 
daylight,  found  letters,  and  found 
also  our  steamer  and  our  friend 
the  courteous  skipper.  There  was 
enough  of  the  day  left  to  view  rap- 
idly Cleopatra's  Needle,  Pompey's 
Pillar,  and  the  Catacombs  ;  also  to 
find  out  what  manner  of  place 
Alexandria  is.  It  surprised  me 
agreeably.  I  had  heard  an  unfa- 
vourable report  of  it,  and  did  not 
quite  see  what  its  great  offences  are. 
It  is  well  laid  out,  and  has  some 
good  streets  and  squares.  I  did 
not  try  a  hotel,  but  several  that  I 
saw  looked  large  respectable  estab- 
lishments; there  were  also  some 
good  shops.  The  roads  certainly 
are  not  well  kept,  as  we  were  pain- 
fully certified  when  we  drove  a 
little  way  into  the  country.  For 
all  that,  the  drive  was  pleasant,  as 
the  groves  and  gardens  looked  fresh, 
and  the  parching  influence  of  the 
desert  was  not  so  hard  to  keep  at 
bay.  I  find  they  have  rain  here 
occasionally,  the  law  of  drought  not 


extending  to  the  sea-coast.  Indeed 
I  knew  by  many  symptoms  that  I 
was  being  gradually  disenchanted, 
that  the  hues  and  softness  of  fairy- 
land were  fading,  and  the  hard 
rugged  outlines  of  the  work-a-day 
world  becoming  more  and  more  ap- 
parent. I  lay  down  that  night  in 
my  cabin  full  of  regrets,  it  is  true, 
but  with  those  regrets  blunted  and 
corrected  by  the  thought  of  how 
much  I  had  been  refreshed  in  mind 
and  body,  and  by  the  retrospect  of 
all  that  I  had  been  seeing  and  do- 
ing. The  ceaseless  activity  of  Egyp- 
tian life  almost  forbade  reflection, 
which  came  now  as  a  new  if  a 
more  sober  pleasure.  How  delight- 
ful it  is  to  let  the  boiling  chaos 
of  ideas  wherewith  you  are  charged 
settle  down,  and  separate  and  take 
lifelike  shape,  and  remould  itself 
in  pictures  for  the  memory  !  But 
the  digestive  process  is  a  sleepy 
one  :  instead  of  the  feverish  expec- 
tation which  had  visited  me  my 
first  night  in  Egypt,  came,  on  this 
my  last,  the  soothing  draught  of 
fruition.  Amid  spectres  of  tur- 
bans, ships,  camels,  sheiks,  banners, 
sphinxes,  railway  officers,  donkeys, 
porters,  veiled  figures,  tombs,  and 
palm'- trees,  I  went  quietly  and 
soundly  to  sleep,  my  last  confused 
vision  being  of  the  lively  capitano, 
who,  with  his  countenance  expanded 
to  colossal  dimensions,  was  pulling 
away  at  a  huge  cigar,  shaped  like  a 
pyramid,  but  not  smoking  very  suc- 
cessfully, and  his  lungs  appeared 
to  be  failing,  when  suddenly  the 
hadji,  armed  with  a  railway  lever, 
having  at  its  end  a  ball  as  big  as 
the  moon,  inserted  the  same  into 
the  back  of  his  head,  which  there- 
upon became  an  air-pump,  and  was 
exercised  by  the  hadji  until  the 
whole  delicate  weed  was  ablaze.  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  left  the 
capitano  in  Egypt.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  ever  see  him  again  ! 

With  morning  and  breakfast 
came  the  knowledge  that  we  were 
likely  to  have  a  limping  voyage 
back  to  Italy,  for  the  bumping  and 
lurching  which  I  mentioned  to  you 


1870.] 


The  Opening  of  the  Suez  Canal— Part  III. 


375 


as  having  occurred  a  little  before 
we  reached  Suez  had  been  attended 
\vith  the  fracture  of  two  blades  of 
our  screw.  It  was  now  supposed 
that  some  heavy  piece  of  iron — 
part  of  a  dredging -machine  per- 
haps—  had  been  left  sticking  in 
the  bed  of  the  Canal,  and  that  our 
evil  fortune  had  sent  the  screw 
against  it.  The  steamer  had,  of 
course,  gone  back  by  the  Canal, 
and  from  Port  Sai'd  to  Alexandria, 
where  we  found  her  waiting.  It 
was  not  very  cheering  to  see  three 
or  four  ships  drop  into  port  all 
after  time,  and  considerably  tum- 
bled, and  giving  sad  accounts  of 
tlie  weather  outside.  We  had  to 
fuce  whatever  might  betide ;  and, 
truly,  as  we  brought  our  anchor 
up,  things  looked  as  smooth  and 
sunny  as  they  had  been  lately  look- 
ing. But  the  inevitable  hour  had 
struck.  We  had  loosed  from  Alex- 
andria, and  were  gently  floating 
down  the  harbour  amid  the  freight- 
ships  and  the  ships  of  war  of  all 
nations,  the  shore  looking  unreal 
and  purple  as  before,  and  the  city 
and  the  shipping  flashing  back  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  We  disengaged 
from  the  anchorage,  and,  with 
more  way  on,  still  stretched  out 
our  hands  to  the  receding  coast, 
rich  with  legend  and  relic,  and 
with  the  ineffable  gramarye  of  old, 
old  Time.  We  saw  the  hills  break 
into  headlands,  and  the  heavy  bat- 
teries armed  with  cannon  cast  on 
English  ground  frowning  down 
upon  us  as  we  neared  the  sea. 
And  then  the  distance  began  to 
lend  literally  enchantment  to  the 
view.  The  mists  gathered,  but 
they  were  the  haze  of  commingling 
rainbows,  not  murky  vapours  nor 
sullen  shrouds.  The  lights  from 
minaret  and  lattice  and  gilded 
vane  still  reached  us  through  the 


tinted  ether;  and  the  outlines  of 
palaces  and  streets  and  hills,  glori- 
fied by  distance,  but  distinct  and 
warm  and  fair,  watched  over  our 
departure  and  dissolved  unwilling- 
ly as  we  were  borne  away.  All 
merged  at  last  in  one  soft  varie- 
gated cloud.  I  knew  not  when  I 
last  distinguished  an  object,  or 
when  the  scene  became  but  one 
commixture  of  mellowed  hues ; 
neither  could  I  say  when  the  last 
fleck  of  colour  waned  and  a  grey 
sky  spake  of  tempest  and  of  tra- 
vail. 

Thus  in  soft  light,  like  to  the 
hue  of  youth,  disappeared  the 
witching  pageant  ;  thus  passed 
Egypt  from  the  sight  of  eyes  that 
shall  behold  her  face  again  no 
more.  I  am  glad  that  I  have 
looked  on  her,  that  I  have  made 
though  but  a  few  hasty  strides  on 
her  soil,  that  I  have  exchanged 
fancies  for  realities,  and  that  I 
have  memories  in  place  of  dreams. 
And,  as  the  wind  raised  its  first 
whistle  through  the  cordage,  and 
the  first  billow  became  crested 
with  foam,  I  said  farewell  to  her 
who  had  afforded  me  a  few  gild- 
ed days,  and  felt  a  desolation  as 
I  turned  from  her.  Ancient  of 
Days,  Enchantress,  long-descended 
Queen,  Farewell ! 

And  now,  Bales,  it  is  a  snorer ; 
the  white  horses  are  tumbling 
about,  and  the  good  ship,  as  she 
cleaves  a  billow,  quakes  as  if  in 
a  convulsion.  If  anything  can 
be  sure,  it  is  certain  that  she  will 
exercise  us  this  night.  But  and 
if  she  take  us  once  more  out  of  the 
boiling  surge  and  within  reach  of 
land,  then  by  these  presents  you 
will  learn,  my  dear  Bales,  the  safe 
return  to  Europe  of 

Yours,  through  good  and  ill, 
SCAMPER. 


376  In  February.  [March 


IN    FEBRUARY. 
1870. 

UPON  the  vigil  of  Saint  Valentine 
I  dreamed,  but  not  in  sleep,  that  Thou  and  I 
Had  drifted  backward  o'er  the  gulf  of  days 
That  part  us  from  three  hundred  years  ago. 
Wherefore  and  how  I  cared  not :  for  I  knew 
That  Thou  wast  still  unchanged,  yea  for  all 
That  now  Thou  worest  ruff  and  farthingale, 
While  I,  in  velvet  pile  and  plumed  cap 
Proclaimed  Thee  first  with  sword  as  well  as  pen — 
Such  were  our  parts  in  Fancy's  Masquerade. 
And  then  I  thought,  what  homage  shall  I  pay 
My  Lady  when  she  wakes  to-morrow  morn 
More  than  all  other  mornings  of  the  year  ? 
I  would  not  give  her,  as  was  then  the  wont, 
Aubade  or  serenade,  for  shame  it  were 
To  wake  her  from  the  summer  of  her  dreams, 
That  needs  must  be  of  all  things  bright  and  fair, 
And  to  recall  her  to  this  frosty  world  : 
Nor  was  there  trafficking  in  common  forms, 
Three  hundred  years  ago,  of  flowery  rhyme, 
Garnished  with  Cupids  and  with  suchlike  things, 
That  all  who  list  may  purchase  by  the  score 
For  any  Kate  or  Bess  or  Jill  or  Joan : 
For,  in  those  days,  the  ritual  of  the  saint 
Was  no  mere  carnival  of  compliments — 
Things  that  should  never  pass  'twixt  me  and  Thee. 
And  so  I  thought  and  thought  until  the  dream 
Grew  clear  :  until  I  saw  that  I  should  speak 
Unto  your  eyes  words  that  were  only  mine, 
Made  in  the  fashion  of  those  olden  days 
For  you,  dear  Lady,  and  for  you  alone  : 
Until  just  simply  from  my  heart  I  spake 
And  dreamed  that  Thou  didst  listen  and  believe 
The  words  I  spake  :  and  then  I  woke,  and  found 
The  song  I  send  Thee.     Take  it :  and  believe 

Albeit  my  Strengthe  to  praise  Thee  be  not  fitte, 
And  eke  to  singe  I  have  but  shalowe  Witte, 
Yette  that  the  olden  Guise  in  whiche  'tis  writte 
Is  Mirrour  of  the  Truthe  that  is  enshrined  in  Itte. 


1570. 

TO   MY   MOSTE  DERE   LADYE  : 

A  VALENTINE. 

When  triumphing  midde  Froste  and  Raine 

The  Birdes  are  faine  to  singe. 
And  faire  Sainte  Valentine  againe 

Makes  Winter  dreme  of  Springe  : 


1870.]  In  February.  377 

Then  as  the  Yere  doth  langhe  with  Love 

To  thinke  on  Summer  Dayes, 
Eche  Hearte  that  loves  it  doth  behove 

To  singe  His  Ladye's  Praise. 

For  pooreste  Love  hath  then  the  Power, 

When  biddes  Sainte  Valentine, 
Thoughe  lowlie  be  His  chosen  Flower, 

To  make  it  seme  divine  : 

To  glorifie  His  Mistresse'  Face, 

Her  Haire,  Her  Lippes,  Her  Eyes, 
In  Sorte  to  sette  Her  Beautie's  Grace 

Amidde  the  starrie  Skies. 

And  for  there  holdes  noe  other  Hearte 

A  Love  soe  depe  as  mine, 
Nor  anie  Sweteriesse  hath  Deserte 

Of  Praise  soe  highe  as  Thine  : 

Thy  Grace  doth  aske,  that  is  above 

Alle  Gemmes  in  Heaven  that  are, 
A  Songe  more  highe  than  depeste  Love 

Mote  raise  to  higheste  Starre. 

But,  Ladye,  an  Thou  aske  for  Praise, 

Yet  doe  not  aske  of  mee  : 
My  Tongue  were  alle  too  poore  to  raise 

Thy  Songe  of  Sovrantie ! 

If  I  the  Crafte  of  Orpheus  hadde, 

And  mine  His  Magicke  were, 
Then  wolde  I  with  Thy  Name  make  gladde 

Alle  Erthe  and  Sea  and  Aire  : 

And  I  wolde  alle  Thy  Glorie  telle 

More  mightilie  than  Hee 
When  by  His  Harpinge  Hee  from  Helle 

Did  drawe  Euridice  : 

Until  eche  famous  Dame  of  Yore 

Thy  Fame  sholde  soare  beyonde, 
And  their  Renowne  be  hearde  noe  more 

In  that  of  Rosamonde. 

But  Love  in  verie  Soothe  is  weke 

When  moste  Hee  sholde  be  stronge ; 
And  to  exalte  Thee  sholde  I  seke 

I  sholde  but  wreke  Thee  Wronge. 

E'en  colde  I  Musicke's  Glorie  blende 

With  alle  the  Welthe  of  Wordes, 
Thy  Mede  of  Praise  wolde  farre  transcende 

My  vainlie  striving  Chordes  : 


378  In  February.  [March 

Since  alle  soe  faire  is  growne  my  Nighte, 

And  alle  soe  fulle  my  Derthe, 
That  Praise  were  loste  amidde  ThyLighte, 

Thou  Rose  of  alle  the  Erthe  ! 

For  on  my  Nighte  soe  brightlie  come 

Thy  Sunshine's  orient  Rayes, 
I  mote  not  be  Aughte  else  but  dumbe 

If  Thou  shold'st  aske  for  Praise : 

And  on  my  Droughte  soe  softe  doth  raine 

Thy  Swetenesse  from  above, 
That  Aughte  to  speke  were  alle  in  vaine 

Save  but  the  Wordes  "  I  love  !" 

Yea,  Love  is  Love,  nor  more  nor  lesse  : 

Nor  doe  thou  deme  Him  smalle, 
In  that  Hee  onlie  can  confesse 

Himselfe,  nor  praise  at  alle  : 

For  higheste  Praise  in  Him  doth  dwelle, 

As  Glorie  Dwelles  in  Daye  : 
And  Hee  may  more  by  Silence  telle 

Than  loudeste  tongue  can  saye. 

Yea,  Love  is  Love,  nor  lesse  nor  more, 

Nor  doe  Thou  holde  Him  vaine, 
Albeit  Hee  can  but  o'er  and  o'er 

E-epete  Himselfe  againe : 

Wherefore  in  mee  noe  Dutie  is 

But  onlie  to  adore, 
And  leve  to  those  who  love  Thee  lesse 

To  magnifie  Thee  more. 

Then  aske  not  mee  Thy  Fame  to  raise 

Unto  Thy  native  Skie— 
There  are  ten  thousande  thus  to  praise 

Thee  better  farre  than  I ; 

But  if  the  Praise  Thou'dst  have  is  Love — 

Then  proudlie  doe  I  telle, 
That  there  is  none  'neath  Heaven  above 

Can  praise  Thee  halfe  soe  welle  ! 

L'ENVOYE. 

Tarrie,  my  Songe,  with  mee, 

Prithee,  a  little  space, 
Till  I  have  fashioned  Thee 

More  worthie  of  Her  Grace  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  1  Thou  dost  longe 

Soe  to  beholde  Her  Face  ? 
Spede  to  Her,  then,  my  Songe — 

Wolde  I  were  in  Thy  Place  ! 

F. 


1870.] 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


379 


CORNELIUS       O'DOWD. 


RECONSTRUCTING  THE  EDIFICE. 


THERE  was  once  on  a  time  a 
grand  jury  in  a  western  county  of 
Ireland  —  Mr  Justice  Keogh  can 
correct  me  if  I  be  wrong  in  calling 
it  Clare — who,  having  occasion  to 
make  a  presentment  for  the  erection 
of  a  new  county  jail,  accompanied 
their  vote  with  the  recommendation 
"  that  the  materials  of  the  old  jail 
should  be  used  in  the  construction 
of  the  new,  but  that  the  old  build- 
ing was  to  stand,  and  be  used  for 
the  confinement  of  prisoners  till 
the  new  jail  should  be  ready  for 
their  reception." 

Now,  though  I  am  far  from  any 
intention  of  comparing  the  Irish 
Establishment  to  a  prison,  yet  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  the  sage 
resolution  I  have  just  quoted  seems 
to  be  exactly  the  sort  of  resolution 
passed  with  reference  to  the  new 
Irish  Church. 

The  old  building  is  to  stand  till 
'72,  while  the  new  edifice  is  being 
constructed  —  constructed  chiefly, 
however,  out  of  the  old  materials 
— a  measure  first  put  forward  on 
grounds  of  economy,  and  stoutly 
upheld  by  the  grand  jury  on  the 
plea  that  "if  sold  at  a  public  sale, 
they  would  bring  next  to  nothing." 

While,  therefore,  there  has  been 
no  small  excitement  in  Ireland,  and 
a  very  fair  display  of  warmth  be- 
tween the  rival  parties  as  to  the 
precise  form  and  symmetry  of  the 
new  body;  while  some  are  for 
giving  great  powers  to  the  laity, 
and  others  for  excluding  them  al- 
together ;  while  one  set  are  insist- 
ing that  on  matters  of  dogma  the 
bishops  should  be  supreme,  and  the 
laity  only  pronounce  on  questions 
of  finance  and  exchequer,  each 
would  seem  to  be  forgetting  that 
the  real  difficulty  before  them  was, 
that  they  were  trying  to  accomplish 
the  feat  recommended  by  the  gen- 
tlemen of  Clare,  which,  to  put  it 


mildly,  is  at  least  embarrassing ! 
If  the  problem  of  the  jail  was  a 
puzzle,  what  shall  we  say  to  the 
difficulty  of  the  case  where  the 
"  old  materials "  are  able  to  plead 
their  own  utility,  and  insist  on 
being  worked  up  in  the  new  build- 
ing ?  This  is  exactly  what  has  come 
to  pass.  It  has  been  decreed  by 
Parliament  that  the  Irish  Church 
was  too  costly  an  establishment  for 
its  followers — that  its  wealth  and 
dignity  were  an  offence  to  those 
who  differed  from  it ;  and  the  Pro- 
testants of  Ireland  have  been  told 
that  another  sect  of  Christians  will 
say  their  prayers  with  far  more 
complacency  and  self-satisfaction 
when  they  know  and  see  that  Pro- 
testants are  as  ill  off  as  themselves 
— a  sentiment  of  charitable  mean- 
ing that  I  hope  none  will  question 
or  dispute.  Protestants  are  there- 
fore enjoined  to  set  about  the  build- 
ing of  a  house  more  in  conformity 
with  their  reduced  fortunes — the 
very  humility  consequent  on  the 
process  being  recommended  to  them 
as  a  useful  spiritual  exercise — and 
they  are  admonished  against  waste- 
fulness, and  told  not  to  neglect  the 
old  materials. 

Every  dictate  of  economy  would 
have  suggested  that,  in  the  new 
edifice,  all  should  have  been  as 
plain,  homely,  and  useful  as  pos- 
sible— little  expended  on  ornament 
or  decoration,  and  nothing  laid  out 
in  matters  of  display.  The  "old 
materials,"  however,  demur  to  this. 
They  say,  "  How  about  us  1  If  we 
are  to  be  '  worked  up/  where  are 
we  to  come  in  1  You  are  surely 
not  going  to  employ  carved  archi- 
traves for  rafters,  or  ornamented 
mullions  for  joists?  And  if  you 
mean  to  utilise  us,  you  must  build 
something  that  will  harmonise  with 
our  pretensions  to  elegance  and 
architectural  beauty." 


380 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[March 


It  was  that  same  artistic  elegance 
that  cost  us  our  fate !  say  the  others. 
Had  we  been,  like  the  Methodists, 
contented  with  a  place  like  a  barn, 
and  a  preacher  on  the  tramp,  there 
would  have  been  no  diatribes  over 
bloated  revenues  and  our  leisure- 
lived  dignitaries. 

The  discussion  has  lasted  for 
months ;  it  has  been  warm  occasion- 
ally to  the  verge  of  violence,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  each  side  was 
animated  by  strong  convictions.  A 
variety  of  issues  have  cropped  up 
from  time  to  time ;  crotchets  have 
been  displayed  and  disposed  of ; 
no-surrender  men  have  been  con- 
fronted with  people  of  elastic  con- 
sciences, and,  with  the  usual  fate  of 
such  associations,  become  fifty  times 
more  attached  to  their  opinions 
than  before ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the 
main  difficulty  lay  where  I  have 
stated  when  I  set  out,  in  trying  to 
carry  out  the  directions  of  the  Clare 
jurymen.  They  were  to  use  up  the 
old  materials,  and  yet  not  impair 
the  utility  of  the  building  of  which 
they  formed  a  part. 

The  spirit  of  ruling  Ireland  in 
accordance  with  Irish  ideas,  of 
which  the  present  Ministry  are  vain 
as  of  a  great  discovery,  is  here 
pushed  to  a  degree  of  flattery  that 
some  might  almost  call  coarse  ;  for 
after  all,  it  was  scarcely  necessary 
that,  to  make  legislation  appreci- 
able to  Irishmen,  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment should  be  a  "  bull." 

Our  rulers,  however,  have  thought 
otherwise.  They  have  said  we  must 
not  deal  with  these  men  as  the 
Tories  have  done,  treating  the  peo- 
ple of  Downshire  or  Meath  as 
though  they  were  men  of  Herts 
or  Norfolk.  We  must  study  their 
instincts  and  their  tempers  ;  learn 
their  passions,  their  prejudices,  and 
their  modes  of  thought.  They 
have  a  general  taste  for  illegalities : 
let  us  see  how  far  we  can  indulge 
them  without  imperilling  the  safety 


of  the  empire.  They  dislike  the 
payment  of  rent,  and  would  rather 
shoot  the  landlord  than  submit  to  it. 
This  is  hard  on  the  landlord,  but 
still  it  will  induce  him  to  make 
some  concessions  by  which  we  can 
compromise  the  differences  between 
them.  They  hate  the  Irish  Protes- 
tant Establishment,  arid  as  few 
people  in  England  care  very  much 
on  the  matter,  let  us  abolish  it; 
and  if  the  measure  be  only  her- 
alded or  escorted  by  a  bull,  who 
shall  have  the  audacity  to  say 
we  are  not  "  ruling  Ireland  in  con- 
formity with  the  spirit  of  Irish- 
men "  1 

Some  people  have  been  so  un- 
generous as  to  say  that  the  states- 
men who  abolished  the  State 
Church  in  Ireland  were  secretly 
minded  to  make  all  reconstruction 
of  a  Protestant  Establishment  im- 
possible; and  that,  in  the  growth 
of  various  forms  of  dissent,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  downfall  of  the 
Church,  they  looked  to  see  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  assume 
the  dominant  station  of  the  Irish 
Church.  Up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment, certainly,  whatever  may  be 
the  apprehensions  on  this  score, 
there  is  nothing  proven.  1  am  dis- 
posed to  judge  more  leniently  the 
great  men  who  rule  us.  My  im- 
pression is,  that  they  were  solely 
minded  to  be  very  Irish  in  their 
Irish  policy;  and  with  a  boon  for 
the  Papists  and  a  bull  for  the  Pro- 
testants, what  could  they  do  more  ? 

If  in  their  legislation  for  the  land 
question  they  only  equal  the  wis- 
dom they  have  displayed  about  the 
Church,  who  is  to  accuse  the  Gov- 
ernment of  indifference  to  Ireland  1 
The  men  who  ransack  the  records 
of  our  grand  juries  to  acquire  the 
spirit  of  our  local  judicatures,  dis- 
play a  zeal  in  their  desire  to  serve 
us  that  must  endear  them  to  the 
heart  of  every  Irishman,  or  at  least 
of  all  such  as  love  a  bull. 


1870." 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


381 


THE  PASSION-PLAY  IN  THE   HIGHLANDS   OF   BAVAKIA. 


"Cloister  and  church  were  the  first  theatres,  priests  the  first  actors,  the  first  dramatic  matter 
was  the  Passion,  the  first  dramas  were  the  mysteries."— Gervinus  on  Shakespeare,  vol.  i.  66. 


TEN  years  ago,  at  Ober-Ammer- 
gau,  a  little  village  on  the  borders 
of  Bavaria  and  the  Tyrol,  a  series 
of  representations  was  given  of  the 
sacred  drama  of  the  Passion  of  our 
Lord.  At  one  of  these  perform- 
ances I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
present,  and  I  now  venture  to  write 
down  from  recollection  the  still 
vivid  impression  which  this  strange 
spectacle  made  upon  me  at  the 
time.  I  do  so  now,  because  in  the 
early  summer  of  this  year  the  play 
will  be  given  anew,  and  strangers 
from  all  parts  of  Europe  will  be 
there  to  see.  To  those  who  go 
from  this  country  it  may  be  an 
object  to  know  beforehand  some- 
thing of  the  character  of  the  spec- 
tacle which  awaits  them  ;  to  those 
who  remain  at  home  it  may  not 
be  without  interest  to  get  some 
idea  of  what  their  friends  are 
going  to  witness  ;  and  to  both  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  hear  some 
tidings  of  a  curiously  impressive 
spectacle,  remarkable  from  being  a 
solitary  remnant  of  the  simple  real- 
istic phases  of  religious  feeling  in 
the  past,  and  a  contrast  to  the  gor- 
geous exhibitions  of  the  same  feel- 
ing with  which  we  are  familiar  in 
the  present.* 

In  the  '  Art-Student  of  Munich ' 
a  short  description  is  given  of  the 
performance  of  1840.  The  Baroness 
Tautphosus,  in  one  of  her  charming 


novels,  describes  the  impressions 
made  upon  her  heroine  by  the  re- 
presentation of  1850.  And  Dean 
Stanley,  in '  Macmillan's  Magazine/ 
has  given  an  interesting  art -criti- 
cism of  the  play  as  it  was  rendered 
in  1860.  It  may  seem  a  little  bold 
to  attempt  to  treat  again  of  what 
has  been  so  well  done  before.  But 
twenty  years,  and  even  ten  years, 
create  great  gaps  in  general  litera- 
ture ;  and  nearly  all  reading  is  so 
ephemeral  in  these  latter  days,  that 
the  interests  of  yesterday  are  for- 
gotten to-morrow;  and  it  is  only  by 
laying  fresh  coatings  of  paint  upon 
the  old  signboards — it  may  be  by  a 
less  artistic  hand — that  the  impres- 
sions of  last  year  leave  any  trace 
in  this.  With  the  hope,  then,  of 
reviving  old  memories  in  some 
minds,  and  arousing  new  interests 
in  others,  the  following  pages  are 
written. 

Some  fifty  years  ago  the  repre- 
sentation of  such  plays  as  this  was 
common  in  the  wilder  districts  of 
Bavaria,  in  parts  of  Wurtemberg, 
and  in  the  Tyrol ;  but  now  there  is 
one  spot  only  in  these  countries  in 
which  the  spectacle  can  be  seen. 
Fifty  years  previously — that  is,  in 
the  middle  of  last  century — there 
was  hardly  a  village  in  those  distant 
parts  that  had  not  its  own  distinc- 
tive representation,  and  Passion 


r  A  somewhat  similar  performance,  but  of  a  coarser  kind,  is  mentioned  by  some 
writers  as  taking  place  at  Buenos  Ayres ;  and  in  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre  at 
Jerusalem,  on  each  Good  Friday,  some  of  the  more  striking  incidents  in  the  Pas- 
sion are  roughly  represented.  A  wooden  figure  of  Christ  is  carried  round  the 
church,  headed  by  a  long  procession  of  priests.  At  the  different  "stations  "  under 
tho  comprehensive  roof  of  the  church, — the  traditional  place  of  the  scourging,  the 
plii,ce  of  the  crowning  with  thorns,  the  place  of  crucifixion — i.e.,  the  supposed 
summit  of  Calvary — the  stone  of  unction,  the  sepulchre,  &c. — the  procession  halts, 
an  1  at  these  several  points  discourses  in  different  languages  are  delivered  by  the 
priests  to  the  large  assembly  of  pilgrims  who  flock  to  Jerusalem  during  Holy 
Week.  But  except  a  certain  reverence  attaching  to  the  localities,  there  is  little 
of  interest  in  the  ceremonial. 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLII1.  2  D 


332 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


Week  was  the  time  appointed  for 
the  performance.  But  a  crusade 
was  declared  against  them,  in  which 
both  the  clergy  and  the  laity  took 
part — the  clergy,  because  they  were 
unsuitable  to  Passion  Week ;  the 
laity,  because  they  were  unworthy 
of  an  enlightened  age.  They  had 
lost  much  of  their  primitive  char- 
acter. The  burlesque  element  had 
mingled  with  the  serious ;  the  sacred 
and  the  profane  came  too  closely  into 
contact ;  the  acting  was  frequently 
bad ;  a  handle  was  given  to  the  less 
reverent  to  turn  things  sacred  into 
ridicule;  and  in  177  9  they  were  pub- 
licly condemned  by  all  forms  of  eccle- 
siastical denunciations,  and  the  civil 
authorities  in  Austria  and  Bavaria 
took  rigorous  measures  for  their  sup- 
pression. One  exception  was  made 
to  the  general  prohibition.  In  the 
solitary  village  of  Ober-Ammergau 
these  plays  were  not  interdicted ; 
and  the  reason  of  this  exception  was, 
that  in  that  village  the  play  was  per- 
formed in  accordance  with  a  vow 
made  two  hundred  years  before,  and 
under  the  surveillance  of  the  monks 
of  a  neighbouring  monastery  it  had 
always  been  enacted  with  becoming 
piety  and  decorum. 

The  village  lies  high  up  the  val- 
ley of  the  Ammer  in  the  Bavarian 
highlands,  about  a  long  day's  jour- 
ney from  Munich,  and  within  two 
miles  of  the  grand  old  monastery 
of  Ettal.  This  monastery  was 
founded  by  the  Emperor  Lewis  of 
Bavaria,  and  for  many  years  prior 
to  the  commencement  of  the  pre- 
sent century,  when  it  was  secular- 
ised, the  religious  character  of  this 
remote  district  took  its  colour  in 
great  measure  from  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal influence  of  the  abbey.  The 
village  is  long  and  straggling,  and 
is  made  up  of  separate  houses  or 
chdlets,  each  embedded  in  its  own 
orchard -garden,  carefully  tended 
and  scrupulously  clean.  It  is  situ- 
ated in  a  green  plain  hemmed  in 
on  all  sides  by  steep  picturesquely- 
formed  mountains,  and  through 
the  meadow  the  clear  bright  stream 
sparkles  onwards  in  the  sunlight, 


stealing  from  the  mountains  just 
sufficient  valley-land  to  afford  sus- 
tenance for  the  small  peasant-popu- 
lation of  the  village.  In  numbers 
the  inhabitants  may  amount  to 
about  eight  hundred ;  and,  like 
most  of  the  Alpine  peasants  in 
the  Bavarian  uplands  and  the  more 
secluded  valleys  of  Switzerland  and 
the  south  Tyrol,  they  gain  their 
livelihood  by  wood  carving  and 
engraving. 

In  1633  this  village  was  afflicted 
by  a  pestilence  which  followed  on 
the  famine  and  desolation  caused 
by  the  drain  of  men  absorbed  in 
the  wars  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and 
the  consequent  poverty  of  the  peo- 
ple. When  the  pestilence  was  at  its 
height,  the  pious  and  affrighted  vil- 
lagers vowed  a  decennial  represen- 
tation of  the  Passion  of  our  Lord 
if  the  plague  might  be  stayed.  Their 
prayers  were  heard ;  "  and,"  so 
the  chronicle  says,  "  though  many 
had  the  plague-spots  when  the  vow 
was  made,  yet  no  more  died  of  it." 
From  that  time  till  the  promulga- 
tion of  the  interdict  in  17 79,  the  play 
was  regularly  performed  in  accord- 
ance with  this  vow.  And  it  was 
only  by  the  pleadings  of  an  urgent 
deputation  of  Ammergau  peasants 
with  Max  Joseph  of  Bavaria,  that 
he  was  induced  to  use  his  influence 
to  save  their  Mystery  from  the 
general  condemnation.  He  was 
successful  in  his  remonstrances,  and 
the  play  has  been  repeated  every 
ten  years  since  that  date.-  A  few 
alterations  have  been  made  to  re- 
lieve the  performance  of  some  of 
its  coarser  features,  but  it  is 
substantially  the  same  as  it  was 
originally. 

The  performers  number  about 
five  hundred ;  and  one  and  all.  from 
the  child  of  two  or  three  years  old 
who  appears  among  the  Israelites 
in  the  desert,  to  the  oldest  man 
among  the  elders  in  the  Sanhe- 
drim, they  belong  to  Ober-Ammer- 
gau. The  different  parts  are  allot- 
ted out  to  them  by  a  committee  of 
the  villagers,  who  exercise  a  sort  of 
censorial  authority  over  the  players 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


383 


during  the  continuance  of  the  play. 
TLe  personator  of  Christ  considers 
his  part  an  act  of  religious  worship, 
and  both  he  and  the  other  principal 
performers  are  said  to  be  selected 
on  account  of  their  holy  life,  and  con- 
secrated to  their  work  with  prayer. 
None  but  those  who  are  esteemed  of 
high  moral  worth  are  allowed  to  take 
the  more  important  parts.  The  rdles 
of  the  soldiers  and  the  money-chang- 
ers are  given  to  those  who  are  less 
blameless.  And,  according  to  Lud- 
wig  Clarus,  who  has  published  an 
historical  account  of  the  play,  <the 
assignment  of  the  parts  of  Barab- 
bas  or  the  executioners  to  any  mem- 
bers of  the  community  is  equiva- 
lent to  a  black  mark  in  the  village 
society,  and  indicates  more  than 
equivocal  characters.  But  the  im- 
portance of  the  performance  is  such, 
so  Ludwig  tells  us,  that  no  one 
henitates  to  accept  the  part  assigned. 

The  allotment  of  parts  takes  place 
upon  the  1 2th  of  December,  and  from 
then  till  Whitsunday  there  are  re- 
gular rehearsals  and  preparations 
under  the  simple  artistic  instruction 
of  no  one  but  the  parish  priest.  On 
Whitsunday  the  first  performance 
takes  place,  and  from  then  till  the 
middle  of  September  it  is  played  at 
stated  intervals,  but  generally  every 
Sunday.* 

In  1860  the  part  of  Christus  was 
given  to  Rupert  Schauer.  Pflun- 
ger,  who  played  that  part  in  1840 
and  1850,  with  what  at  first  seems 
a  strange  contradiction,  in  1860 
took  the  part  of  Pilate. 

The  theatre  was  erected  on  the 
banks  of  the  little  stream,  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  just  below 
the  "  Covel,"  a  high  column-like 
rock  which  rises  sheer  out  of  the 
valley  to  the  height  of  several  thou- 
sand feet.  This  mountain  over- 
hangs the  little  town,  and  seems  to 
threaten  it  with  possible  destruc- 
tion at  any  moment — a  physical 
characteristic  which  is  not  uncom- 


mon in  parts  of  Bavaria  and  the 
Tyrol,  as  any  one  who  has  visited 
Innsbruck  will  recollect.  The  build- 
ing was  an  immense  wooden  edifice 
made  of  rude  planks  and  benches, 
and  was  so  laid  out  as  to  be  capable 
of  containing  between  eight  and 
nine  thousand  people,  irrespective 
of  the  performers.  And  large 
though  it  appeared  to  be,  it  has 
been  found  inadequate  to  contain 
the  numerous  spectators  who  come 
in  crowds  from  every  quarter.  In 
such  cases  the  play  is  repeated  on 
the  following  day. 

The  stage,  like  the  stages  of  the 
old  Greek  theatres,  was  contrived 
so  as  to  represent  a  theatre  within 
a  theatre.  In  the  centre  of  the 
proscenium,  at  the  part  farthest 
from  the  audience,  there  was  a 
smaller  stage — the  "scena"  of  the 
Greek  theatres — on  which  the  scen- 
ery was  roughly  painted.  At  the 
sides  of  the  proscenium  the  palaces 
of  Herod  and  of  Annas,  and  the 
streets  of  Jerusalem,  extending  to 
a  great  distance,  were  represented  ; 
and  when  the  curtain  of  the  inner 
theatre  was  raised,  showing  now  the 
interior  of  the  Temple,  now  the 
Supper-chamber,  or  again  the  hall 
of  the  Sanhedrim,  or  it  might  be 
the  garden  of  Gethsemane,  or  Mount 
Calvary,  a  sort  of  panoramic  re- 
presentation of  Jerusalem,  interior 
and  exterior,  was  exhibited,  and 
the  mind,  even  before  the  drama 
commenced,  got  familiarised  with 
the  scenes  where  it  is  laid. 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  building 
was  strangely  illustrative  of  the 
spectacles  that  must  have  been  pre- 
sented to  the  eyes  of  an  Athenian 
audience  in  the  best  days  of  the 
Grecian  drama.  The  open-air  mid- 
day performance,  which  owed  every- 
thing to  the  natural  scenery  of  the 
locality  for  its  optical  effects — to  the 
mountains,  and  the  stream,  and  the 
green  meadow  stretching  far  away 
in  the  distance,  and,  above  all,  to 


*  The  days  appointed  for  the  performances  in  1870  are  as  follows  :  May  22,  29; 
Jun-  6,  12,  19,  25;  July  3,  10,  17,  24,  31;  August  7,  14,  21,  28;  September  8, 
11,  18,  25,  29. 


384 


Tlit  Passion-Flay  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


the  lights  and  shadows  of  the 
changing  day ;  the  picturesque  as- 
sembly of  eager  and  impressionable 
spectators  gazing  long  hours  in 
rapt  attention  at  the  working  out 
of  a  great  spectacle  that  combined 
so  strongly  the  devotional  with  the 
dramatic  element ;  the  simple  yet 
artistic  acting,  with  all  its  rustic 
properties,  its  rude  decorations,  and 
common  untheatrical  illusions  ; 
the  unusual  institution  of  a  band  or 
chorus,  which, advancing  with  grave 
solemnity  from  opposite  sides  of  the 
proscenium,  ranged  itself  under 
the  guidance  of  a  Coryphaeus,  and 
chanted  in  unison  with  him  the 
plan  of  the  scenes  as  one  after  an- 
other they  were  to  be  performed, — 
all  carried  back  the  mind  of  any 
one  who  looked  upon  the  spectacle 
to  scenes  almost  identically  similar, 
which  were  enacted  in  the  various 
theatres  of  Greece  four  hundred 
years  before  the  birth  of  Him 
whose  life  on  earth  was  now  being 
represented. 

By  daylight  on  Sunday  morning 
(August  19,  I860),  the  densely- 
crowded  little  village  was  alive 
with  men  and  women.  From  an 
early  hour  on  Saturday  carriages 
had  been  arriving  from  every  quar- 
ter, and  "  stellwagen,"  "einspan- 
ner,"  great  wooden  carts,  and  every 
variety  of  German  conveyance,  had 
been  emptying  their  loads  of  eager 
visitors  all  day  before  the  over- 
crowded inns.*  Pedestrians  of 
every  size  and  shape  kept  toiling  up 
the  steep  pass  of  Ettal,  and  arriving 
at  every  moment  travel-stained  and 
weary ;  many  had  walked  a  hun- 
dred, some  two  hundred,  miles. 
You  saw  long-haired  Franciscan 
and  bearded  Capuchin  monks,  with 
their  brown  serge  dresses  girt  with 
belts  of  rope.  There  were  black- 
robed  priests  to  the  number  of 
eight  hundred  or  thereby.  There 
were  Bavarian  women,  with  their 


quaint  gold  and  silver  head-dresses 
and  their  brilliant  variegated  um- 
brellas —  an  indispensable  com- 
panion. There  were  Tyrolean  pea- 
sants—  the  men  in  their  high- 
peaked,  broad-brimmed  hats,  richly 
decorated  with  gold  lace  and  tassels, 
their  short  black  breeches,  green 
and  scarlet  waistcoats,  and  gigantic 
embroidered  belts ;  the  women  in 
plain  black  straw  hats,  tastefully 
adorned  and  garlanded  with  wild 
flowers.  There  were  Englishmen 
too,  but  very  few  in  number,  with 
serious,  self-satisfied,  complacent 
faces,  contrasting  gloomily  in  their 
business-like  grey  cloth  suits  with 
all  those  picturesque  costumes.  All 
that  motley  assembly  of  men  and 
women  you  saw  toiling  up  the 
long  steep  hill,  toiling  up  as  if  upon 
a  pilgrimage  from  a  distant  land. 
Long  before  the  sun  rose  on  Sun- 
day morning,  all  those  who  had 
arrived  upon  the  previous  day,  and 
many  who  appeared  during  the 
night,  were  wandering  vaguely  about 
the  streets  with  a  strange  distracted 
air,  as  of  people  possessed  with 
some  engrossing  idea.  From  five 
o'clock  till  eight,  mass  was  being 
performed  at  all  five  altars  in  the 
crowded  cathedral ;  and  by  eight 
o'clock  every  seat  in  the  theatre 
was  occupied. 

As  the  village  clock  struck  eight, 
and  the  loud  report  of  a  cannon 
had  died  away  among  the  moun- 
tains, the  chorus,  to  the  number  of 
seventeen  men  and  women,  dressed 
in  long  white  and  coloured  mantles 
to  represent  "guardian  angels," 
came  filing  in  upon  the  stage,  and 
sang  to  soft  low  music  the  prologue 
of  the  play.  As  the  first  notes  rose, 
the  buzz  of  conversation  ceased  ; 
and  from  that  moment  till  twelve 
o'clock  the  performance  continued 
without  a  single  interruption,  both 
performers  and  spectators  appearing 
to  be  entirely  engrossed  in  what 
they  were  acting  and  beholding. 


*  The  writer  of  this  had  to  spend  the  night,  sleeping  as  he  best  could  on  some 
fresh-cut  hay  laid  down  for  him  on  a  kitchen-floor,  with  five  or  six  companions 
whom  he  knew  not. 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


385 


At  twelve  there  was  an  hour's  in- 
terval; the  play  recommenced  at 
one,  and  continued  with  the  same 
unflagging  interest  until  half -past 
four. 

To  describe  in  detail  the  scenes 
of  this  drama,  which  passed  so  un- 
interruptedly before  the  mind,  and 
were  so  conspicuously  free  from  all 
st  ige  contrivances,  is  no  easy  task. 
To  convey  a  true  idea  of  it  in  writ- 
ing, or  to  form  an  adequate  concep- 
tion of  its  simple  grandeur  without 
personally  seeing  it,  is  impossible. 
It  was  a  sight  which  no  man,  what- 
ever may  have  been  his  education 
or  his  religious  opinions,  could  look 
upon  without  some  feeling,  and 
without  carrying  away  a  deep  and 
lasting  impression. 

The  spectacle  was  of  two  kinds. 
It  consisted  partly  of  tableaux  vi- 
vonts,  which  were  exhibited  on  the 
smaller  stage  at  the  back  of  the 
proscenium,  partly  of  scenes,  which 
were  performed  sometimes  on  one 
and  sometimes  on  the  other  stage, 
and  in  which  the  characters  spoke 
and  acted  as  in  an  ordinary  play. 
E  ich  scene  was  preceded  by  one  or 
more  tableaux  typical  of  the  subject 
which  was  to  be  represented  in  it. 
These  tableaux  were  taken  from 
incidents  in  the  Old  Testament, 
and  formed  part  of  the  choral  re- 
presentation, the  duty  of  the  chorus 
being  to  explain  the  typical  allu- 
sions, and  point  the  moral  to  be 
deduced  from  them.  When  the 
prologue  was  ended,  the  chorus 
separated,  and  rearranged  them- 
selves in  a  semicircle  from  either 
side  of  the  inner  theatre.  The 
curtain  then  of  the  inner  theatre 
drew  up,  and  the  stage  show- 
ed en  tableau  the  expulsion  of 
Adam  and  Eve  from  Paradise,  an 
angel  standing  behind  them  with 
a  flaming  sword.  Here  the  Cory- 
phaeus took  up  the  chant,  and, 
now  singing,  now  in  recitative,  ex- 
plained the  scene  as  typical  of  the 
curse  only  to  be  expiated  by  the 
death  of  Christ.  This  opening 
st-ene  was  the  key-note  of  the  piece 
that  was  to  follow.  It  typified  the 


object  of  Christ's  life  before  His  re- 
surrection, which  was  to  be  repre- 
sented in  the  Mystery.  The  chorus 
again  separated,  and  the  second 
tableau  showed  the  heavenly  angels 
coming  to  bring  glad  tidings  upon 
earth.  As  they  appeared,  the  chor- 
us reverently  kneeled  before  them, 
singing  a  hymn  of  joy  and  thanks- 
giving. That  passed  away,  and  the 
first  actual  scene  succeeded. 

The  wide  streets  of  the  repre- 
sented city  began  to  fill  with  men 
and  women  all  in  Oriental  cos- 
tumes. They  appeared  to  be  de- 
scending the  steep  green  slope  of 
the  Mount  of  Olives,  at  the  out- 
skirts of  Jerusalem.  In  long  pro- 
cession, singing  with  innumerable 
voices  a  triumphal  chant,  and 
waving  long  branches  of  palm-trees 
and  green  boughs  in  their  hands, 
they  filed  in.  And  now,  as  the 
leaders  of  the  gay  assemblage  came 
winding  through  the  distant  streets 
in  the  background,  advancing  to- 
wards the  front,  the  music  swells 
in  volume  and  in  tone,  and  seems 
to  come  nearer  to  the  audience. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  great  mul- 
titude increases  —  children  come 
in  dancing  merrily,  and  strew- 
ing flowers  upon  the  path  ;  and 
men  and  women  are  spreading 
garments  on  the  ground  for  the 
feet  of  some  great  one  to  tread. 
Then  in  the  furthest  background 
appears  Christ,  meek  and  lowly 
amid  all  the  pageant,  riding  hum- 
bly on  an  ass,  and  followed  in  or- 
der by  the  twelve  apostles.  As 
he  appeared,  even  above  the  notes 
of  the  triumphant  music  and  the 
loud  hosannas,  you  seemed  to  feel 
a  thrill  pass  through  the  dense 
crowd  of  spectators  in  the  rustic 
theatre.  There  appeared  to  be  a 
momentary  cessation  of  the  slight- 
est sound,  almost  of  the  breathing 
of  wellnigh  eight  thousand  people. 
Every  sense  of  every  man  and  wo- 
man in  that  great  mass  of  human 
beings  seemed  concentrated  on  the 
single  figure  that  had  appeared,  and 
for  a  moment  every  one  seemed 
struck  as  if  by  some  mysterious 


386 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


agency,  and  rendered  powerless. 
It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea 
of  the  strange  impression  produced 
by  the  appearance  of  this  man  who 
represented  the  character  of  Christ. 
It  was  utterly  unlike  any  impres- 
sion which  could  be  made  by  any 
other  spectacle  or  theatrical  repre- 
sentation. It  seemed  to  be  a  strange 
mixture  of  reverential  awe  and 
curious  mysterious  interest  which 
probably  no  one  present  could  have 
power  to  analyse.  The  appearance 
of  the  actor,  no  doubt,  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  effect.  And 
it  was  altogether  favourable  to  the 
illusion  that  it  was  Christ  himself 
who  had  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
midst  of  the  assembly.  He  had 
the  mild  and  pensive  eye,  the  pale 
olive  complexion,  the  finely-mould- 
ed features,  intellectual  forehead, 
and  soft  brown  hair  and  beard, 
which,  since  the  days  of  Cimabue 
and  Perugino,  are  stereotyped  as 
characteristic  of  Jesus  Christ.  Add 
to  that  the  long  flowing  purple 
vesture,  the  rich  crimson  mantle, 
and  the  well-known  Eastern  san- 
dals, represented  in  the  pictures  of 
the  old  masters,  and  it  seemed  al- 
most as  if  one  of  these  old  pictures 
had  been  endowed  with  life  ;  or 
perhaps  as  if  the  glass  of  time  had 
moved  backward  eighteen  hundred 
years,  and  we  were  living  and  act- 
ing in  that  the  greatest  drama  that 
this  world  has  ever  known. 

The  twelve,  each  in  their  char- 
acteristic costumes,  followed  him. 

TABLEAUX. 


And  so  completely  was  the  individ- 
uality of  each  brought  out,  that  even 
when  they  thus  appeared  for  the 
first  time,  it  would  have  been  no 
difficult  matter  to  single  out  each 
man  among  them  as  they  passed. 
Behind  them  followed  a  multi- 
tude of  Jews,  both  men  and 
women ;  and  in  that  multitude 
you  could  mark  a  few  here  and 
there  who  showed  signs  of  disap- 
proval, and  who  soon  were  to  appear 
as  Christ's  enemies  and  accusers. 

It  would  be  endless  to  attempt 
to  describe  each  of  the  tableaux 
and  scenes,  as  they  followed  one  after 
another  without  intermission,  except 
the  few  minutes  occupied  during 
each  by  the  chorus  in  explaining 
the  typical  allusions,  and  indicating 
the  general  bearing  of  the  piece.  It 
is  better  to  mention  in  order  the 
tableaux  and  their  corresponding 
scenes,  and  to  particularise  those 
only  which  were  more  especially 
interesting,  and  which  stamped 
their  impression  more  clearly  on 
the  mind. 

The  performance  was  divided 
into  two  parts.  The  first  began,  as 
we  have  seen,  with  the  triumphal 
entrance  into  Jerusalem,  and  ended 
with  the  betrayal  in  the  garden  of 
Gethsemane.  The  second  opened 
with  the  bringing  of  Christ  before 
Annas,  and  closed  with  the  resur- 
rection. 

In  the  first  part,  the  tableaux 
and  the  scenes  which  they  typified 
were  as  follows  : — 

SCENES. 


1.  Adam  and  Eve  expelled  from  Para- 

dise. 

2.  Heavenly  angels  bring  glad  tidings 

upon  earth. 


1 .  Tobias  takes  leave  of  his 

2.  The   bride   bewails   the 

bridegroom. 


parents, 
loss 


of  the 


1.  Entrance  into  Jerusalem. 

2.  Turning  the  money-changers  out  of 

the  Temple. 

3.  Departure  from  Bethany. 


1.  Jacob's  sons  conspire  against  Joseph.      1. 


II. 

High  priests  and  elders  take  counsel 
in  the  Sanhedrim  to  bring  Jesus 
into  their  power. 

- 
in. 

1.  The  journey  to  Bethany. 

2.  The  supper  at  Bethany. 

3.  Jesus  takes  leave  of  his  mother  and 

his  friends  at  Bethany. 


1 870.]  The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 

TABLEAUX. 

1.  Vashti  spurned  by  Ahasuerus. 


1 .  The  manna  given  to  the  children  of 
Israel  in  the  desert. 

1.  Joseph  sold  by  his  brethren  to  the 

Midianites. 


1.  Adam  toiling  in  the  field  after  his 

expulsion  from  the  garden  of  Eden. 

2.  Joab  at  the  rock  kills  Amasa  on  pre- 

tence of  kissing  him. 

3.  Samson  overpowered  by  the  Philis- 

tines. 

In  this  part  of  the  drama,  the 
entrance  into  Jerusalem  and  the 
Last  Supper  were  the  most  ef- 
fective scenes.  The  agony  in  the 
garden,  perhaps  because  more 
might  be  expected  from  it,  had  less 
perceptible  effect  upon  the  mind. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  minute  realisation 
of  every  particular  of  the  Gospel 
narrative— the  three  distinct  times 
fit  which  Jesus  returned  and  found 
his  disciples  asleep — the  incongru- 
ity of  the  stealthy  night  attack  upon 
him  under  cover  of  dark  lanterns, 
while  the  sky  overhead  was  blue 
und  clear,  and  the  mid-day  sun 
was  streaming  down  upon  the  scene 
• — the  kiss  given  by  Judas,  and  the 
onslaught  made  by  Peter  upon  Mal- 
uhus  when  he  cut  off  his  ear,  all 
which  is  adhered  to  rigidly, — these 
and  other  realistic  details  may 
have  blunted  susceptibilities  which 
would  have  been  keenly  excited  by 
a  more  imaginative  rendering,  and 
may  have  marred  the  general  effec- 
tiveness of  the  scene.  But  yet,  as 
you  looked  on  that  solitary  figure 
bowed  down  in  agony,  and  noted 
the  acute  expression  of  pain  upon 
his  face,  and  the  great  drops  of 
•sweat  like  blood  upon  his  brow, 
carrying  out  so  literally  the  curse 
pronounced  on  Adam,  you  could 
iiot  remain  an  unmoved  spectator. 
You  felt  then,  perhaps  for  the  first 


387 

SCENES. 
IV. 

1.  The  last  journey  to  Jerusalem  ;  two 

of  the  disciples  sent  forward  to  pre- 
pare the  Supper. 

2.  Judas  tempted  by  the  Jews  to  betray 

Jesus. 

v. 
1.  The  Last  Supper. 

VI. 

1.  Judas  comes  to  the  Sanhedrim,  and 
agrees  to  sell  Jesus  to  the  Pharisees. 

VII. 

1.  The  agony  in  the  garden. 

2.  Judas  betrays  Jesus  with  a  kiss. 

3.  Jesus,  deserted  by  his  disciples,  is  led 

away  by  his  betrayers. 

time,  the  loneliness,  the  hopeless- 
ness, the  depth  of  human  misery, 
and  with  all  that  the  more  than 
human  resignation  of  which  we 
read  so  often  with  disproportionate 
sympathy  in  the  descriptions  of 
that  night  of  agony. 

Second  only  to  the  delineation 
of  the  crucifixion  in  impressiveness, 
and  more  touching  than  the  trium- 
phal entry,  from  the  home  feeling 
and  simplicity  in  the  action,  ranks 
unquestionably  the  representation 
of  the  Last  Supper.  In  the  gene- 
ral arrangements  and  external  ap- 
pearance this  scene  was  not  unlike 
what  may  be  witnessed  on  a  sacra- 
ment Sunday  in  many  a  country 
church  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land. The  ceremony,  as  performed 
here,  recalled  the  Presbyterian 
rather  than  the  Episcopalian  or 
Roman  Catholic  form  of  adminis- 
tering the  Communion.  In  the 
Presbyterian  Church  alone,  the  true 
idea  of  the  Holy  Supper,  compara- 
tively free  from  all  mysticism  or 
symbolical  significance,  is  preserved 
in  its  primitive  simplicity.  The 
Episcopalian,  no  less  than  the  Eo- 
man  Catholic  Churches,  have  de- 
parted far  from  the  traditionary 
ritual.  In  both  of  these  a  tincture 
of  unreality  has  appeared  in  the 
lapse  of  ages.  And  this  unreality, 
while  it  cannot  be  considered  to 


388 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Itavaria.          [March 


add  to  the  solemnity  of  the  Holy 
Sacrament,  is  greatly  at  variance 
with  the  type  presented  by  the 
Evangelists.  The  Scotch  Kirk,  on 
the  other  hand,  from  its  scrupulous 
abhorrence  of  anything  unnatural, 
reproduces  the  original  celebration 
in  much  the  same  character  as  it 
possessed  when  first  performed  in 
the  upper  chamber  in  Jerusalem. 
In  the  ceremony  at  Amrnergau,  the 
chamber,  the  long  narrow  table, 
and  the  grouping  of  the  twelve 
around  it,  were  all  apparently  co- 
pied from  Leonardo  da  Vinci's 
well-known  masterpiece.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  that  great  picture 
had  been  revived  and  transformed 
into  living  and  moving  existence, 
and  transported  from  the  cloister 
in  Milan  to  the  wild  highlands 
of  Bavaria.  Or  perhaps  the  scene, 
as  it  was  presented  here  in  its 
studied  simplicity,  went  further 
even  than  Leonardo's  conception. 
Your  ideas  were  unconsciously 
carried  beyond  the  imaginings  of 
the  painter,  or  the  representation 
of  the  village  actors ;  and  you  al- 
most felt  that  you  were  present  with 
the  disciples  as  the  actual  fact  was 
originally  enacted  by  Jesus  Christ 
and  them.  The  cup  was  blessed 
and  handed  round  among  the 
twelve,  and  then  Jesus  rose  and 
broke  the  bread,  and  placed  a  mor- 
sel of  it  in  the  mouth  of  each ;  and 
as  they  received  it,  all  but  Judas, 
with  lowered  eyes  and  clasped 
hands,  they  seemed  as  if  they  had 
actually  received  of  the  bread  of 
life  from  the  hands  of  the  Son  of 
God.  And  after  he  had  given  of 
the  bread,  he  rose  again  and  blessed 
the  cup,  and  gave  it  with  his  own 
hands  to  each,  and  they  received  it 
prayerfully.  It  is  seldom  that  a 
more  impressive  Communion  ser- 
vice— impressive  from  its  simplic- 
ity— has  been  witnessed  since  the 
first  great  inauguration. 

The  effect  upon  the  audience  ap- 
peared to  be  greater  during  this 
scene  than  during  any  other 
throughout  the  whole  performance. 
Deep  as  was  the  emotion  exhibited 


at  Christ's  first  entrance,  and 
strangely  acute  as  was  the  thrill 
that  passed  through  every  heart  as 
the  cross  was  raised  at  the  cruci- 
fixion, the  feeling  at  this  moment, 
though  somewhat  different,  seemed 
even  more  intense  and  more  all-per- 
vading. It  was  a  holy,  reverent, 
awe-struck  feeling,  such  as  is  some- 
times experienced  in  a  great  ca- 
thedral when  every  face  is  devoutly 
turned  to  the  earth,  and  the  solem- 
nising bell  chimes  through  the 
aisles,  and  the  silver  trumpets  peal 
out  to  tell  that  the  host  is  being 
raised,  and  that  God  is  in  the  midst 
of  His  worshippers.  It  seemed 
here  as  if  the  great  multitude  of 
onlookers  at  this  representation  of 
the  Supper  really  believed  implicit- 
ly in  the  performance  which  they 
saw  going  on  before  them.  They 
appeared  to  feel  that  they  were  ac- 
tually in  the  presence  of  the  Son 
of  God.  At  the  crucifixion  the 
more  purely  spiritual  element  was 
in  abeyance,  and  the  feeling  indi- 
cated by  the  audience  was  more 
painful  and  sympathetic,  as  if  it 
was  evoked  by  a  fellow -man  in 
agony.  Here  there  was  a  mixture 
of  feeling.  It  was  partly  solemn 
and  awe-struck,  as  if  called  out  by 
the  contemplation  of  something 
supernatural,  and  partly  homelike 
and  kindly  and  familiar,  as  if  elicit- 
ed by  the  intense  natural  humanity 
exhibited  in  this  representation  of 
the  Last  Supper.  In  looking  on  it 
you  seemed  to  realise  at  once  the 
divine  and  human  nature  of  the 
Son  of  Man. 

After  the  supper  was  ended,  Jesus 
rose  and  laid  aside  his  mantle  and 
his  girdle  (reminding  one,  as  he  ap- 
peared in  his  vesture,  of  the  well- 
known  modern  picture  representing 
his  walking  on  the  sea),  and,  as  is 
described  by  St  John,  proceeded  to 
wash  the  disciples'  feet.  This  scene, 
like  some  of  those  in  the  second 
part,  was  difficult  to  exhibit.  The 
line  which  separates  the  sublime 
from  the  ridiculous  in  such  scenes 
as  these  presented,  must  necessarily 
be  a  very  narrow  one.  When  the 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


359 


feelings  are  excited  to  the  highest 
pitch,  and  the  nervous  system  kept 
upon  the  strain,  the  smallest  diver- 
gence from  beyond  this  line,  even 
the  remotest  trace  of  common- 
place, must  at  once  produce  reac- 
tion. Had  even  the  faintest  sha- 
dow of  burlesque — if  such  a  word 
may  without  impropriety  be  used 
• — been  observable  in  any  portion 
of  the  performance  of  the  character 
of  Christ,  this  scene  must  have 
brought  it  out.  And,  more  than 
this,  had  the  acting  of  the  part 
been  studied  or  professional  acting, 
and  not,  as  it  was,  a  personification 
drawn  out  by  deep  religious  senti- 
ment from  the  soul,  it  must  have 
protruded  itself  unpleasantly  in 
this  scene,  and  the  taste  of  the 
more  cultivated  in  the  audience 
would  have  been  shocked.  But  as 
the  character  was  represented  by 
Knpert  Schauer  with  perfect  truth- 
fulness and  simplicity,  with  an  in- 
nate dignity  and  total  forgetf illness 
of  self,  you  almost  felt  as  if  it  was 
the  man  Jesus  himself  who  was 
performing  this  menial  office,  and 
not  the  roughly- cultured  peasant  of 
Bavaria. 

There  were  in  all  eleven  tableaux 
in  this  first  part  of  the  drama,  and 
of  these  three  stood  out  as  of  spe- 
cial interest.  Two  of  them  passed 
quickly,  one  after  the  other;  and 
whether  from  the  contrast  they 
presented  to  each  other,  or  from 
the  simple  beauty  and  apparent 
truthfulness  of  the  typical  illustra- 
tion which  they  were  intended  to 
convey,  they  were  both  strikingly 
effective. 

The  first  corresponded  to  the 
scene  which  represented  Judas  bar- 
gaining with  the  Pharisees  in  the 
Sanhedrim  for  the  betrayal  of  Jesus. 
It  represented  Joseph's  brethren 
bartering  with  the  Midianites  for 
the  sale  of  their  brother.  In  this 
tableau  great  pains  had  been  taken 
to  throw  a  light  and  joyous  char- 
acter over  the  scenery,  and  over 
the  figure  of  Joseph.  The  Oriental 
aspect  of  the  country,  the  bright 


variegated  dress  of  the  boy,  who, 
true  to  the  traditionary  history, 
wore  his  "coat  of  many  colours/' 
and  the  innocent  childlike  appear- 
ance of  his  figure  and  bearing,  con- 
trasting with  the  dark  treacherous 
expression  of  the  faces  of  his  breth- 
ren, formed  together  a  studied  and 
artistic  picture. 

The  second  of  these  three  tableaux 
was  a  striking  contrast  to  the  first. 
It  corresponded  to  the  agony  in  the 
garden,  and  represented  a  scene  of 
awful  desolation,  in  which  Adam, 
after  his  expulsion  from  the  garden 
of  Eden,  clothed  in  sheep-skins, 
care-worn  and  sad,  was  represented 
toiling  wearily,  while  the  sweat  was 
pouring  from  his  brow;  and  Eve  sat 
mournfully  behind,  with  her  two 
children,  also  clothed  in  sheep-skins, 
who  were  playing  with  a  lamb,  and 
afterwards,  with  perhaps  overstrain- 
ed typical  application,  fighting  for 
an  apple. 

The  third  of  these  tableaux  was 
of  a  very  different  caste.  It  was 
more  pleasing  and  graceful  than  the 
others,  though  perhaps  less  striking. 
It  came  on  before  the  tragic  scenes 
which  afterwards  engrossed  the  at- 
tention, manifestly  of  definite  pur- 
pose to  prepare  the  minds  of  the 
spectators.  It  corresponds  to  the 
departure  from  Bethany,  when  Jesus 
takes  leave  of  the  Virgin  Mother 
and  his  friends  before  his  final  en- 
trance into  Jerusalem  ;  and  it  may 
be  taken  as  descriptive  of  the 
hymn — 

"  Wo  ist  er  hin  ?  wo  ist  er  hin  ? 
Der  schone  aller  schonen  " — 

a  hymn  founded  apparently  on 
some  of  the  more  beautiful  verses 
in  the  Song  of  Solomon.  It  was 
sung  on  this  occasion  to  soft  melo- 
dious music. 

The  second  part  of  the  perform- 
ance commenced  at  one  o'clock, 
and  lasted  continuously  until  half- 
past  four.  The  scenes  and  their 
corresponding  tableaux  were  as 
follows  : — 


390 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


TABLEAUX. 


SCENES. 

1.  The  prophet  Micah  prophesies  truly     1.  Jesus  brought  before  Annas. 


before  Ahab. 


n. 


1.  Stoning  of  Naboth.  1.  Jesus  brought  before  Caiaphas. 

2.  Job  insulted  by  his  friends  and  his     2.  Denial  of  Peter. 

3.  Peter's  repentance. 


wife. 
1.  The  murder  of  Abel. 

1.  Daniel  before  Darius. 

1.  David's  messengers  before  Hanun. 


in. 

1.  Repentance  of  Judas. 

2.  Judas  in  the  Sanhedrim. 

3.  Judas  hangs  himself. 

IV. 

1.  Jesus  before  Pilate. 

v. 

1.  Jesus  before  Herod. 


VI. 


1.  Joseph's  brethren  show  Jacob  the  coat  1.  Pilate  orders  Jesus  to  be  scourged. 

of  many  colours  stained  with  blood. 

2.  Abraham  finds  a  ram  caught  in  a  2.  Jesus  buffeted,  scourged,  and  crown- 

thicket  when  about  to  sacrifice  Isaac.  ed  wi  th  thorns. 


VII. 


1.  Joseph  honoured  by  the  Egyptians.       l.  Jesus  shown  to  the  people  with  Bar- 

abbas. 

2.  The  scapegoat.  2.  piiate  washes  his  hands,  and  orders 

Jesus  to  death. 


VIII. 


1.  Isaac  goes  up  Mount  Moriah  laden      1.  Jesus,  laden  with  the  cross,  goes  up  to 

with  wood  for  sacrifice.  Golgotha,  and  meets  His  mother 

with  the  apostle  John. 

2.  Moses  shows  the  people  in  the  wil-     2.  Simon  of  Cyrene  compelled  to  bear 


the  cross. 

3.  Women  of  Jerusalem  bewailing  the 
Lord. 


IX. 


(No  type.) 


1.  The  crucifixion. 


1.  Jonah  in  the  whale's  belly.  1-  The  resurrection. 

2.  Destruction  of  the  Egyptians  in  the     2.  Appearance  before  Mary  Magdalene. 

Red  Sea. 

XI. 

1.  Jesus  surrounded  by  the  saints  in 
glory. 

HALLELUJAH. 


The  tableaux  in  this  part  of  the 
play  were  less  effective  than  those 
of  the  earlier  part,  although  there 
was  no  perceptible  diminution  in 
the  care  devoted  both  to  the  selec- 
tion and  to  the  representation  of 
the  types.  It  may  be  that  the  at- 
tention was  wearied  with  the  length- 
ened strain  upon  it,  and  the  mind, 
fixed  as  it  was  more  exclusively 


on  the  central  figure  in  the  drama, 
could  hardly  dwell  upon  the  minor 
details.  The  impression,  therefore, 
produced  by  these  tableaux  is  less 
distinct  and  vivid  than  that  pro- 
duced by  those  of  the  earlier  part. 

In  a  scenic  point  of  view,  the 
raising  of  the  brazen  serpent  in  the 
wilderness  was  the  most  remark- 
able. But  it  was  remarkable  more 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


391 


from  the  appearance  presented  by 
the  dense  mass  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  crowded  upon  the  inner 
stage  at  one  time,  and  from  the 
variety  of  costume  which  they  dis- 
played, than  from  any  peculiar  sen- 
timent embodied  in  the  represen- 
tation which  could  act  upon  the 
imagination. 

The  tableau  of  the  scapegoat, 
also,  was  finely  conceived,  and  had 
something  grand  about  it  as  repre- 
sented. And  this  grandeur  was 
heightened  by  the  part  played  by 
the  chorus  which  immediately  fol- 
lowed it.  For  as  they  sang  the  ex- 
planation, dwelling  upon  the  veri- 
fication of  the  type  in  the  person  of 
Him  who  bore  the  sins  of  the  world, 
and  lamenting  over  Jerusalem  as 
the  spot  on  which  the  sacrifice  was 
to  be  offered,  you  heard  at  inter- 
vals the  savage  shouting  of  the 
populace  ringing  through  the  streets 
of  Jerusalem — now  crying  for  Bar- 
abbas  to  be  saved,  now  cursing 
Pilate  and  demanding  the  blood  of 
Christ ;  and  at  last  the  loud  shouts 
of  "  Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! 
His  blood  be  on  us  and  on  our  chil- 
dren "  ("  Ans  Kreuz  mit  ihm  !  ans 
Kreuz  mit  ihm  !  Sein  blut  kom- 
me  liber  uns  und  unsere  Kinder"), 
were  raised,  and  echoed  and  re- 
echoed from  one  side  of  the  city  to 
the  other.  These  wild  voices,  min- 
gling dramatically  with  the  choral 
chants,  were  the  same  which  but  a 
short  time  before  had  been  joining 
in  the  loud  hosannas  on  the  tri- 
umphal entry.  The  contrast  was 
of  course  designed,  and  was  in- 
tended partly  to  exhibit  the  fickle- 
ness and  perversity  of  the  Jewish 
people — a  trait  of  character  still 
commonly  exhibited  by  Oriental  and 
^emi- Oriental  nations — and  partly 
to  prepare  the  minds  of  the  spec- 
tators for  the  scenes  which  were  to 
follow. 

From  this  time  till  the  close,  the 
tragedy  solemnly  and  gradually 
went  deepening  on.  And  even 
though  all  were  in  a  manner  pre- 
pared for  the  climax,  yet  when  it 
( ame  there  was  something  about  it 


so  preternaturally  real  and  painful, 
that  no  preparation  was  altogether 
adequate.  You  saw  Jesus,  his  hands 
bound  behind  his  back,  dragged 
now  to  Annas,  now  to  Caiaphas, 
then  to  the  Eoman  governor,  arid 
from  him  to  Herod.  You  saw  the 
soldiers  buffet  him,  it  appeared 
brutally,  from  one  to  another.  They 
scourged  him,  and  you  heard  the 
stripes  falling  upon  his  back.  They 
set  him  on  a  rude  prison  stool,  and, 
they  crowned  him  with  the  crown 
of  thorns,  and  put  a  purple  robe 
upon  him,  and  a  reed  in  his  hand, 
and  they  hailed  him  in  derision  as 
their  king.  It  was  a  matter  of 
curious  interest  to  note  the  effect 
that  this  exhibition  seemed  to  have 
upon  the  audience.  To  them  it 
appeared  wonderful  that  the  soldiers 
could  have  been  brought  to  act  such 
parts ;  and  the  whole  race  of  men 
seemed  hateful  when  contrasted 
with  the  chief  character,  who 
throughout  all  the  persecution 
bore  his  sufferings  in  long-endur- 
ing silence,  and  with  no  trace  of 
anger.  And  these  feelings  were 
intensified  as  the  play  wore  on. 
But  it  was  not  until  Christ  appear- 
ed, worn  out  with  fatigue  and  pain, 
toiling  up  the  slope  of  Calvary,  and 
bearing  laboriously  the  heavy  wood- 
en cross  on  which  he  was  to  suffer 
— until  the  nails  were  driven  in, 
and  the  man  on  whom  the  sympa- 
thy of  every  one  had  been  concen- 
trated through  the  various  scenes 
of  glory  and  humiliation,  was  raised 
upon  the  cross — that  the  full  reality 
and  horror  of  the  tragic  history 
came  before  the  mind.  Then,  in 
that  great  assembly  of  near  eight 
thousand  people,  it  appeared  as  if 
there  was  not  a  single  eye  which 
was  not  fixed  with  steadfast  atten- 
tion upon  the  man  crucified.  The 
minds  of  all  seemed  strangely  wrap- 
ped up  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
spectacle,  and  a  thrill  of  pity  seemed 
to  pass  through  their  hearts.  No 
ordinary  theatrical  effects  could  ex- 
cite anything  approaching  to  the 
sensation  produced  by  this  scene. 
The  religious  feelings  were  upper- 


392 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


most,  and  man's  inmost  sympathies 
were  called  out  by  the  mysterious 
significance  of  the  whole  perform- 
ance. You  heard  the  nails  driven 
through  his  hands  into  the  hard 
•wood,  and  could  almost  feel  the 
piercing.  You  saw  the  form  of  the 
man,  whose  life  you  had  been  watch- 
ing, stretched  upon  the  cross,  his 
head  crowned  with  the  sharp  thorns, 
the  wounds  still  bleeding ;  but  even 
yet  his  countenance  bore  that  un- 
utterable expression  of  majesty  and 
meekness  which  has  ever  been  asso- 
ciated with  all  our  traditional  con- 
ceptions of  Jesus  Christ.  With 
strange  emotions  you  gazed  upon 
the  executioners  as  upon  wild 
beasts  when  they  tore  his  mantle 
into  shreds,  and  cast  lots  for  his 
vesture  ;  and  the  Jewish  race  ap- 
peared hateful  in  your  eyes,  as  you 
watched  them  gathering  round  the 
cross,  looking  on  the  man  they  had 
crucified,  and  railing  at  him,  and 
taunting  him  with  his  powerless- 
ness  and  his  pain.  Then  for  the 
first  time  you  seemed  to  understand 
the  significance  of  those  ungovern- 
able explosions  that  in  the  history 
of  the  middle  ages  one  reads  of, 
when  sudden  outbursts  of  hatred 
against  the  Hebrew  race  have  taken 
place,  and  have  been  followed  by 
cruelties  and  barbarities  unexam- 
pled in  history.  Just  such  a  feel- 
ing seemed  excited  in  this  Ammer- 
gau  audience  by  this  representation. 
But  even  yet  you  could  hardly 
realise  the  fact  that  it  was  the  man 
himself  who  had  been  for  the  last 
eight  hours  a  moving  actor  amongst 
these  very  men,  until  he  opened 
his  lips,  and  in  his  own  familiar 
voice  addressed  the  penitent  thief 
upon  his  right.  Then  all  doubt 
was  dispelled.  But  for  an  instant 
as  he  spoke  the  sensation  produced 
was  indescribable.  People,  men 
and  women,  sitting  near,  became 
white,  as  if  their  hearts  had  ceased 
to  beat  and  their  blood  ran  cold, 
and  unconsciously  drops  of  per- 
spiration seemed  to  well  out  upon 
their  foreheads  as  in  a  nightmare. 
And  then,  when  the  well-known 


words  "  Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  sabac- 
thani  ? "  were  pronounced  in  a  deep 
voice  by  him  from  the  cross,  and 
a  moment  later,  as  the  sounds  "  Es 
ist  vollbracht ! "  ("  It  is  finished ! ") 
issued  from  his  lips,  and  his  head 
dropped  upon  bis  breast,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  multitude  could  hardly 
move  or  breathe.  Throughout  the 
large  assemblage  at  this  moment 
there  was  no  movement  perceptible 
— nothing  but  a  dead  solemnity, 
and  cessation  of  all  action  and  all 
life. 

Unimpressionable  as  the  Bavarian 
highlanders  are,  and  little  given  to 
demonstration,  and  accustomed  as 
the  Tyrolese  have  ever  been  to  see 
coarse  material  representations  of 
our  Lord  in  every  form  and  at  every 
turning  of  the  remotest  glens  among 
their  mountains,  yet  this  living  re- 
presentation elicited  from  each  and 
all  of  them  some  exhibition  that 
could  not  be  controlled.  Not  that 
there  was  any  individual  expression 
more  conspicuously  discernible  than 
another,  but  a  sort  of  contagious 
emotion  seemed  to  pass  through 
the  whole  building,  and  to  affect 
all  who  were  therein — that  sort  of 
emotion  which  quivers  through  the 
body  like  an  electric  shock,  and 
which  indicates  more  truly  than 
any  mere  outward  manifestation 
the  feelings  that  are  at  work  with- 
in. 

The  remainder  of  the  spectacle, 
though  conducted  with  the  same 
unremitting  care  and  studied  at- 
tention to  minute  detail,  was  less 
effective.  The  feelings,  which  had 
been  so  tensely  strung  and  kept 
upon  the  strain,  seemed  to  relax 
and  die  away  as  Christ's  head  fell 
upon  his  breast.  The  attention 
was  wearied  and  difficult  to  con- 
trol, and  the  interest  almost  imper- 
ceptibly began  to  flag.  You  saw 
the  soldiers  break  the  bones  of  the 
two  thieves  with  great  wooden 
bludgeons,  and  carry  their  dead 
bodies  away.  They  pierced  Christ's 
side  with  a  spear,  and  blood  gushed 
out  mingled  with  water.  The  crowd 
about  the  cross  dispersed  quietly 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  tJie  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


393 


and  naturally,  as  if  after  an  ordinary 
execution;  and  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
and  the  few  faithful  friends  came 
and  gently,  carefully  removed  the 
body  from  the  cross,  grouped  ex- 
actly as  in  the  greatest  of  all  the 
works  of  Rubens — the  "Descent"  in 
the  Notre  Dame  at  Antwerp.  You 
saw  them  lay  him  in  a  sepulchre, 
and  the  watch  was  set,  and  in  the 
morning  the  stone  rolled  back  and 
the  arisen  Lord  appeared.  Lastly, 
you  saw  him  as  he  appeared  before 
Alary  Magdalene,  and  as  he  stood, 
crowned  with  glory,  surrounded  by 
the  saints  and  angels,  and  by  the 
chorus,  who,  having  discarded  the 
black  robes  of  mourning  which  they 
wore  during  the  crucifixion,  appear- 
ed again  in  white,  and  concluded 
the  whole  spectacle  by  singing  a 
hymn  of  praise  grander  and  more 
triumphal  than  that  with  which 
they  opened  it. 

These  latter  scenes  made,  as  com- 
pared with  the  others,  but  little 
impression  on  the  mind.  The  rea- 
son may  have  been,  that  all  idea  of 
Luman  sympathy  had  gone,  and  the 
scenes  in  themselves  were  not  of 
sufficient  grandeur  to  excite  any 
higher  feeling.  And  the  mind, 
worked  up  as  it  had  been  to  a  high 
pitch,  was  weary,  and  could  not  be 
affected  by  anything  less  grand  than 
had  already  been  presented  to  it. 
Perhaps  it  may  have  been  that  the 
performance  attempted  what  was 
beyond  the  power  of  the  perform- 
ers. So  long  as  the  actions  were 
those  of  the  man  Jesus — so  long  as 
the  triumphs  and  sufferings  repre- 
sented were  human  triumphs  and 
human  sufferings — so  long,  in  short, 
as  Christ's  life  on  earth  was  exhi- 
bited,— the  various  scenes  could  be 
portrayed  by  men,  and  they  could 
appeal  to  human  sympathies  and 
feelings.  But  when  the  line  of 
demarcation  was  crossed,  and  men 
attempted  to  demonstrate  the  spir- 
itual and  the  supernatural,  their  at- 
tempts were  meagre  and  the  results 
inadequate.  The  recollection,  there- 
fore, of  the  latter  part  of  the  spec- 
tacle is  transitory  and  evanescent, 


and  when  compared  with  the  earlier 
and  more  thrilling  portions  of  the 
performance,  the  conclusion  must 
be  considered  ineffective. 

Turning  for  a  moment  from  the 
drama  itself  to  the  performers,  there 
are  two  whose  delineation  of  jchar- 
acter  was  specially  worthy  of  notice, 
and  who,  next  to  the  personification 
of  Christ,  were  the  most  interesting 
to  study.  These  two  acted  the  parts 
of  Judas  and  Pilate,  and  the  per- 
formance was  interesting,  partly 
from  being  well  conceived,  and  on 
the  whole  creditably  acted,  and 
partly  from  being  suggestive  of 
new  conceptions  of  both  characters. 

Judas,  who,  in  harmony  with  tra- 
dition, wore  a  dress  of  dark-yellow 
colour  to  denote  the  passion  of  envy, 
was  not  the  treacherous,  avaricious 
Jew,  such  as  in  this  country  he  is 
generally  conceived.  He  was  a 
strong,  restless,  dissatisfied,  and  am- 
bitious man.  When  he  first  appear- 
ed, except  a  sort  of  nervous  clutch- 
ing at  the  money-bag  which  he  car- 
ried, there  was  nothing  particularly 
noticeable  about  his  appearance.  But 
from  the  time  that  Mary  anoints 
Jesus'  feet  with  the  precious  oint- 
ment there  is  a  change  in  his  whole 
character.  He  murmurs  then  at 
the  expenditure;  and  the  waste  of 
money,  which  might  have  been 
given  to  the  poor,  and  was  thus 
squandered,  seems  to  weigh  upon 
him  like  a  weight  of  lead.  His 
conduct  is  completely  changed.  He 
becomes  morose  and  dissatisfied, 
and  seems  to  be  the  victim  of  a 
monomania.  Some  words  pass  be- 
tween him  and  Jesus,  and  his  rest- 
lessness and  dissatisfaction  at  his 
lot  increase  and  become  unbearable. 
In  the  return  across  the  Mount  of 
Olives  from  Bethany  to  Jerusalem, 
he  walks  apart  from  the  other  dis- 
ciples, brooding  over  the  money 
that  is  gone,  troubled  and  uncer- 
tain. At  that  moment  he  is  met 
by  some  of  the  scribes  and  the 
money-changers,  and  the  work  of 
his  corruption  is  begun.  He  follows 
them  to  the  Sanhedrim,  and  there 


394 


The  Passion-Play  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.          [March 


half  consents  to  betray  his  Master, 
and  receives  the  silver  pieces.  At 
the  Last  Supper,  while  the  others 
are  wrapped  in  prayer  after  partak- 
ing of  the  bread,  he  sits  behind, 
gloomy  and  dispirited ;  and  at  last, 
before  the  end  of  the  meal,  he  gets 
up  and  hurries  from  the  chamber. 
He  accomplishes  his  task  in  the 
garden.  But  when  he  sees  his 
Master  led  from  one  judge  to  an- 
other, and  realises  the  nature  of 
the  crime  which  he  has  committed, 
he  seems  to  awake  from  his  mono- 
mania to  the  full  consciousness  of 
what  he  has  done.  Then  his  true 
and  better  nature  comes  in  full 
force  to  the  surface.  He  hurries  in 
a  transport  of  despair  to  the  San- 
hedrim, and  addresses  the  high 
priest  and  the  elders  seated  there 
in  wild  and  raving  words,  and 
throws  down  before  them  the  ac- 
cursed money.  Then,  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  remorse  and  agony,  he 
rushes  away,  wildly  roaming  at 
random  through  the  deserted 
streets  of  Jerusalem  the  picture  of 
despair.  Then  he  appears  upon 
the  inner  stage,  and  climbs  a  tree  ; 
and  as  he  dropped,  hanging  from 
one  of  the  branches,  the  curtain 
fell,  and  he  disappeared  for  ever 
from  the  scene. 

The  character  of  Pilate  was  on 
this  occasion  performed  by  Pflun- 
ger,  who  in  the  representations  of 
1840  and  1850  had  sustained  the 
part  of  Christ.  He  chose  the  part 
of  Pilate  in  the  performance  of 
1860  because  the  tremendous  phys- 
ical exertion  necessary  for  the  part 
of  Christ  was  too  exhausting,  and 
the  fatigue  too  excessive,  for  a  man 
well  advanced  in  years. 

The  conception  of  this  character, 
like  that  of  Judas,  was  the  least 
painful  that  could  be  produced. 
He  was  not  represented  as  a  brutal 
and  tyrannical  Roman  governor,  as 
the  illiterate  are  apt  to  conceive 
him  ;  nor  was  he  a  weak  man  like 
Festus,  who,  fearing  Caesar,  wished 
to  do  the  Jews  a  favour.  He  was, 
as  an  intellectual  gentleman  of  the 
Court  of  Augustus  and  his  imme- 


diate successors,  deeply  impress- 
ed with  the  dignity  of  law  and 
the  majesty  of  Rome,  and  some- 
what tinged  with  the  Epicurean 
philosophy  then  in  vogue  among 
the  more  educated  of  the  Roman 
nobility.  The  vacillation  of  his 
character  was  not  made  prominent. 
His  actions  seemed  to  be  dictated 
by  a  feeling  of  easy  acquiescence 
in  what  seemed  inevitable,  rather 
than  by  any  more  cogent  motive. 
He  appeared  to  think  but  little  of 
the  weight  of  responsibility  which 
he  was  incurring.  The  only  inter- 
est he  showed  in  the  man  before 
him  was  of  a  half  -  philosophical 
kind,  which  manifested  itself  in  a 
desire  to  probe  the  new  doctrines 
which  he  heard  promulgated,  and 
which  induced  him,  not  in  jest  or 
irony,  but  in  a  spirit  of  intellec- 
tual curiosity,  to  ask  the  question, 
"What  is  truth?"  The  question 
once  asked,  his  curiosity  seemed 
sated.  No  answer  was  given,  and 
the  proceedings  went  on  as  narrat- 
ed in  the  Bible  narrative.  The 
conception  of  the  character  was 
thus  a  good  one,  and  to  some  ex- 
tent original ;  and  it  was  sustained 
to  the  end  as  well  as  it  was  con- 
ceived. The  natural  dignity  and 
grandeur  of  the  Roman  procurator 
sat  well  upon  the  man  who  played 
his  character. 

To  a  critical  eye  two  of  the 
scenes  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
performance  appeared  below  the 
others  in  dramatic  conception  and 
action.  These  were  the  denial  by 
Peter  and  the  meeting  of  the  Vir- 
gin with  Jesus  as  he  bore  his  cross 
up  Mount  Calvary.  The  first  was 
neither  so  natural  nor  so  real  as 
most  of  the  other  scenes.  Then, 
and  perhaps  then  only,  you  felt 
that  you  were  looking  on  a  per- 
formance and  not  on  a  reality. 
You  recognised  the  fact  that  men 
were  acting  parts,  not  living  them. 
And  when  the  imitation  of  the 
cock-crow — not  a  very  good  imita- 
tion— was  heard,  you  knew  too 
truly  that  you  were  looking  on  a 
dramatic  representation  which  was 


1870.] 


The  Passion-Play  in  tfie  Highlands  of  Bavaria. 


395 


not  quite  equal.  Defective  as  this 
scene  was,  and  bordering  almost 
upon  the  burlesque  from  the  in- 
feriority in  the  acting,  it  was  im- 
possible to  detect  a  symptom  of 
derision  on  a  single  face. 

The  other  scene,  which  with 
good  dramatic  action  might  have 
been  deeply  touching,  passed  away 
with  no  effect.  The  part  of  the 
Virgin  was  no  doubt  difficult  to 
pi  ay,  still  a  great  opportunity  was 
givren  for  an  exhibition  of  feeling 
and  emotion  without  transgressing 
the  straitest  limits  of  religious  de- 
corum. But  this  character  was  not 
effectively  represented.  Indeed, 
owing  perhaps  to  the  vast  expanse 
of  the  open-air  theatre,  which  a 
woman's  voice  could  hardly  fill, 
none  of  the  female  parts  were  well 
performed.  In  conception,  in  ac- 
tion, and  in  voice,  they  all  fell 
much  below  the  representations  of 
the  male  performers,  and  on  the 
whole  may  be  said  to  have  failed 
to  produce  an  adequate  delineation 
of  the  sacred  characters. 

It  is  not  proposed  here  to  enter 
upon  the  question  of  the  propriety 
or  desirability  of  such  performances 
as  this  of  Ober-Ammergau.  It  can- 
not be  denied  that  when  men  and 
women  attempt  to  reproduce  the 
most  impressive  drama  that  has 
ever  been  enacted,  and  which  exer- 
cises its  own  mysterious  influence 
upon  the  imagination  of  all,  they 
are  treading  upon  difficult  and 
delicate  ground.  The  faintest  trace 
of  impropriety  or  levity,  or  want  of 
decorum  even  in  the  minutest  mat- 
ters of  detail  in  the  piece,  would  at 
once  be  felt,  and  would  shock  the 
taste  as  being  something  revolting 
and  sacrilegious.  But  it  is  this  very 
difficulty  and  delicacy  which  makes 
the  performance  so  instructive  and 
so  genuinely  grand  when  performed 
as  it  was  by  those  peasant  artists  in 
that  highland  valley. 

And  those  who  would  discuss 
such  a  question  must  bear  well  in 
mind  that  the  men  who  perform 
the  characters,  and  those  who  look 


upon  them,  are  not  Englishmen 
and  Englishwomen,  imbued  with 
Protestant  feelings,  growing  up  in 
Protestant  traditions,  and  with  a 
Protestant  horror  of  any  actual 
representation  of  any  of  the  sacred 
characters.  Both  actors  and  spec- 
tators have  been  accustomed  from 
childhood  to  see  in  their  churches, 
in  their  homes,  and  on  every  way- 
side, statues  and  pictures  and  repre- 
sentations of  all  the  most  suggestive 
incidents  in  the  life  of  Christ.  The 
deep  religious  reverence  for  such 
things,  innate  in  the  hearts  of  these 
mountaineers,  is  something  un- 
known in  Protestant  and  less  re- 
mote Catholic  countries.  No  one 
can  form  any  conception  of  the 
sacred  feelings  with  which  the 
forms  of  our  Lord  and  of  the  Vir- 
gin, however  coarsely  delineated, 
are  regarded  in  those  mountain 
districts,  until  he  has  wandered 
through  the  secluded  valleys  and 
more  distant  glens  of  the  Tyrol  or 
the  Bavarian  highlands.  There  at 
every  turning  he  meets  some  little 
chapel  to  the  Virgin,  some  wooden 
figure  of  Christ  crucified,  a  simple 
cross  to  show  the  way  or  mark 
the  summit  of  a  mountain-pass, 
or  some  pictured  tablet  to  com- 
memorate a  fatal  accident,  and  to 
beg  the  passer-by  to  offer  up  a 
prayer  for  the  soul  of  some  sufferer 
in  purgatory.  He  cannot  enter  the 
poorest  room  in  the  most  miserable 
chdlet  in  the  mountains  without 
seeing  some  rude  painting  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  Son  decorated  with 
wild  flowers  and  with  beads,  and 
underneath  a  little  crystal  glass  for 
holy  water. 

Among  such  things  the  peasants 
of  these  uplands  have  been  born 
and  reared,  until  they  are  part  and 
parcel  of  their  daily  life.  And  the 
absence  of  these  symbols  would 
strike  the  senses  of  such  men  with 
something  the  same  force  that  their 
presence  too  often  strikes  upon  the 
mind  of  an  educated  Protestant  un- 
til he  becomes  familiar  with  them. 

Such  considerations  as  these  must 
be  borne  in  mind  and  pondered 


396        The  Passion-Flay  in  the  Highlands  of  Bavaria.       [March  IS 70. 


carefully  by  those  who  question  the 
propriety  of  such  spectacles  before 
they  condemn  them  utterly. 

The  impression  left  on  the  mind 
by  the  whole  performance  was 
of  course  mainly  of  an  objective 
character.  It  was  the  spectacle 
which  really  was  effective.  But 
looked  at  subjectively,  there  was 
also  a  good  deal  to  be  gathered 
from  it.  The  story  of  the  last  days 
of  Christ's  life  appeared  as  a  vivid 
whole  before  the  mind.  You  could 
take  it  all  in,  and  see  how  the  scenes 
fitted  into  each  other  and  into  the 
main  narrative,  and  formed  one  con- 
nected history ;  whereas  the  ideas 
to  be  gathered  from  the  daily  read- 
ing of  the  story,  chapter  by  chap- 
ter, are  apt  to  be  fragmentary. 

And  there  was  much  in  the  per- 
formance that  was  interesting  on 
historical  as  well  as  on  religious 
grounds.  Unconsciously  the  mind 
was  led  back  to  think  of  the  varied 
scenes  in  Jewish  history,  and  of  the 
daily  and  hourly  life  of  that  strange 
race  at  this  the  most  momentous 
period  of  its  existence.  To  classic 
times,  also,  the  ideas  were  transport- 
ed— to  the  times  of  Pericles  no  less 
than  to  the  times  of  Augustus.  The 
theatre  was  Greek,  and  the  con- 
struction of  the  drama  was  mo- 
delled on  the  Greek ;  but  the  action 
was  Roman.  The  colouring  of  the 
whole  of  the  second  part  was  curi- 
ously suggestive  of  the  times  of  the 
Csesars.  Pilate,  with  something 


of  the  dignity  of  the  "Consul 
Romanus  "  in  his  bearings  and  sur- 
roundings, the  Roman  soldiers 
round  the  cross,  the  crucifixion  it- 
self, all  told  of  the  pomp  of  Im- 
perial Rome  ;  and  the  littleness  of 
the  motives  and  impulses  of  human 
life — the  human  life  even  of  the 
greatest  nations  —  was  presented 
before  the  eyes  as  in  a  picture. 

Lastly,  the  spectacle  was  inter- 
esting as  a  relic  of  the  old  days  of 
the  middle  ages,  when  such  per- 
formances were  as  common  as  the 
theatrical  representations  of  the 
present  day.  Yet  the  interval  of 
ten  years  between  each  series  of 
performances,  and  the  remoteness 
of  the  place  where  they  take  place, 
a  little  off  the  track  of  ordinary 
travellers,  are  happy  safeguards  to 
preserve  to  the  spectacle  its  earnest- 
ness and  simplicity.  If  it  became 
a  common  or  an  annual  occurrence, 
people  would  get  accustomed  to  it, 
and  would  go  to  look  upon  it  as 
they  would  upon  any  other  spectacle 
at  any  other  theatre.  The  spirit 
in  which  alone  it  should  be  seen 
would  disappear.  And  both  actors 
and  spectators,  instead  of  perform- 
ing and  beholding  it  as  they  do 
now  in  a  religious  and  a  prayerful 
state  of  mind,  would  come  to  look 
upon  it — the  first,  as  an  arena  in 
which  to  display  artistic  talent  ; 
the  second,  as  a  spectacle  to  be 
criticised  by  manifestations  of  ap- 
plause or  disapproval. 


Printed  ly  William  Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCLIY. 


APRIL  1870. 


VOL.  CYII. 


EARLS    DENE.— PART    VI. 


BOOK   II.— MARIE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  MAN'S  real  birthday  is  not  the 
day  on  which  he  first  opens  his  eyes 
to  the  light  of  the  sun.  It  is  that 
on  which  the  sunshine  first  pierces 
a  little  farther  than  his  outward 
eyes. 

At  all  events  I  like  to  say  so ; 
seeing  that  the  latter,  in  my  own 
case,  is  the  only  birthday  that 
I  am  able  to  keep.  For  anything 
that  I  know  to  the  contrary,  I 
may  be  as  old  as  the  Great  Pyra- 
mid, and  have  passed  the  first 
few  thousand  years  of  my  life  in 
a  slumber  from  which  I  one  day 
suddenly  woke  up  to  see — some 
cl<  >thes  hung  out  to  dry  in  a  back 
garden. 

Not  a  very  striking  introduction 
to  the  waking  world.  But  what 
would  you  It  Everybody  must  see 
something  first  j  and  it  is  not  given 
to  everybody  to  find  their  self- 
consciousness  for  the  first  time  in  a 
storm  or  in  a  battle.  Of  course,  if 
I  had  my  own  way  I  would  give 
my  memory  a  more  poetical  origin ; 
but,  as  I  have  not  my  own  way 
in  the  matter — indeed  I  have,  in 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCL1V. 


the  course  of  my  life,  had  it  very 
seldom,  except  in  my  very  earliest 
years,  when  I  had  it  rather  too 
much — I  must  be  satisfied  with 
facts,  however  unpoetical  they  may 
be.  Besides,  I  might  have  done 
worse.  These  same  clothes — pet- 
ticoats and  such  things — were  not, 
I  remember,  without  their  merit  as  a 
spectacle  to  untried  eyes,  whether  in 
point  of  colour,  or  of  the  form  be- 
stowed upon  them  by  the  wind,  as 
it  shook  them  and  puffed  them  out 
into  the  semblance  of  the  wave- 
line  of  an  angry  sea  :  and  I  dis- 
tinctly remember  the  rhythm  of 
their  flapping — an  unmusical  sound 
which,  however,  has  been  suggest- 
ed to  me  a  hundred  times  since  by 
music  in  many  cases  as  devoid  of 
either  body  or  soul  as  the  clothes 
themselves,  but  which  has  often, 
for  that  very  reason,  affected  me, 
not  by  any  inherent  suggestive 
power  of  its  own,  but  by  calling 
to  mind  a  thousand  other  things. 

Many  a  soulless  sound  has  since 
— heaven  knows  why — by  carrying 
my  memory  backwards  over  what 

2E 


398 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


is  by  this  time  a  very  long  period  of 
years,  summoned  up  before  me,  in 
no  ghost-like  fashion,  the  undula- 
tions of  familiar  hills,  the  springi- 
ness of  their  turf,  the  whiteness  of 
their  winters,  the  sunshine  of  their 
summers — in  a  word,  that  strange, 
mysterious,  magical  odour  that  is  at 
once  suggested  by  the  words,  "  my 
own  country."  I  wonder  whether  it 
is  given  to  those  who,  as  I  consider 
it,  have  the  misfortune  to  be  born 
in  great  cities,  to  really  understand 
this  feeling — whether  the  Parisian 
or  the  Londoner  finds  in  the  mul- 
titude and  variety  of  his  stenches 
anything  similar  in  effect  1  For 
my  part  I  believe  they  do ;  and 
that,  had  I  also  been  city  born, 
the  smell  of  many  chimneys,  for 
example,  might,  bring  as  dear  and 
as  sadly  pleasant  associations  to 
my  heart  as  the  special  perfume 
of  my  own  woods  and  hills. 
For,  as  the  voice  is  to  the  man 
or  woman,  so  is  this  subtle  aroma 
of  the  past  to  places ;  and  the 
voice  of  his  mother  sounds  harshly 
to  no  man. 

At  least  I  suppose  not ;  for  in 
this  matter  I  must  confess  myself 
personally  ignorant.  Even  as  in 
point  of  age  I  might,  for  aught  I 
know,  be  the  contemporary  of  the 
Pyramids,  so,  in  point  of  parent- 
age, I  might  be  of  no  woman  born. 

Who  my  father  was,  however,  I 
do  know — at  least  I  have  been  told. 
He  was  no  other  than  the  Marquis 
de  CreVille,  who  had  been  feudal 
lord  of  the  place  where,  on  the 
principle  I  have  laid  down,  I  con- 
sider myself  to  have  been  born  ; 
and  I  have  also  been  told  that  I 
was,  or  rather  should  have  been, 
in  the  bad  old  times,  heir  to  his 
title  and  lands.  As  things  actu- 
ally were,  however,  I  found  myself 
heir  to  nothing  but  to  his  name 
and  to  his  principles,  which,  I  am 
proud  to  say,  seem  to  have  been 
those  of  no  marquis  of  the  old 
regime,  but  of  a  citizen  of  France  : 
of  one  who  is  the  willing  subject  of 
no  royal  accident.  Such  also  am 
I,  Felix  Creville,  Frenchman  and 


musician  :  such,  in  spite  of  much 
sorrow  —  ay,  and  worse  than  sor- 
row because  of  it — I  have  always 
been  proud  to  be ;  and  such  I  am 
content  to  remain,  until  a  few  more 
years  lead  me  at  last,  as  I  hope 
they  will,  to  join  that  mother  in 
heaven  whom  on  earth  I  have  so 
ignorantly  loved. 

Amen.  But  to  return  to  the 
clothes'-line  period,  now  so  long 
ago,  and  yet  still  so  near. 

Childish  recollections  are  strange 
things — strange  in  their  very  mon- 
otony ;  for,  in  spite  of  circumstan- 
tial differences,  those  of  most  men 
are  pitched  pretty  nearly  in  the 
same  key.  The  colour  that  the 
universe  assumes  to  the  eyes  of  one 
young  child  is  always  much  the 
same  as  that  which  it  assumes  to 
another,  however  much  the  form 
may  vary.  Whenever  I  have,  in 
the  course  of  conversation  upon  this 
subject,  happened  to  compare  notes 
with  people  of  any  sort  or  kind  or 
country,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
I  have  always  found  that  there  is 
as  much  essential  community  of 
experience  in  this  respect  as  in 
dreams,  even  although  almost  every 
one,  as  in  the  case  of  dreams,  tries 
to  make  out  his  own  to  have  been 
something  singular  and  abnormal. 
At  any  rate,  I  can  safely  say,  for 
my  own  part,  that  I  have  never 
even  found  in  books  any  account 
of  childish  experiences — of  course 
I  do  not  mean  in  point  of  outward 
detail — with  which  I  have  not  been 
able  to  sympathise  personally;  and 
I  know  that  in  this  I  am  very  far 
from  standing  alone.  Indeed  I 
firmly  believe  that  this  would  prove 
to  be  universally  the  case  were  it 
not  that  so  many  people  forget  the 
childhood  of  their  minds  and  of 
their  souls  altogether.  To  remem- 
ber one's  past  self  as  one  really  was, 
and  as  one  is  no  longer,  requires  a 
faculty  that  is  far  from  being  uni- 
versal ;  for  it  requires  the  faculty 
which,  when  joined  with  a  power 
of  expression,  makes  the  poet.  With- 
out going  so  far  as  to  claim  for  my- 
self that  title,  I  do  hope  that  I  may 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VI. 


399 


claim  to  call  myself  something  of 
an  artist  in  my  own  line,  which 
comes  to  much  the  same  thing; 
and,  if  I  am  at  all  an  artist,  I  feel 
that  it  is  because  I  am  still  the 
same  Felix  who  was  once,  according 
to  my  system  of  autobiographical 
chronology,  five  minutes  old. 

Thus  my  own  country,  my  old 
home,  and  the  effect  that  they  pro- 
duced upon  me  by  developing  me 
into  what  I  am,  are  still  a  part  of 
ny  present  self.  Still  part  of  me 
are  those  green  valleys  and  wooded 
hills,  alternately  so  beautiful  and 
so  desolate  :  still  part  of  me,  if  not 
iiyself  altogether,  are  their  sounds 
— their  various  music  of  brooks,  of 
rivers,  and  of  torrents  ;  of  warm 
breezes  and  cold  winds ;  of  their 
birds,  of  their  cattle,  and  all  the 
notes  and  harmonies  of  the  sym- 
phony of  pastoral  nature.  Still 
part  of  me,  also,  are  their  discords : 
and,  of  these,  above  all  the  howl  of 
the  wolves  in  winter,  which  always 
used  to  fill  me  with  a  peculiar  and 
iiameless  terror,  the  source  of  which 
seemed  to  belong  to  some  previous 
state  of  existence.  But  this  is  not 
all.  There  were  the  people  also, 
few  enough  and  kind  enough  for 
me  to  know  them  all  both  by 
and  with  my  heart.  It  needs  not 
the  slightest  effort  of  memory 
for  me  to  recall  the  forms  and 
voices  of  "  Grand' mere,"  as  I  used 
to  call  the  stern  but  bravely  patient 
peasant  whom  the  country  round 
knew  as  Aunt  Cathon ;  of  my  f  oster- 
uother;  of  the  good  Cure,  who  was 
to  me  more  than  a  father  ;  of  the 
Lime  wood-carver,  who  almost  made 
a  sculptor  of  me  ;  of  my  playmates 
at  Eaux-Grandes  andLes  Vacheries; 
( f  our  dogs,  both  christened  Loup, 
whoml  fear  I  was  ungrateful  enough 
to  my  human  friends  to  love  as 
well  as  I  loved  any  one ;  and,  above 
all — above  man,  woman,  or  dog — 
that  laziest,  cleverest  of  village  ne'er- 
dO-wells,whose  violin  introduced  me 
to  a  music  that  is  almost  more  to  me 
than  that  of  nature  herself.  I  have 
thought,  sometimes,  of  composing 
a  fantasia  on  the  subject  of  that  fel- 


low and  his  tunes,  only  no  one 
could  be  expected  to  appreciate  it 
but  myself,  and  for  me  it  would  be 
too  sad  a  task  now.  If,  however,  I 
ever  do  any  such  thing,  I  shall  call 
it  "  Pre-aux-Fleurs,"  and  tell  no 
one  why. 

I  remember,  also,  that  I  was 
looked  upon  in  the  village  as  a 
sort  of  superior  being,  if  only  for  my 
father's  sake.  No  one  ever  once 
scolded  me,  that  I  can  remember, 
under  any  circumstances  :  and  I  am 
sure  that  if  I  was  ever  guilty  of  the 
weakness  of  crying  for  the  moon,  as 
I  have  no  doubt  I  was,  it  was  not 
the  fault  of  my  friends  that  it  did 
not  become  mine.  Every  one,  I 
fear,  spoiled  me,  and  "  Grand1  mere" 
most  of  all ;  and  I  believe  that  to 
this  very  day  I  might  have  gone  on 
living  upon  the  charity  of  the  place, 
thinking  it  quite  right  and  quite 
in  the  natural  order  of  things,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  Cure  and  the 
fiddler.  The  former  taught  me  to 
read  and  write,  to  decline  Musa,  to 
be  a  good  Catholic,  and  to  remem- 
ber that,  peasant  as  I  had  become, 
I  was  a  French  gentleman  after 
all  —  a  fact  that,  in  spite  of  my 
republicanism,  I  was,  and  am  not, 
unwilling  to  remember.  The  lat- 
ter, who  was  called  Jean-Baptist, 
taught  me  to  play  the  Marseillaise 
— which  I  infinitely  preferred  to 
Musa — to  sing  a  song  or  two,  and 
to  keep  time  to  one  or  two  lively 
dances.  Nearly  half  my  time  I 
spent  with  the  one  teacher,  and 
nearly  half  with  the  other;  and 
though  I  know  whose  company  I 
then  most  preferred,  it  would  be 
difficult  for  me  to  say  upon  which 
of  the  two  I  look  back  with  most 
affection  now. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the 
education  that  in  one  way  and 
another  I  managed  to  pick  up, 
it  naturally  required  some  external 
circumstance  of  a  very  decided  na- 
ture to  prevent  my  settling  down 
in  some  way  or  other  as  a  peasant 
of  Saint  Felix-dea-Rochers — for  so 
was  the  parish  named.  It  is  true 
that  the  conscription  might  have 


400 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


turned  me  into  a  soldier  of  the 
empire.  But  otherwise  I  should 
very  likely  have  married  one  of  my 
playmates — I  think  I  know  which 
it  would  have  been — and  settled 
down  into  the  proprietorship  of 
a  chdlet ;  while  my  violin  would 
have  succeeded  that  of  Jean-Bap- 
tiste  as  the  enliven er  of  weddings 
and  festivals.  I  believe,  too,  that 
in  my  ignorance  of  all  external  life 
I  should  have  been  happy.  But  I 
do  not,  cannot,  regret  that  such  was 
not  to  be  my  lot  :  for  who  would 
give  up  his  experience  even  of  sor- 
row? 

One  day — for  I  did  not  see  my 
few  playmates  very  often — I  was 
wandering  about  alone  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Pre-aux-Fleurs  —  or 
rather  I  should  have  been  wander- 
ing about  alone  had  it  not  been 
that  I  was  accompanied  by  Loup 
the  second  and  by  my  violin,  the 
present  of  Jean-Baptiste,  who  was 
the  possessor  of  more  than  one.  I 
can  scarcely  say  that  music  was  a 
passion  with  me  in  those  days,  for 
I  could  always  be  entirely  happy 
without  it ;  but  it  was  an  amusement 
to  which  I  took  at  least  as  kindly  as 
to  the  more  ordinary  pursuits  of  my 
age.  Nor  can  I  honestly  say  that 
it  at  that  time  ever  stirred  up  any 
wonderful  emotions  within  me.  A 
sad  tune  used  to  make  me  feel  sad, 
a  merry  one,  merry — and  a  well- 
managed  modulation  would  make 
my  nerves  creep  and  glow  a  little — 
but  that  was  all.  In  fact,  such  airs 
as  I  knew  were  not  of  a  character 
that  was  likely  to  produce  any 
greater  effect ;  although,  no  doubt, 
where  there  is  genius,  it  may  be 
called  out  by  anything,  however 
slight.  But  then  to  genius  I  have 
not  pretended  for  many  years  past. 
Nevertheless,  my  violin  was  my  con- 
stant companion ;  and  I  should  as 
soon  have  thought  of  leaving  the 
house  without  it  as  without  my 
dog  himself.  On  this  occasion  the 
weather  was  hot,  and  I  presently 
grew  tired  of  rambling ;  so  it  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  I  should  sit  down  by  the  road- 


side where  I  found  myself,  and  amuse 
myself  quietly  in  my  favourite  fash- 
ion with  Loup  for  my  audience — or 
rather  not  quietly,  for  he  always 
howled  most  delightfully  whenever 
I  played  certain  passages  that  he 
seemed  to  find  sympathetic. 

I  was  so  interested  in  this  occu- 
pation that  two  strangers  approach- 
ed without  my  observing  them, 
until  I  suddenly  heard  a  loud  burst 
of  laughter  within  a  few  feet  of 
where  I  was  sitting. 

Now  it  was  not  so  rare  as  it  had 
once  been  for  strangers  to  be  seen 
in  the  neighbourhood  during  the 
summer ;  for  the  picturesque  had 
of  late  years  begun  to  come  into 
fashion,  and  it  was  no  rare  thing 
for  artists  and  other  tourists  to 
find  their  way  among  us  from 
Besangon,  and  the  other  towns  in 
the  same  part  of  France.  From 
my  own  small  experience  I  could 
see  that  these  two  were  tourists  of 
one  sort  or  another  amusing  them- 
selves by  walking  through  our  beau- 
tiful hills  instead  of  posting  along 
the  dusty  highroad. 

"  Bravissimi  !"  exclaimed  one  of 
them — a  tall,  dark,  and  handsome 
man  of  about  fifty  years  old,  with 
bright  black  eyes.  "  That  dog  will 
be  an  acquisition  to  the  grand 
opera" 

His  companion,  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  younger,  and  of  a 
short,  stout  figure,  was  one  whose 
hair,  eyes,  lips,  and  peculiar  turn 
and  carriage  of  the  shoulders — that 
only  infallible  sign — marked  him 
out  as  one  of  the  house  of  Israel. 

"Too  many  of  them  there  al- 
ready," he  answered,  "  and  of  both 
sexes.  This  one  certainly  wouldn't 
be  the  worst  of  them,  though.  But 
we  seem  to  have  come  upon  a 
brother  artist,  besides  the  singer. 
Just  play  that  again,  my  boy,  will 
you  1 " 

I  was  much  too  spoiled  a  child 
to  be  shy,  and  so  I  stood  up  and 
played  willingly  and  at  once.  But 
Loup  was  not  shy  either,  and 
spoiled  the  effect  considerably. 

"  Do  you   never    play  anything 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


401 


but  accompaniments  for  Maestro 
Lugubrioso  there? "  asked  the  short 
man  again. 

"Plait-il,  M'sieur?" 

"  I  mean,  does  your  dog  always 
bowl  like  that?" 

"  No,  M'sieur — only  at  what  he 
likes." 

"  Then  play  us  something  that 
te  doesn't  like,  please." 

I  obeyed. 

"  Well  done,  my  boy.  But  that 
isn't  quite  the  right  way,  though," 
1  e  continued ;  and  then,  taking  my 
violin  from  me,  and  having  put 
the  strings  in  order,  he  did  play. 

After  all,  then,  I  had  never  heard 
music  before ! 

"  Oh,  play  something  more, 
M'sieur — please  !  "  I  exclaimed,  ex- 
citedly,  when  it  was  over. 

He  smiled,  and  then  began  some- 
thing else.  I  felt  the  hills  floating 
away  before  my  eyes  into  infinite 
space.  Who  could  this  man  be  1 
and  to  think  that  my  own  poor 
fiddle  should  be  capable  of  pro- 
ducing such  sounds  as  these  ! 

At  last  that  also  came  to  an  end, 
and  with  the  cadence  my  soul 
Deemed  to  sink  away  also.  I  could 
not  have  spoken  to  save  my  life, 
and  stood  spell-bound. 

"  And  who  taught  you  to  play, 
my  boy  ? "  asked  this  wonderful 
being. 

"  Who  taught  you,  M'sieur  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  You  seem  a  strange 
fellow.  If  you  wish  to  know,  it 
was  a  certain  stupid  fellow  they 
call  Moretti." 

"And  where  does  he  live  ? " 

"  Where  does  he  live  2  In  a 
place  called  Rome,  if  you  know 
where  that  is.  But  why  do  you 
ask?" 

"  Because  I  will  go  to  Rome  ! " 

The  two  strangers  first  stared  at 
me,  then  at  one  another,  and  then 
jaughed  again.  I  felt  angry. 

"  I  suppose,  M'sieur"  I  said, 
k<  if  he  has  taught  you  he  can  teach 
me  too." 

"  Hm  !  That  depends,  my  boy." 

The  tall  man  now  addressed  me 
for  the  first  time  j  and  he  spoke 


gravely  and  kindjy.  "  Play  me 
something  else,"  he  said  :  "  some- 
thing slower,  if  you  can." 

"  Pardon  me,  M'sieur." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  will  never  play  again 
until  I  have  learned." 

"  That  is  to  say  you  will  never 
go  into  the  water  until  you  have 
learned  to  swim  ?  So  be  it,  then — 
never  mind.  What  is  your  name  1 
Do  you  belong  to  this  place  ?  Is 
this  how  you  get  your  living  ? " 

"  Felix  Creville,  M'sieur.  I  live 
at  Pre-aux-Fleurs  —  there  up  the 
hill." 

"  And  do  you  get  your  living  by 
your  fiddle  ] " 

"  No,  M'sieur.  I  live  with  Aunt 
Cathon  and  Mere  Suzanne." 

"  And  can  you  read  1 " 

"Yes,  M'sieur." 

"And  write?" 

"  Yes,  M'sieur." 

"  Bravo  /  You  are  a  fine  fellow. 
Have  you  a  father — a  mother  1 " 

"  I  never  had  either,  M'sieur" 

"  You  must  have  come  into  the 
world  somehow,  though.  And  how 
old  are  you  ?  " 

" I  do  not  know,  M'sieur" 

"  Ah,  I  see.  And  so  you  want 
to  learn  the  violin  1 " 

"  I  will  learn  it,  M'sieur." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen.  How 
have  you  managed,  so  far  ? " 

"  I  have  not  learned,  M'sieur." 

"  How  1  You  did  not  find  it  out 
by  yourself,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Ah,  M'sieur!  I  know  nothing. 
That  is  not  playing." 

Poor  Jean-Baptiste ! 

"  Well,  so  be  it.  And  do  you 
think  Aunt  Cathon  or  Mere  Suzanne 
could  find  us  a  draught  of  milk  at 
Pre-aux-Fleurs  1 " 

"  Oh,  M'sieur  f  "  I  had  hopes  of 
more  of  that  wonderful  music  from 
the  stout  violinist,  who  had  been 
silent  while  the  other  was  talking 
to  me. 

"  Show  us  the  way  then,"  con- 
tinued the  tall  stranger.  "What 
shall  you  do  with  this  franc  piece  1 " 

"  I  shall  give  it  to  Jean-Bap- 
tiste ! " 


402 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


"  And  who  is  Jean-Baptiste  1 " 
"  He  gave  me  this  violin.      He 
taught  me — what  he  knew." 

"  Ah !  Give  it  him  then,  by  all 
means ;  and  this  also,"  he  added, 
increasing  his  gift.  "  He  must  be 


a  clever  fellow,  this  Jean-Baptiste, 
and  we  will  see  him  too,  as  well  as 
Aunt  Cathon  and  Mere  Suzanne. 
And  now  we  must  be  acquainted. 
This  is  my  friend,  Monsieur  Pros- 
per ;  I  am  Signer  Moretti." 


CHAPTER  IT. 


And  so  it  came  about — though 
my  excitement  at  the  time  confuses 
my  memory  considerably  as  to  the 
exact  details  of  the  ensuing  weeks, 
that  the  nature  of  my  career  in  life 
became  fixed.  I  was  to  become  a 
musician,  and  was  to  learn  my  art 
in  Paris.  As  to  pecuniary  means, 
I  fear  —  I  very  much  fear  —  that 
Father  Laurent,  in  the  course  of  the 
conversation  which  he  held  with 
my  two  new  patrons,  and  of  which 
I  did  not  hear  a  word,  but  in  the 
course  of  which  I  presume  he  was 
persuaded  that  my  departure  from 
my  home  under  their  auspices  would 
prove  the  best  thing  for  me,  deceived 
them  very  considerably ;  and  that  I, 
ignorantly  and  unconsciously,  rob- 
bed him  of  the  greater  part  of  an 
income  from  which,  one  would 
have  thought,  he  could  spare  noth- 
ing. Nay,  I  fear  also  that  I  must 
thereby,  to  some  extent,  have  rob- 
bed his  poor. 

Among  the  many  faults  of  my 
nature  of  which  I  am  conscious,  I 
do  not  reckon  ingratitude.  On  the 
contrary,  a  kindness  even  from  a 
friend  always  weighs  me  down  with 
a  sense  of  obligation  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  I  scarcely  like  to  receive 
a  favour  without  an  immediate  pro- 
spect of  returning  it  with  interest, 
and  fills  my  heart  with  an  almost 
dog-like  feeling  towards  him  who 
confers  it.  And  thus  I  can  never 
recall  this  period  of  my  life  of  which 
I  now  speak,  child  as  I  was,  without 
undergoing  a  pang  of  regret,  almost 
of  remorse. 

I  had  hitherto  lived  as  my  own 
dog  had  lived — that  is  to  say,  in  an 
atmosphere  of  kindness,  bestowed 
upon  me  so  freely,  so  much  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  I,  consciously 


at  least,  appreciated  it  no  more  than 
I  consciously  appreciated  the  fresh 
air  of  the  hills.  I  could  not,  of 
course,  have  been  kept  and  fed  for 
nothing,  and  my  peasant  friends 
must  often  have  found  the  times 
hard  enough  for  themselves  without 
an  additional  mouth  to  feed ;  and 
now,  to  crown  it  all,  the  Cure  was 
depriving  himself  of  what,  judging 
from  the  slenderness  of  his  purse, 
must  have  been  almost  necessaries 
of  life,  in  order  to  benefit  me  and 
give  me  a  chance  in  the  war  of  the 
great  world.  And  yet,  in  spite  of 
all  this,  and  in  spite  of  the  affec- 
tionate sorrow  that  filled  the  whole 
place  for  days,  and  Pre-aux-Fleurs 
for  weeks,  before  my  departure — a 
sorrow  that  filled  my  own  eyes  with 
sympathetic  tears — I  was  glad  and 
eager  to  leave  my  home.  It  was 
a  perfectly  natural  eagerness,  no 
doubt,  and  I  knew  no  more  about 
the  part  that  money  plays  in  the 
world  than  I  knew  of  the  world 
itself;  but  I  cannot,  in  my  soul, 
excuse  myself  to  myself,  however 
much  my  unconscious  ingratitude 
sprang  from  the  innocence  that  be- 
longs to  ignorance.  Alas !  once 
more  I  fear  that  I  found  it  really 
hard  to  part  from  none  save  Loup  ; 
and  I  was,  with  all  my  new  artistic 
ambition,  child  enough  to  repent  of 
the  career  I  had  chosen,  when  for 
the  first  time  I  had  to  go  out  of 
doors  without  him.  The  appealing 
look  of  mute  wonder  in  his  eyes 
.when  I,  for  the  last  time,  embraced 
him  and  forbade  him  to  follow  me, 
haunted  me  for  long ;  and  all  the 
more  as  there  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing of  rebuke  and  of  warning  in 
it.  I  used  to  imagine  his  long  and 
weary  waiting  for  my  return,  set- 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VI. 


403 


tling  down  at  last  into  the  chronic 
dulness  of  a  vacant  life,  such  as 
crashes  the  nature  of  dogs  even 
more  than  that  of  men ;  but  I 
did  not  picture  to  myself,  as  I  do 
now,  Aunt  Cathon  and  Mere  Suz- 
anne with  the  occupation  that 
f  c  rmed  the  one  excitement  of  their 
hard  monotonous  peasant  life  for 
ever  departed  from  them ;  Jean- 
Bap  tiste,  weary  of  his  fiddle,  and 
perhaps  consoling  himself  for  the 
loss  of  a  comrade,  for  whose  sake  I 
can  see  now  that  he  had  long  kept 
himself  within  bounds,  by  a  return 
to  his  wild  ways  ;  the  Cure",  with- 
out his  pupil,  and  with  his  time 
haavy  upon  his  hands.  I  am  not 
guilty  of  vanity  when  I  picture  to 
myself  all  this.  I  know  now  how 
much  love  was  mine  in  my  old 
home. 

Any  one  who  knows  anything  of 
musical  history  will  not  need  to  be 
reminded  that  Signor  Moretti  was 
the  greatest  violinist  and  one  of  the 
most  eminent  composers  of  his  day. 
Even  still,  in  what  I  cannot  help 
thinking  to  be  degenerate  days,  his 
works  contrive  to  hold  their  own. 
lint,  although  I  owe  it  to  him  that 
I  became  a  musician,  it  is  not  my 
good  fortune  to  be  able  to  boast 
myself  one  of  his  immediate  pupils. 
His  light  just  shone  upon  me,  and 
that  was  all.  He  lived  in  Rome ; 
and  for  hundreds  of  reasons  it  was 
impossible  that  I  could  follow  him 
there  at  once.  But  in  Paris  I  found 
myself  in  good  hands.  I  was  the 
pupil  of  his  pupil,  Monsieur  Pros- 
per, for  whom  at  first  I  enter- 
tained a  shy  dislike,  owing  to  his 
brusque  manners,  his  capricious 
temper,  and  propensity  to  ridicule  ; 
1  iut  it  was  not  long  before  I  pierced 
through  the  shell,  and,  according  to 
my  nature,  came  to  feel  a  love  that, 
born  of  gratitude,  ripened  into 
friendship. 

Of  course  it  will  be  understood 
that  I  am  now  beginning  to  refer  to 
clays  long  subsequent  to  my  bewil- 
dering journey  to  Paris,  the  events 
<  >f  which  are,  like  those  of  the  days 
immediately  preceding  it,  far  too 


dream-like  to  make  a  detailed  nar- 
rative of  them  possible.  All  I 
know  is  that  I  did  arrive  some 
how,  and  was  soon  immersed  in 
hard,  dry  exercises,  that  often  made 
me  repent,  not  almost,  but  alto- 
gether, of  my  ambition,  and  long 
for  the  liberty  which  I  had  enjoyed 
hitherto  of  making  as  many  im- 
perfect notes,  slips  in  time,  and 
barbarous  graces  as  I  pleased.  I 
found  very  soon  that  music  as  an 
amusement  and  music  as  a  profes- 
sion are  very  different  things.  Still, 
however,  I  worked  hard;  and  if  I 
had  not  done  so  willingly,  Monsieur 
Prosper  would  have  made  me  do  so 
against  my  will.  He  was  the  first 
person  who  ever  really  scolded  me, 
and  that  is  a  real  and  startling  ex- 
perience in  the  life  of  a  spoiled 
child. 

He  was  certainly  a  good  teacher, 
though  he  had  but  little  enthu- 
siasm even  for  his  art,  which  he 
regarded  strictly  as  a  profession 
like  any  other  profession,  and  as 
being  after  all,  or  rather  above 
all,  a  means  of  making  money.  He 
treated  it  accordingly ;  and  the 
result  was,  that  while  he  did  not, 
perhaps,  know  how  to  bring  out 
any  genius  that  might  be  latent 
in  any  of  his  pupils,  he  did  most 
thoroughly  teach  all  of  them  how 
to  make  the  most  of  themselves  in 
the  way  that  the  world  admires. 
He  had  no  crotchets,  and  scorned 
all  systems  that  did  not  bear  the 
seal  of  success.  And  yet  he  him- 
self, with  all  his  common-sense  and 
all  his  Hebrew  blood,  was  by  no 
means  a  prosperous  man.  He  was 
not  content  with  living  by  his  pro- 
fession— he  must  needs  become  rich 
by  it ;  and  so  he  became,  in  effect, 
less  an  artist  than  an  impresario 
and  theatrical  speculator.  In  this 
capacity  he  had  plenty  of  know- 
ledge and  plenty  of  boldness  ;  but 
these  good  qualities  were  altogether 
neutralised  by  want  of  tact,  want 
of  temper,  and  want  of  capital.  I 
am  not  quite  sure  that  he  was  not 
at  one  time  even  director,  or  joint- 
director,  or  in  some  way  mixed  up 


404 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


with  the  direction,  of  the  Grand 
Opera  itself. ;  certainly  when  I  knew 
him  he  was  always  dabbling  in  a 
dozen  theatrical  affairs  at  once, 
with  the  very  worst  results  to  his 
own  pocket.  Sometimes,  even,  he 
was  reduced  almost  to  the  very  last 
straits ;  but,  like  the  rest  of  his 
race,  he  was  never  at  his  wits'  end, 
never  lost  confidence  in  himself,  and 
never  relaxed  in  his  energy  for  a 
moment  even  at  the  worst  of  times. 
He  was  by  no  means  liked  in  the 
profession,  but  I  never  heard  even 
his  worst  enemies  throw  a  shadow 
of  suspicion  upon  his  complete  up- 
rightness in  all  matters  of  business. 
If  it  were  the  case,  as  unhappily 
it  is  not,  that  success  is  always  to 
be  gained  by  working  for  it  and 
deserving  it,  he  would  have  died 
a  millionaire. 

This  would  have  been  a  strange 
person  to  become  my  friend,  were 
it  not  that  friendship  almost  al- 
ways contains  an  element  of 
strangeness.  I  was  still  a  boy; 
he  almost  middle-aged.  I  held 
transcendental  views  of  life  and 
art ;  he  was  an  artistic  adventurer. 
I  thought  only  of  the  soul  of  music ; 
he  of  little  but  its  form.  I  was 
quiet,  romantic,  dreamy,  and  re- 
served ;  he,  bustling,  prosaic,  ener- 
getic, and  self-reliant.  For  some 
reasons  it  was  well,  for  others  not 
so,  that  I  had  a  friend  of  this  kind. 
At  all  events  I  learned  a  great 
deal  from  him  and  through  him, 
not  only  about  my  profession,  but 
about  its  professors.  Connected 
as  he  was  with  almost  all  of  them, 
my  acquaintance  with  him  laid  bare 
to  my  unwilling  eyes  the  wretched 
intrigues,  the  contemptible  jeal- 
ousies, the  atmosphere  of  sordid- 
ness,  of  stupidity,  of  charlatan- 
ism, and  of  cant,  the  convention- 
alities and  all  the  sickening  little- 
nesses with  which  the  glorious  art 
of  music  was  then  and  still  is  so 
utterly  enveloped  as  to  be  almost 
suffocated.  I  learned  that  if  an 
artist  wishes  to  "  succeed,"  as  it  is 
called,  he  or  she  must,  in  order  to 
do  so,  lay  aside  all  the  better  part 


of  himself  and  become,  as  the  Ger- 
mans say,  a  rank  Philistine.  I 
learned  that  almost  all  who  style 
themselves  artist  are  either  huck- 
sters or  charlatans;  that  their  crit- 
ics are  for  the  most  part  much  the 
same,  only  with  a  stronger  dash  of 
dishonesty  ;  and  that  audiences 
consist  almost  entirely  of  flocks 
of  silly  sheep,  whom  claques  and 
critics  lead  by  the  nose.  If  I  seem 
to  speak  strongly  upon  this  matter, 
I  am  glad  of  it.  I  would  speak 
more  strongly  if  I  could;  and  I 
could  do  so  without  suspicion,  in- 
asmuch as  I  do  not  pretend  that  I 
personally  should  have  succeeded 
any  better  than  I  have  done  even 
in  a  better  state  of  things.  Now, 
this  early  insight  into  the  nature  of 
the  world  in  which  I  was  hence- 
forth to  move,  while  it  proved  far 
from  useless  to  me,  was  the  cause 
of  my  losing  a  considerable  amount 
of  enthusiasm  ;  and  loss  of  enthu- 
siam  for  his  art  is  the  worst  misfor- 
tune that  can  befall  one  who  aspires 
to  be  an  artist  in  any  form.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  not  to  lose  a  great 
deal  of  mine  when  I  knew,  for  ex- 
ample, that  some  great  prima  donna, 
whose  whole  genius,  or  rather  whose 
whole  stock-in-trade,  consisted  of  a 
tolerably  good  voice,  neither  worse 
nor  better  than  that  of  nine  women 
out  of  ten,  had  gained  her  public 
position  by  the  path  of  private  pro- 
tection ;  that  the  enthusiastic  crowd 
which  took  her  horses  from  her 
carriage  and  drew  her  home  in 
triumph  consisted  of  supernumerar- 
ies of  the  theatre ;  that  the  applause 
that  filled  the  house  was  originated 
and  regulated  by  hands  hired  for 
the  purpose ;  that  the  shower  of 
bouquets  thrown  upon  the  stage 
were  the  lady's  own  property  hours 
before  they  lay  at  her  feet ;  that  the 
critics  who  described  it  all  in  such 
glowing  terms  knew  all  this  as  well 
as,  perhaps  better  than,  I  knew  it, 
were  even  more  ignorant  of  music 
than  the  audience,  and  wrote  from 
no  higher  motive  than  love  of  their 
friends  and  hatred  of  their  own  and 
of  their  friends'  foes.  I  fear  it  is 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


405 


only  too  true  that  they  not  seldom 
\vrote  from  very  much  lower  mo- 
tives. I  remember,  to  cite  one  in- 
stance of  what  I  mean,  a  certain 
leader  of  criticism  in  my  own  time, 
by  whose  power  scores  of  reputations 
-'vere  made  and  marred,  who,  when- 
ever a  singer  was  about  to  make  a 
first  appearance,  would  call  and  say, 
"  Signor,"  or  "  Madame/'  or  "  Ma- 
demoiselle, I  have  already  pre- 
pared three  notices  of  your  perfor- 
mance of  to-morrow  evening.  The 
first,  as  you  see  here,  is  sufficiently 
favourable,  and  will  insure  you  a 
tucces  d'estime :  it  is  yours  for  so 
many  francs.  The  second,  which 
I  also  show  you,  clearly  proves 
you  to  be  the  greatest  singer  of 
the  past,  of  the  present,  and  of  the 
future  :  it  is  yours  for  so  many 
francs  more.  The  third,  which 
it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  see 
now,  you  may  have  gratis;  but, 
if  it  appears,  I  do  not  think  that 
you  will  care  to  sing  in  Paris  again." 
I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  say  that 
in  all  countries  musical  criticism 
has  attained  to  such  a  pitch  of  sub- 
limity as  this,  or  that  in  any  coun- 
try critical  dishonesty  is  always  of 
a  gross  and  conscious  kind.  But  I 
certainly  do  say  that  it  needs  every 
note  that  has  ever  been  produced 
by  true  genius  to  prevent  me  from 
hating  my  art  as  much  as  I  despise 
my  profession.  "  It  is  an  ill  bird 
that  fouls  its  own  nest,"  they  say  ; 
but  in  this  case  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  be  called  an  ill  bird. 

But  I  am  in  effect  anticipating ; 
for  my  blindness  was  of  course  not 
removed  immediately.  I  knew  far 
too  little  of  things  or  of  people  to 
lose  the  enthusiasm  of  my  nature 
immediately ;  and  for  long  I  worked 
on  in  the  belief,  not  only  that  my 
own  merit  was  great,  but  that  in 
art-matters  merit  must  necessarily 
achieve  success.  Now,  indeed,  I 
should  be  very  much  tempted  to 
say  to  any  singer,  composer,  or 
other  musician  who  asked  me  for 
the  secret  of  success,  "  It  is  simple, 
and  it  is  this :  do  not  deserve  it ; 
for  no  man  can  serve  two  masters, 


and  the  kingdom  of  Art  is  not  of 
this  world."  Whether  the  same 
advice  would  be  equally  applicable 
to  poets  and  painters,  I  know  not ; 
but  I  am  sure,  from  long  experi- 
ence, that  it  applies  to  musicians. 
But  I  daresay  that  it  does  apply 
to  all  equally;  that,  in  order  to 
succeed, 

"  Musician,  or  Painter,  or  Poet, 

We  must  speak  as  the  world  may 

choose, 

And  for  truest  worship— show  it 
In  silence  to  the  Muse  ; " — 

and  that  what  the  Muse  chooses 
and  what  the  world  chooses  are 
two  very  different  things  indeed. 
Of  course  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  good  men  never  do  succeed ; 
on  the  contrary.  But  then  it  is 
by  having  other  qualities  besides 
merit. 

I  need  not  say  that  in  those  days 
I  was  poor  enough;  and  that,  as 
I  grew  in  years  and  stature,  I  de- 
veloped into  a  Bohemian  of  that 
famous  tribe  whose  capital  settle- 
ment used  to  be  the  Latin  quarter. 
But  of  this  part  of  my  life  I  will 
say  little,  for  Bohemia  is  Bohemia 
all  the  world  over ;  and  it  would 
be  unnecessary  to  describe  it  to 
those  who  have  sojourned  in  it, 
and  impossible  to  those  who  have 
not.  I  will  only  say  that  in 
those  days  the  Latin  country  was 
in  its  glory,  for  they  were  the 
birthdays  of  the  great  romantic 
renaissance,  or  rather  revolution,  in 
Art  and  literature.  Of  course  I 
was  romanticist,  heart  and  soul,  and 
the  word  "classical"  stank  in  my 
nostrils.  In  this  respect  I  should 
very  much  like  to  chronicle  some 
of  my  recollections,  for  the  period 
is  still  replete  with  interest  and  im- 
portance. It  was,  of  course,  not  the 
fortune  of  an  obscure  musical  stu- 
dent like  myself  to  see  much  of  the 
heroes  of  that  time,  but  still  I  could 
not  help  coming  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  them  at  second-hand. 
But  I  will  refrain,  for  it  is  of  my- 
self that  I  am  speaking  now.  With 
regard  to  myself,  then,  I  added  to 
my  musical  practice  the  scribbling 


406 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


of  much  highly  unclassical  verse — 
of  which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  the 
stanza  that  I  have  just  quoted  is  a 
specimen — the  growth  of  long  hair, 
and,  in  general,  as  Byronic  a  style 
and  demeanour  as  I  could  manage 
within  my  limited  scope.  I  also, 
in  a  small  way,  liked  to  be  consid- 
ered rather  a  dangerous  person,  and 
longed  to  experience  a  grande  pas- 
sion. What  was  practically  more 
important,  I  obtained  through 
Monsieur  Prosper  a  small  theatrical 
engagement  and  a  pupil  or  two  of 
my  own,  and  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe  that  my  master  was  sat- 
isfied with  my  progress.  Before 
very  long  I  found  myself  justified 
in  thinking  that  I  might  be  able  to 
carry  out  my  childish  impulse  of 
visiting  Signor  Moretti  at  Rome, 
which  had,  ever  since  I  had  formed 
it,  been  the  height  of  my  ambi- 
tion. 

Everybody  can  point  back  to 
some  particular  period  of  his  life  as 
being  distinctly  the  happiest ;  and 
the  period  of  which  I  am  now 
speaking  was  mine.  I  worked 
hard,  I  really  loved  my  art,  I  was 
full  of  hope  and  confidence,  my 
personal  wants  were  few  and  easily 
satisfied,  I  had  many  acquaint- 


ances, some  friends,  and  much 
pleasure.  If  my  purse  was  light, 
my  heart  was  lighter  still. 

But  one  morning — how  well  I 
remember  it ! — when  I  was  attend- 
ing a  musical  rehearsal  at  the 
theatre,  Monsieur  Prosper  came  up 
to  me  and  said, — 

"  I  am  getting  to  have  too  many 
irons  in  the  fire,  I  am  afraid.  I  have 
not  time  to  attend  properly  to  half 
of  them,  what  with  one  thing  and 
another.  I  must  send  off  a  few  of 
my  pupils,  unless  you  will  help  me. 
I  can  turn  over  some  of  them  to 
you  very  easily.  For  instance, 
there  is  the  pensionnat  of  Madame 
Mercier.  You  don't  profess  the 
piano,  of  course ;  but  you'll  do 
very  well  for  a  week  or  two.  I 
ought  to  go.  there  to-morrow  ;  but, 
as  you  know,  my  mornings  are  all 
otherwise  engaged  for  a  fortnight 
at  least,  so  it  is  impossible.  Will 
you  take  them  off  my  hands  just 
for  the  present  1  It  will  be  worth 
your  while/' 

Of  course  I  consented  willingly  ; 
nor  do  I  remember  that  I  experi- 
enced the  shadow  of  a  presentiment 
of  what  was  to  come  of  my  consent- 
ing to  render  Monsieur  Prosper  so 
apparently  slight  a  service. 


CHAPTER  III. 


On  arriving  punctually  next 
morning  at  Madame  Mercier's,  I 
found  that  I  had  to  give  three  les- 
sons. My  first  pupil  proved  to  be 
wholly  uninteresting  in  every  re- 
spect :  indeed  I  can  scarcely  recall 
her  to  mind.  The  second  was  a 
young  English  lady,  whom  I  re- 
member well  for  many  reasons,  al- 
though but  little  for  her  own  sake. 
The  hour  which  I  had  to  devote 
to  the  latter  had  nearly  expired 
when  the  door  opened,  and  another 
young  girl  entered  quietly  and  sat 
down  in  a  retired  part  of  the  room, 
as  though  to  wait  until  I  should  be 
disengaged.  I  just  looked  round 
for  a  moment,  and  saw  that-  she 
started  a  little — I  suppose  that  she 


had  expected  to  see  Monsieur  Pros- 
per. More  than  that,  however,  I 
did  not  see  just  then,  for  she  to 
whom  my  immediate  attention  was 
due  was  in  the  midst  of  a  difficult 
passage,  and  making  a  mess  of  it. 
But  when  the  lesson  was  over,  I 
certainly  did  see  something  more. 
I  do  not  know  to  what  extent  my 
face  betrayed  my  admiration  :  to 
some  extent,  however,  it  must  have 
done  so,  for  she  blushed  a  little  as 
she  curtsied  to  me,  and  then  with- 
out a  word  walked  straight  to  the 
piano.  I  did  not  hear  her  voice 
until  she  began  to  sing. 

Neither  was  the  voice  in  itself, 
nor  was  the  use  that  she  made  of 
it,  very  wonderful  :  nor  was  it 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VI. 


407 


even  of  a  kind  that  I  in  general 
used  to  find  sympathetic.  Usually 
I  care  nothing  for  a.  voice,  however 
beautiful  it  may  be  in  other  re- 
spects, that  has  not  depth  and  sha- 
dow; and  hers,  although  musical, 
was  wholly  without  either.  And 
yet  somehow — how  shall  I  possi- 
bly make  myself  intelligible1? — it 
seemed  to  be  sympathetic  to  a  side 
of  my  nature  that  had  never  hith- 
erto revealed  itself  to  me  save  by 
dim  and  momentary  flashes.  Like 
certain  other  sounds,  like  certain 
colours,  like  certain  odours,  it 
seemed  to  speak  of  a  life  other  than 
that  which  I  always  remembered  to 
have  lived  since  I  was  born :  to  be 
associated  with  one  of  which  I  was 
mysteriously  conscious,  but  did  not 
consciously  remember.  It  carried 
my  heart  backward  beyond  the 
roach  of  memory  altogether,  and 
tlirew  me  into  that  state  in  which 
one  is  forced  to  believe  in  the  doc- 
trine that  the  soul  lives,  and  enjoys, 
and  suffers  before  it  is  born. 

It  was  this,  I  think,  even  more 
tlian  her  great  beauty,  that  made 
this  third  hour  to  rush  by  so  rapidly, 
and  myself  to  be  filled  with  such  a 
glow -of  strange  happiness  at  its 
close.  Of  this  my  first  interview 
with  her  I  have  of  course  nothing 
to  say  that  can  be  expressed  in 
definite  words.  Outwardly,  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  mere  ordinary 
music-lesson.  But,  in  reality,  it 
soemed  to  me  to  be  nothing  short 
of  a  revelation,  though  of  a  vague, 
u  nintelligible  kind ;  nor  did  I  care 
to  make  it  clearer  to  myself,  or  to 
understand  it  better.  I  only  felt 
that  I  had  found  my  ideal,  even 
though,  as  is  always  the  case,  it  had 
proved  to  be  altogether  different 
from  the  ideal  of  my  imagination. 

I  do  not  know  whether  my  ex- 
perience is  singular  or  not.  Judg- 
ing from  what  men  say,  the  special 
kind  of  sympathy  which  we  call 
love  is  for  the  most  part  born  un- 
consciously, and  apart  from  any 
effort  of  the  will.  But  I  did  not 
"fall  in  love."  I  sought  it,  and 
threw  myself  into  it  consciously 


and  intentionally.  As  I  have  al- 
ready said,  I  was  in  search  of  a 
grande  passion — of  a  heroine  for 
all  my  dreams  of  romance  :  and 
if  I  had  not  found  this  particular 
heroine,  I  should  inevitably  have 
found  another.  But  my  tempo- 
rary pupil  had  the  advantage  of 
fulfilling  my  whole,  ideal  to  perfec- 
tion ;  and  I  think  that  she  would 
have  rendered  me  faithless  to  any 
heroine  whom  I  might  have  fancied 
that  I  had  found  before  seeing  her. 
If  I  had  had  a  Rosaline,  as  I  had 
not,  she  would  have  proved  my 
Juliet.  She  was  beautiful  beyond 
all  question  :  she  was  herself  ro- 
mantic :  she  was  a  lady  :  she  was 
herself  to  be  an  artist:  and — not 
the  least  of  her  merits  in  the  eyes 
of  one  of  my  character — she  was 
poor  and  dependent  :  so  that  she 
was  at  one  and  the  same  time  both 
my  superior  and  my  equal.  Hither- 
to my  acquaintance  with  women 
had  been  confined  to  our  good  com- 
rades the  grisettes,  who  had  none  of 
these  advantages,  excepting  that  of 

poverty :  but  now 

Well,  as  I  have  said,  I  chose  her 
for  my  heroine  deliberately  and 
almost  in  cold  blood  :  really,  I 
believe,  at  first  because  I  thought 
it  the  right  thing  to  do.  But, 
alas !  "  On  ne  badine  pas  avec 
rAmour."  The  more  I  came  to 
see  of  her,  the  more  my  feeling 
towards  her  became  less  and  less 
a  matter  of  vanity,  or  even  of 
mere  admiration.  Before  long  I 
forgot  myself  in  her  altogether. 
This  is  not  a  mere  phrase  :  I  mean 
literally  what  I  say,  let  the  reader 
shrug  his  shoulders  as  much  as  he 
pleases  at  the  notion  of  carrying 
sentiment  that  is  not  born  of  pas- 
sion to  so  extreme  a  length.  I 
know  that  in  this  frigidly  philoso- 
phical age  no  one  ever  suffers  him- 
self to  feel  an  emotion  that  is  in- 
consistent with  prudence  and  com- 
fort :  I  know  that  the  extreme  of 
sentiment  shares  a  well-known  qua- 
lity of  the  sublime,  and  that  the 
flights  of  sentiment  in  which  the 
poets  of  another  age  used  to  in- 


408 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


dulge,  have  come  to  be  regarded  as 
mere  ornaments  of  a  sort  that  has 
gone  out  of  fashion,  and  that  never 
at  any  time  represented  anything 
true  or  genuine.  In  so  far  as  men 
now  consider  the  desire  of  posses- 
sion to  be,  after  all,  the  ultimate 
cause  of  what  is  called  love,  I  agree 
with  them  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
I  know  from  my  own  experience, 
that  in  my  own  case  love  for  a  wo- 
man may  be  born  in  mere  senti- 
ment, and  that  mere  sentiment  may 
so  continue  to  give  it  power  and 
life,  that  passion  may  play  a  part 
that  is  so  slight  as  to  be  indeed 
imperceptible.  I  certainly  first  of 
all  loved,  because  I  wished  to  love ; 
and  I  continued  to  do  so,  because 
she  whom  I  loved  filled  all  my 
thoughts  and  all  my  fancies  in  a 
way  with  which  mere  passion  could 
have  had  nothing  to  do  ;  and  this 
kind  of  love  I  hold  to  be  the  most 
overwhelming  of  all.  Passion  may 
be  directed,  if  not  conquered ;  but 
he  is  lost  who  becomes  the  slave  of 
a  dream. 

After  all,  though,  I  daresay  that 
almost  every  man,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  has  a  romance  of  the  same 
nature  hidden  away  somewhere, 
even  though  in  other  respects  his 
life  is  written  in  the  plainest  of 
prose.  On  this  assumption  I  will 
cease  to  defend  myself  and  my  theo- 
ries about  this  matter  farther.  In 
any  case,  I  think  I  have  said  enough 
to  show  what  I  mean ;  and  the  sub- 
ject is  far  too  vague  and  complex  to 
tempt  me  to  go  into  it  more  deeply. 

At  any  rate,  without  thinking  of 
consequences,  without  even  putting 
my  hopes  and  wishes  into  shape,  I 
indulged  this  new  feeling  of  mine 
to  the  very  utmost.  I  even  con- 
tinued to  encourage  it,  even  when 
it  was  full  grown;  and  deliberately, 
something  in  the  spirit  of  the  Knight 
of  La  Mancha,  sought  to  come  up 
to  the  ideal  of  the  lover  of  romance. 
And  it  was  not  long  before  I  could 
not  help  seeing  that  the  love  which 
I  had  not  as  yet  dared  to  declare, 
but  yet  had  been  unable  to  conceal, 
was  far  from  being  scorned. 


How  long  in  reality  this  state  of 
things  continued  I  am  wholly  un- 
able to  say.  It  must  have  lasted 
more  than  a  moment  and  less  than 
a  century :  but  even  so  much  cer- 
tainty as  that  I  do  not  derive  from 
memory.  But  at  last — again  just 
after  a  rehearsal,  and  while  I  was 
putting  my  violin  into  its  case — 
Monsieur  Prosper,  who  was  also 
present  in  some  capacity  or  other, 
or,  more  likely,  in  several  capacities 
at  once,  came  up  to  me  again.  I 
had  not  seen  much  of  him  of  late — 
indeed  for  that  matter  I  had  not 
seen  much  of  any  of  my  old  friends 
for  some  little  time  past. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  his  usual 
abrupt  manner,  "  and  how  did  you 
find  things  going  on  up  there  1  Are 
they  in  want  of  a  primo  tenor e  ? 
Because,  if  so,  I  think  we  have  just 
been  listening  to  one  that  is  quite 
out  of  his  place  among  us  poor 
mortals." 

This  was  one  of  his  ways  of 
making  enemies.  He  had  a  special 
knack  of  delivering  his  sarcasms 
just  when  they  must  necessarily  be 
overheard  by  those  at  whose  ex- 
pense they  were  made. 

"  What  is  that  you  say,  Monsieur 
Prosper1?"  asked  our  own  primo 
tenore,  who  had  just  finished  a 
grand  aria,  and  was  now  passing 
us  on  his  way  out. 

"  Ah,  pardon.  I  did  not  see  you. 
I  was  only  remarking  to  Monsieur 
Felix  here  how  splendidly  you 
brought  out  that  Ut  de  poitrine — 
it  was  superb.  It  is  really  a  shame 
that  every  violin  in  the  place  hap- 
pened to  be  sharp  at  that  exact 
moment.  How  was  it,  Felix  1  But 
you  have  not  answered  my  ques- 
tion. Is  it  true  that  they  believe 
in  Rossini  up  there  1  Or  have  the 
mad  doctors  belied  them  1 "  Ros- 
sini, by  the  way,  in  his  character 
of  innovator,  was,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  a  special  aversion  of  Mon- 
sieur Prosper  in  those  days  before 
Paris  had  accepted  him. 

"Up  where  1" 

"  In  the  moon,  of  course.  You 
have  been  there  so  long  that  I 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


409 


thought  you  were  going  to  stay 
there  for  good.  My  dear  fellow, 
where  in  the  world  have  you  been 
all  these  weeks,  that  nobody  has 
seen  you]" 

"  My  friends  must  have  been  very 
blind,  then.  I  have  been  at  the 
theatre  every  night." 

"  Ah,  that  is  good  !  I  have  cer- 
tainly seen  some  one  not  unlike 
you  sitting  in  the  orchestra — but 
yourself,  no.  And  if  I  were  you, 
ard  wanted  a  double  to  receive  my 
salary  for  me  while  I  was  visiting 
the  planets,  I  would  at  all  events 
get  one  that  would  do  me  credit — 
who  would  neither  cut  my  friends 
nor  play  out  of  time.  Ah,  it  must 
be  a  big  orchestra  for  me  not  to  tell 
which  instrument  it  is  that  is  doing 
the  mischief." 

I  generally  took  his  scolding  in 
as  good  part  as  it  was  meant.  But 
this  time  I  sympathised  with  the 
primo  tenore.  I  was  about  to  reply 
a  little  sharply,  when  a  grave  and 
strangely  kind  look  came  into  his 
eyes,  which  made  me  silent  at  once. 

His  words,  however,  were  less 
kind  than  the  look  which  accom- 
panied them.  I  do  not  think  that 
he  had  the  power  of  speaking  quite 
seriously,  even  when  he  wished  to 
do  so. 

"  My  dear  Felix,"  he  said,  "  whe- 
ther you  have  been  to  the  skies  or 
not,  I  cannot  help  thinking — do 
you  not  feel  it  yourself]  —  that 
there  are  symptoms  about  you  of 
the  Ange  —  sans  G." 

I  guessed  what  he  meant  imme- 
diately, and  have  no  doubt  that  my 
face  showed  that  I  guessed  it.  I 
coloured  with  the  shame  that  every 
one  feels  when  he  finds  that  the 
romance  of  his  life  is  read  by  world- 
ly and  unsympathetic  eyes. 

"  I  daresay  there  are,"  I  said,  as 
lightly  as  I  could.  "There  are 
about  most  people,  in  one  way  or 
another." 

"  Yes — because  they're  born  so ; 
and  I  should  never  dream  of  quar- 
reUing  with  them  for  it.  On  the 
contrary,  I  approve  of  the  arrange- 
ment. But  your  ears  are  not  long 


by  nature,  my  dear  boy — at  least 
not  so  very  long,  that  is  to  say." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment." 

"Look  here.  You  mean  to  be 
an  artist,  don't  you  1 " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well  then,  I've  known  a  great 
many  artists  in  my  time — a  great 
many.  And  I've  also  known  a 
great  many  men  who  had  the  stuff 
in  them,  and  might  have  been  ar- 
tists, only " 

"Well?" 

"  Only  some  took  to  drink,  and 
some  took  to — you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Flirt  as  much  as 
you  like :  women  are  charming 
creatures,  especially  coquettes ;  and 
it's  a  useful  excitement.  I  do  it 
myself  whenever  I  get  the  chance 
— and  I  do  get  the  chance  some- 
times, though  I'm  not  exactly  beau 
garqon.  Have  as  many  liaisons 
as  you  please  :  it's  the  best  way 
of  getting  to  learn  the  world  and 
how  to  keep  straight  and  safe 
in  it,  if  you  can  spare  the  time, 
which  I  confess  I  can't.  But,  in 
the  name  of  thunder,  keep  clear  of 
a  grand  passion !  I  know  some- 
thing of  such  things  ;  and  I  know 
a  great  deal  about  you.  And  I  tell 
you,  I,  Louis  Prosper,  that  no  real 
artist  ever  cared  for  a  woman  above 
his  art — that  is,  above  himself,  which 
is  the  same  thing ;  and  that  is  what 
you  seem  to  be  in  a  fair  way  of 
doing.  You  are  quite  capable  of 
it.  And  I  won't  have  my  best 
pupil  spoiled  before  my  eyes  by 
the  best  she  of  them  all  if  I  can 
help  it." 

This  was  certainly  a  little  too 
much  for  me  to  stand.  "  And 

what "  I  was  beginning,  when 

he  interrupted  me  by  laying  his 
arm  upon  my  shoulders  while  he 
shrugged  his  own. 

"  Ah,  you  think  me  a  stupid  old 
fellow  ] "  he  said ;  "  but  you  are 
wrong.  It  is  you  who  are  the 
stupid  young  one.  This  wonderful 
she  is  to  be  your  loadstar,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  is  she  not  ]  I 


410 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


know.  But  what  would  you? 
Perhaps  you  have  not  thought '? 
.£74  bien  I  I  have  thought,  though." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  business  it  is 
of  any  one  but  myself." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't.  But  it  is. 
Do  you  think  I  say  all  this  for 
the  sake  of  your  own  beaux  yeux  ? 
Bah  !  not  Louis  Prosper !  Per- 
haps you  will  think  next  that  he 
has  not  been  teaching  you  for  his 
own  sake  1  A  likely  thing,  indeed ! 
Corpo  dun  cane  !  I  thought  better 
things  of  you,  my  dear  Felix,  than 
that  you  should  risk  your  career 
for  a  fancy — as  you  are,  I  can  very 
well  see.  I  know  you.  You  will 
end  either  in  the  Morgue  or  in 
marriage ;  and  either  way  there 
will  be  an  artist  spoiled.  Come — 
think  of  me  :  think  of  Moretti. 
Do  you  think  he  made  his  concerto 
in  A  sharp  minor  by  falling  in  love  ? 
Not  he — it  was  by  keeping  his 
brain  clear  and  his  heart  whole  : 
and  yet  he  was  a  man  aux  bonnes . 
fortunes.  But  then  a  bonne  fortune 
is  not  a  grand  passion,  you  under- 
stand 1  Do  you  think  that  I  made 

my Be  a  man.     Take  some 

little  Pauline  or  Adele  from  the 
corps  de  ballet  to  make  you  comfort- 
able till  you  can  afford  to  look 
higher.  There  are  plenty  who  would 
jump  at  you  in  this  very  house,  not 
to  speak  of  elsewhere,  and  who 
would  not  expect  champagne  every 
day.  Stick  to  your  fiddle,  crop 
your  ears,  send  love  to  his  father, 
who  is  the  devil,  and  come  and 
dine  with  me.  Sole  Normande — 
cutlet  Jinanciere — a  salad — a  glass 
of  Yquem?  Will  that  suit  you? 
And,  by  the  way,  I  shall  be  able  to 
go  myself  to  Madame  Mercier's 
again  now.  Never  mind,  though, 
you  shall  have  another  pupil  to 
make  up.  Au  revoir,  mesdemoiselles. 
Come,  Felix,  I  have  forgotten  my 
breakfast  long  ago." 

But  I  was  by  no  means  grateful 
for  his  intended  kindness. 

"Thanks,  Monsieur  Prosper,"  I 
said,  as  coldly  and  stiffly  as  I 
could,  "I  have  an  engagement;" 
and  walked  away  in  a  rage. 


He  shrugged  his  shoulders  once 
more.  "  I  must  dine  alone,  then," 
I  heard  him  say  to  himself.  "  Poor 
fellow  !  It's  always  the  way.  Yes, 
it's  quite  true  —  women  are  the 
devil ;  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

Monsieur  Prosper  was  certainly 
not  a  man  of  tact.  His  advice  had 
been  altogether  well  meant,  but 
it  had,  as  may  well  be  supposed, 
jarred  upon  me  altogether.  It  was 
not  that  I  objected  to  it  in  the 
least  from  a  moral  point  of  view, 
although,  no  doubt,  I  ought  to 
have  done  so  ;  for  the  atmosphere 
that  I  had  breathed  since  leaving 
my  old  home  was  certainly  not 
less  free  than  that  of  the  latter, 
and  infinitely  less  pure.  My  child- 
hood was  not  strict,  to  say  the 
least  of  it.  But  this  rigmarole,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  of  flirtations, 
bonnes  fortunes,  marriage,  the 
Morgue,  Moretti,  the  corps  de  bal- 
let, and  sole  Normande,  was  wholly 
out  of  harmony  with  the  key  in 
which  my  life  seemed  now  to  be 
set  unchangeably.  If  he  had  actu- 
ally mentioned  her  name  in  the 
same  breath  with  all  these  things, 
I  do  not  think  I  could  have  borne 
it.  As  it  was,  I  almost  think  that 
though  Monsieur  Prosper  was  my 
friend,  and  I  knew  it,  I  for  some 
minutes  knew  what  is  meant  by 
the  word  hate.  Had  some  evil 
genius  just  then  transported  us 
both  to  some  quiet  spot  in  the 
Bois,  and  changed  our  bows  into 
swords,  I  think  I  should,  at  all 
events,  have  gone  so  far  as  to  cry 
out  "  En  garde  /  " 

As  I  am  speaking  of  what  I  felt 
at  this  moment,  I  may  as  well  finish. 
It  almost  invariably  happens,  that 
when  one  feels  most  strongly,  one 
is  then  most  liable  to  be  impressed 
by  any  grotesque  image  that  may 
chance  to  present  itself.  The  in- 
tense absurdity  of  the  idea  of  Mon- 
sieur Prosper  being  made  to  flourish 
a  small  sword  almost  made  me  laugh 
aloud  as  I  walked  along,  and  cer- 
tainly made  me  repent  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  I  had  parted  from  him. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  though  I  did 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


411 


him  justice  in  this  respect,  I  was 
unconsciously  harbouring  a  feeling 
which  lasted  more  or  less  strongly 
for  days,  and  which  was  far  less 
excusable  than  my  anger.  I  felt  a 
positive  disgust  for  music — not  as 
a  profession,  but  as  an  art  and 
as  itself — for  my  friends,  for  every 
person,  and  for  everything,  in 
short,  that  had  happened  since 
I  had  left  my  true  home.  And 
why  1  Because,  forsooth,  I  was 
the  Marquis  de  Creville,  and 
Monsieur  Prosper  was  only  a  Jew 
fi idler!  The  blood  which  I  had 
derived  from  ancestors,  not  so  far 
back  as  the  common  ancestor  of  us 
all,  but  from  knights  and  barons  of 
the  Crusades,  from  Marechaux  de 
France,  and  from  fine  gentlemen 
and  finer  ladies  of  more  recent 
times — each  and  all  of  whom  would 
have  treated  him  as  a  creature  that 
might  be  useful  and  amusing  enough 
in  his  proper  place,  but,  to  gentle- 
men and  good  Christians,  otherwise 
unclean — seemed  all  of  a  sudden  to 
rebuke  me  for  having  not  only 
made  this  man  my  friend,  but  for 
having  made  him  my  friend  to  such 
an  extent  as  to  have  given  him  a 
right  to  find  fault  with  me,  and  for 
having  allowed  him  to  degrade  me 
to  a  position  which  they  would  have 
regarded  as  being  no  higher  or  bet- 
ter than  that  of  a  mountebank. 
And  what  was  this  thing  called  Art, 
after  all,  if  it  could  only  be  served 
by  a  man's  throwing  himself  under 
its  chariot-wheels,  and  sacrificing  to 
it  all  the  best  part  of  human  nature  1 
What  but  a  Moloch,  worse  than 
the  Baal  of  the  world?  Prosper's 
whole  doctrine  had  disgusted  as 
much  as  his  manner  of  stating  it 
had  offended  me  :  and  as  I  could 
argue  neither  against  the  truth  of 
what  he  had  said  nor  against  the 
merit  of  his  intentions  towards  my- 
self, I  had  to  throw  myself  back 
upon  my  fictitious  superiority  of 
rank  and  race,  and  to  soothe  my- 
self with  the  absurd  consciousness 
that  I,  as  a  gentleman  born,  must 
needs  have  finer  feelings  and  truer 
instincts  than  he.  And  so,  perhaps, 


I  had  ;  but  assuredly  not  because  I 
had  a  claim  to  call  myself  Mar- 
quis, while  he  was  an  artist  and  no- 
thing more.  Certainly  pride,  or,  as 
I  should  prefer  to  call  it,  vanity  of 
birth,  must  be  a  very  ineradicable 
thing  if  I,  who  have,  as  a  good 
child  of  the  Republic,  believed  in 
equality  and  fraternity  from  my 
cradle,  was  guilty  of  so  gross  a  lapse 
into  it  as  this;  and  if  it  often 
takes  such  a  form  as  it  did  with  me 
then,  it  must  be  as  contemptible  as 
it  is  ineradicable. 

Before  evening  came,  my  heroine 
had  heard  from  me  the  whole  story 
of  my  love.  The  next  morning,  in 
all  the  intoxication  of  triumph,  I 
told  Monsieur  Prosper  what  I  had 
done.  But  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders  once  more,  and  said  no- 
thing. 

And  now  followed  a  season,  not 
of  happiness,  but  of  glorious  fever. 
I  loved  and  was  loved;  and,  as  if 
that  were  not  sufficient,  mine  was 
a  love  of  which  the  course  must 
needs  be  anything  but  smooth.  It 
also  had — though  I  scarcely  know 
how  or  why — an  element  of  mystery 
about  it  that  made  it  more  exciting 
still.  I  think  that  we  both  pre- 
ferred that  this  should  be  so;  she 
certainly  did.  So  my  whole  time 
became  taken  up  with  contriving 
meetings,  in  looking  forward  to 
them  till  they  came,  and  in  think- 
ing about  them  when  they  were 
over.  Most  people,  I  doubt  not, 
would  have  called  me  dissipated 
while  I  was  a  sufficiently  good 
fellow  among  my  comrades,  and 
would  have  considered  that  a  seri- 
ous passion  had  steadied  me;  for 
the  free  life  of  my  friends  was  mine 
no  more.  What  they  thought  of 
me  I  do  not  know,  for  I  never  cared 
to  know.  It  was  now  that  I  was 
really  dissipated,  both  morally  and 
intellectually.  I  still  studied  a 
little,  but  no  longer  in  the  spirit  of 
a  student;  for  my  heart  was  no 
longer  in  anything  that  had  not 
reference  to  her.  I  have  heard  of 
such  a  passion  producing  an  op- 
posite effect;  of  its  acting  as  a 


412 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


healthy  tonic,  and  not  as  a  poison- 
ous stimulant;  of  its  leading  men 
to  do  great  things  and  to  make  the 
best  of  themselves.  But  I  did  not 
find  it  so;  and  so  far,  at  least,  Mon- 
sieur Prosper  had  not  proved  to  be 
wrong  in  his  estimate  of  my  char- 
acter. Indeed  I  am,  on  the  whole, 
inclined  to  agree  with  him  in  hold- 
ing that  the  less  a  would-be  artist 
has  to  do  with  really  serious  pas- 
sion, the  better  for  him  as  an  artist. 
By  serious  love  I  do  not,  of  course, 
mean  the  passion  that  endures  for 
a  season  only,  however  strong  it 
may  be  while  it  lasts :  I  mean  that 
which  colours  a  man's  life  and 
changes  his  character :  I  mean  that 
which  by  its  very  nature  can  never 
bear  good  fruit.  After  all,  the  cul- 
tivation of  art  depends,  more  than 
any  other  human  pursuit,  upon  the 
even  and  harmonious  working  to 
one  and  the  same  single  end  of  the 
brain,  of  the  senses,  and  of  the  soul. 
The  greatest  artists  of  modern  times 
have  been  just  those  whose  natures 
have  been  the  least  disturbed  by 
external  influence  :  some,  by  reason 
of  a  strength  that  has  enabled  them 
to  throw  off  emotion  at  will ;  others, 
by  reason  of  an  incapacity  of  re- 
ceiving any  emotion  not  in  har- 
mony with  their  true  selves.  And 
so  it  will  be  found  that  the  cardinal 
doctrine  of  the  gospel  of  Art,  as  of 
the  gospel  of  Christianity,  is  the 
subjugation  of  external  nature;  and 
that  before  a  man  can  rightly  ex- 
press human  emotion  and  its  re- 
sults, he  must  not  only  cease  to  be 
a  slave  to  it,  but  become  its  master. 
Very  few  are  born  masters :  not 
many  are  born  freemen.  And  so 
let  not  the  artist  love  too  well:  let 
him  beware  of  going  beyond  mere 
passion,  which  passes,  and  friend- 
ship, which  strengthens  and  does 
not  disturb.  I  own  that  this  is  a 
cold,  a  disagreeable,  and  an  un- 
popular creed;  but  then  truth  is 
apt  to  be  cold,  disagreeable,  and  un- 
popular. He  who  would  be  a 
priest  of  the  temple  must  submit 
to  lead  a  life  apart  from  other  men. 
It  may  be  that  he  can  best  express 


emotion  who  can  feel  it  most;  but 
then  he  must  use  his  power  of  feel- 
ing as  a  slave — not  obey  it  as  a 
tyrant. 

But  since  in  my  case  these  con- 
siderations came  too  late,  and  love 
had  proved  himself  conqueror,  why, 
it  might  be  asked,  did  not  these 
two,  if  they  were  really  in  love,  do 
as  hundreds  of  others  have  done 
in  their  place — Why  did  they  not 
honestly  make  up  their  minds,  poor 
as  they  were,  to  fight  the  battle  of 
life  bravely  side  by  side,  and  to 
bear  all  things  for  each  other's 
sake  until,  for  each  other's  sake, 
they  had  gained  what  the  world 
calls  victory  1 

Yes,  but  I  was  living  in  a  dream. 
I  never  thought  of,  or  realised, 
anything  except  that  I  loved  and 
was  loved.  She  had  no  friends  to 
compel  me  to  think  of  what  was 
right  or  wrong,  wise  or  foolish. 
There  was  no  one  to  bring  me  to  a 
pause  with .  a  sudden  demand  to 
know  what  were  my  "  intentions  " 
— that  is  the  right  form,  I  believe 
— and  a  man  who  is  blindly  in  love 
is  not  very  likely  to  ask  himself 
his  own.  Who,  indeed,  shall  give 
reasons  for  what  he  does  or  does 
not  do  in  a  dream  ?  And  what 
man  who  really  loves  ever  has  "  in- 
tentions 1 " 

One  wet  and  miserable  morning 
— do  I  not  remember  it  well  1 — we 
had  met  in  the  gardens  of^  the 
Tuileries,  which  was  an  occasional 
place  of  rendezvous  for  us  as  for 
many  another  pair  of  lovers.  She 
was  looking  marvellously  beautiful 
even  for  her  :  indeed  it  is  as  I  saw 
her  then  that  I  like  best  to  think 
of  her,  and  none  the  less  that  her 
beauty  was  increased  by  a  slight 
shadow  of  sadness — in  spite  of 
which  she  made  full  amends  for  the 
absence  of  the  sun. 

Of  course  I  told  her  so,  but  did 
not  call  a  smile  to  her  face.  On 
the  contrary,  she,  instead  of  heed- 
ing my  words,  gave  me  her  hand  to 
hold  and  began  herself  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  how  shall  I  tell  you  what 
has  happened  1 " 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


413 


Her  tone  was  more  than  enough 
to  alarm  me  too  much  to  allow  of 
my  doing  more  than  question  her 
silently. 

"Miss  Kaymond  has  just  told 
me  that  she  leaves  Paris.  What  is 
to  be  done  ?  " 

"  That  she  leaves  Paris  !  "  I  could 
only  say,  with  a  sinking  heart ; 
for  I  somehow  felt  a  presentiment 
that  this  meant  the  end  of  my 
dream — that  I  must  answer  her 
question  about  what  must  be  done. 

"It  is  only  too  true.  She  is  going 
back  to  England." 

Now  if  I  had  been  capable  of 
looking  forward  at  all,  I  should 
have  known  that  this  must  have 
happened  sooner  or  later.  But  then 
I  had  not  been  capable  of  looking 
forward.  In  my  heart  I  had  been 
fancying  that  the  present  was  to 
last  for  ever;  and  so  the  news 
came  upon  me  like  a  blow  that 
made  my  heart  stand  still.  That 
I  must  actually  have  turned  pale 
and  faint  I  could  read  in  the  sud- 
den look  of  anxiety  that  filled  her 
eyes. 

"  When  did  you  hear  this  ? "  was 
all  I  could  manage  to  say. 

"  This  morning." 

"  And  that  you  go  with  her  1 
Surely  you  cannot  mean  that  ? " 

"I  must,  dearest  Felix." 

We  were  silent  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  I  said,— 

"  Do  not  go,  remain  here — be  my 
wife." 

I  daresay  that  I  spoke  coldly 
and  quietly  ;  for  words  are  always 
cold  and  tame  when  the  heart  is 
full.  The  tongue  has  a  pride  of 
its  own  ;  and  when  it  cannot  ex- 
press all,  it  prefers  to  express 
nothing.  But  then,  when  the 
heart  is  full  to  overflowing,  there 
is  nt>  need  of  words.  Doubtless 
my  eyes  spoke  for  me — at  all 
events  I  looked  with  so  much 
eagerness  of  anxiety  as  to  see  the 
"  yes  "  for  which  my  soul  longed 
hanging  upon  her  lips.  But  it  did 
not  reach  my  ears. 

u  Why  do  you  wait  to  answer  ? " 
I  went  on,  suddenly  and  quickly ; 

VOL.  CVIT. — NO.  DCLIV. 


"  are  we  not  one  already,  in  every- 
thing but  in  name  ?  Surely  Miss 
Raymond  has  no  claim  upon  you 
now,  when  we  belong  to  each  other. 
Tell  her,  then,  that  you  cannot  go 
with  her  to  England;  that  you  cannot 
live  in  one  land  while  your  heart  is 
in  another.  Have  you  not  said  so  to 
me  many  times  1  As  for  a  year  or 
two  of  poverty,  that  shall  be  our 
pride  !  We  will  conquer  the  world 
together,  which  will  conquer  us  if 
we  part;  and  to  part  even  for  a 
time,  without  seeing  an  end  to 
our  parting,  is  to  risk  everything 
without  /ieed.  We  two,  who  live 
outside  the  world  and  scorn  it, 
must  not  make  marriage  and  love 
a  question  of  so  many  francs.  Do 
you  give  me  the  present,  Angelique, 
and  I  will  answer  for  your  future  ! 
and  I  will  find  strength  and  cour- 
age for  both.  It  is  for  your  sake 
I  ask  you  :  if  you  wish  me  to  be 
worthy  of  you,  if  <jpou  ever  wish  to 
be  proud  of  me,  you  must  give  me 
the  power,  and  you  must  give  it 
now.  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  you 
were  my  sun  1  and  would  you  sud- 
denly plunge  me  into  darkness, 
when  you  might,  with  a  word,  make 
me  all,  I  swear  to  you,  that  even 
you  could  wish  me  to  be  1 " 

"  And  you  are  not  strong  enough 
to  wait — to  trust  me  !  " 

"  To  trust  you  ] — for  ever  !  But 
to  wait  1  No — when  there  is  no 
need — when  you  can  come  to  me 
now.  Is  it  you  that  are  not  strong 
enough  to  trust  me  ?  Do  you  not 
believe  that  with  you  I  can  do  all 
things— without  you,  nothing?  An- 
gelique,  I  will  not  lose  you,  if  I 
can  help  it,  even  for  a  day ;  for 
without  you,  a  day  would  seem 
eternal.  I  have  asked  you  for  your 
own  sake — I  now  ask  you  for  mine. 
Stay  with  me — do  not  let  us  risk 
the  good  part  of  our  lives  lightly  : 
nothing  calls  you  away.  Oh,  An- 
gelique, what  can  I  say  more  than 
that  I  will  live  for  you  for  ever — 
that  you  shall  be  proud  of  me,  and 
that  my  life  is  in  your  hands  1 " 

She  had  started  when  I  first 
asked  her  to  remain  with  me  ;  and 


414 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI. 


[April 


during  the  rest  of  my  appeal  she 
had  never  raised  her  eyes.  Now 
she  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  I  felt 
the  hand,  which  I  still  held  close- 
ly, tremble  ;  but  instead  of  saying 
"  yes,"  she  only  answered — 

"  But  I  must  go  now." 

And  nothing  more  than  this,  in 
spite  of  all  that  I  could  say,  could 
I  obtain  from  her.  Indeed  I  must 
confess  that  my  own  arguments 
were  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience. 
I  could  only  promise  her  a  life  of 
poverty,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  I 
could  only  endow  her  with  the 
wealth  of  a  future  that  had  as  yet 
given  no  tangible  sign ;  and  I  could 
not  justifiably — as  any  sensible  per- 
son would  hold — ask  her  to  give  up 
her  life  of  comfort  and  luxury  in 
order  to  live  in  some  poor  garret  in 
the  midst  of  my  not  very  reputable 
theatrical  surroundings,  from  which 
it  must  needs  be  not  a  few  but  a 
great  many  years  before  I  could  even 
hope  to  emerge.  I  fear  that  the  im- 
pulses of  love  are  often  terribly  self- 
ish, even  when  they  are  the  purest 
and  the  most  sincere.  She  said  no- 
thing about  this,  of  course.  I,  con- 
sciously at  least,  did  not  think  it ;  but 
I  must  have  known  in  my  soul  that 
I  was  doing  wrong.  But  still,  right 
or  wrong,  for  her  to  leave  me  and  go 
to  a  land  of  which  I  knew  nothing, 
where  anything,  for  what  I  knew, 


might  happen — where  she  might 
die,  where  she  might  forget  me, 
where  she  would  at  least  be  sur- 
rounded by  a  new  atmosphere,  by 
new  scenes,  by  new  faces,  and,  worst 
of  all,  by  new  admiration  —  the 
thought  was  simply  unbearable. 
He  who  loves  as  I  loved,  must,  it 
seems,  be  jealous  of  something  ; 
and  I  was  now  jealous  of  England 
— of  the  whole  world.  And  so  I 
continued  to  urge  her,  though  against 
all  right  and  reason.  But  it  was  in 
vain. 

Nevertheless  we  did  not  part  so. 
It  was  to  be  our  last  meeting  ;  for 
although  Miss  Raymond  was  not  to 
set  out  for  England  immediately, 
she  was  to  leave  Paris  at  once. 
And  though  my  mistress  would  not 
grant  my  desire  for  an  immediate 
marriage,  I  had  no  reason  otherwise 
to  complain.  She  convinced  me 
that  it  was  from  no  want  of  affec- 
tion that  she  withheld  her  consent ; 
and  our  last  words  were  vows  of 
eternal  faith  and  constancy,  what- 
ever might  happen. 

And  so  the  first  part  of  my  dream 
came  to  an  end.  I  saw  her  again, 
indeed,  several  times  before  she 
left  the  French  shore,  but  only 
from  a  distance.  But  very  soon 
I  lost  even  this  poor  consolation, 
and  then  Paris  became  a  desert  to 
me  indeed. 


1370.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


415 


THE   PRINCESSE  DES   URSINS. 


THE  dynasty  of  the  Bourbons  in 
Spain,  which  has  just  ended  in  a 
woman,  was  founded  by  a  woman; 
for  it  was  the  Princesse  des  Ursins 
who  was  veritably  Queen  of  Spain 
for  the  first  fifteen  years  of  their 
domination  ;  and  without  the  aid 
o^'  her  protection,  courage,  and  in- 
domitable spirit,  the  descendants  of 
Philip  V.  would  never  have  occupied 
the  throne  of  Spain. 

This  extraordinary  person  has 
hitherto  obtained  too  little  consi- 
deration in  the  page  of  history. 
"Writers,  relying  almost  solely  on  the 
pages  of  St  Simon,  have  passed  her 
by  as  a  mere  intriguante  ;  but  there 
wis  infinitely  more  than  this  in 
the  Princesse  des  Ursins.  She  was 
the  incarnate  representative  of  the 
French  spirit  of  progress  in  Spain, 
a  female  politician  of  the  school  of 
Eichelieu  and  Colbert ;  she  thor- 
oughly understood  by  what  means 
a  stable  government  was  to  be  se- 
cured for  the  country  with  which 
the  peculiar  circumstances  of  her 
early  life  had  made  her  acquainted 
before  the  Bourbon  accession  ;  she 
hc'id  entirely  comprehended  by  what 
measures  bankrupt,  beggarly,  inca- 
pable Spain  could  be  raised  again 
in  the  scale  of  nations.  The  chief 
of  these  measures  were  the  repres- 
sion of  the  superb,  punctilious,  and 
factious  spirit  of  the  grandees,  the 
reform  in  taxation  and  administra- 
tion of  the  finances,  the  assimilation 
acd  centralisation  of  the  charter- 
system  of  provincial  rights,  pri- 
vileges, and  legislatures  (the  pro- 
vincial fueros)  which  embarrassed 
the  operations  of  government,  and 
the  suppression  of  ecclesiastic  im- 
munities in  a  country  which  was 
being  yearly  devoured  by  priests 


and  monks.  For  the  Spain  which 
Charles  II.  had  left  behind  him 
was  a  desert  land,  eaten  up  by 
grandees  and  churches  and  con- 
vents. After  fifteen  years  of  im- 
mense activity,  Madame  des  Ursins, 
without  a  moment's  warning,  was 
forcibly  seized  in  the  middle  of 
a  horribly  cold  December  night 
and  carried  out  of  Spain ;  but 
the  greater  part  of  the  reforms 
she  set  on  foot  ultimately  took 
root  ;  and  if  Spain  under  the 
Bourbons  rose  in  the  scale  of  na- 
tions, much  of  the  credit  is  due  to 
Madame  des  Ursins.  Although  her 
sudden  fall  was  owing  directly  to 
the  ordinary  ingratitude  of  absolute 
monarchs,  yet  the  inspiring  primal 
causes  were  the  machinations  of 
the  grandees  whose  authority  she 
had  curtailed,  joined  to  the  dark 
workings  of  the  Inquisition.  To  the 
honour  of  Madame  des  Ursins 
she  dared  to  proclaim  herself  the 
enemy  of  this  abominable  institu- 
tion ;  and  the  first,  a  small  but 
ultimately  deadly  wound,  which 
their  power  received,  came  from 
the  hand  of  a  woman,  and  that  of  a 
woman  of  nearly  eighty  years  of  age. 
For,  strange  to  say,  the  historic 
career,  the  public  life,  of  Madame 
des  Ursins  did  not  begin  till  she 
was  sixty -five  years  old.  Her 
long  life  may  be  divided  into  five 
portions — that  of  the  handsome, 
brilliant,  witty,  and  intelligent  Ma- 
demoiselle de  la  Tremoille  up  to 
the  age  of  twenty-two  ;  that  of  the 
loving  and  devoted  wife,  the  Prin- 
cesse de  Chalais,  up  to  the  death  of 
her  first  husband,  Adrien  Blaise  de 
Talleyrand,  Prince  de  Chalais,  in 
1670,  when  she  was  thirty-five  years 
of  age  ;  that  of  the  great  Duchesse 


;  La  Princesse  des  Ursins.  Essai  sur  sa  vie  et  son  caractere  politique  d'apres 
de  nombreux  documents  in  edits.'  Par  M.  Frangois  Combes.  Paris,  1858.  This 
volume,  two  volumes  of  Correspondence  of  the  Princess,  published  by  M. 
G(  ffroy,  and  the  Me  moires  of  the  time,  have  given  us  the  materials  out  of  which 
tho  present  article  is  constructed. 


416 


The  Princesse  des  Ursine. 


[April 


de  Bracciano,  when  she  was  the 
leader  of  fashion  and  of  elegant 
amusements  in  the  great  Orsini 
palace  in  the  Piazza  Navona,  at 
Rome,  after  her  second  marriage 
in  1675  ;  that  of  the  Princesse  des 
Ursins,  which  title  she  took  after 
the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Bracciano 
in  1698,  when  her  diplomatic  and 
political  career  first  commenced ; 
that  of  the  ex-regent  of  Spain,  dur- 
ing her  second  residence  at  Rome, 
from  1715  to  1722,  where  she  died 
at  the  age  of  eighty-seven. 

If  the  Princesse  de  Chalais  had 
been  a  mother,  we  might  never  have 
heard  of  the  Princesse  des  Ursins  ; 
but,  a  solitary  widow,  childless  and 
without  scope  for  her  great  intelli- 
gence and  her  deeply  affectionate 
nature,  she  seems  to  have  thrown 
herself  in  the  decline  of  life,  when 
the  brilliance  of  her  beauty  no  longer 
inspired  the  makers  of  sonnets  and 
madrigals,  upon  diplomacy  and  poli- 
tics, from  the  very  lack  of  womanly 
occupation. 

She  first  became  acquainted  with 
Spain  in  1663,  when  she  accom- 
panied her  first  husband,  the  Prince 
de  Chalais,  in  his  flight  from  France 
to  escape  the  sanguinary  edicts 
of  Richelieu  still  in  force  against 
duelling.  He  had  fought  in  one 
of  the  duelling  encounters  so  com- 
mon among  the  nobility  of  the 
Fronde,  a  duel  of  four  against  four, 
in  which  the  Due  de  Beauvilliers 
had  been  killed.  From  Spain  they 
passed  to  Italy,  where  the  Prince 
died  while  away  from  his  wife  at 
Venice.  The  Princess,  who  was  at 
that  time  at  Rome,  showed  exem- 
plary grief  as  a  widow,  and  gained 
the  sympathies  of  all  Roman  society. 
She  remained  for  some  time  seclud- 
ed in  a  convent,  and  only  five 
years  afterwards  accepted  the  hand 
of  the  Duke  of  Bracciano,  the  head 
of  the  Orsini  family.  This  marri- 
age, however,  was  not  a  happy  one : 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  had  different 
tastes  and  divergent  views  in  poli- 
tics. The  Orsini  Palace  was,  how- 
ever, the  centre  of  all  that  was  dis- 
tinguished in  Rome.  The  Duchess 


supported  the  honours  of  her  posi- 
tion with  consummate  grace,  but 
also  with  a  great  deal  of  extrava- 
gance— an  additional  item  in  the 
Duke's  list  of  complaints  against 
her,  for  from  the  age  of  forty  to  the 
commencement  of  her  diplomatic 
career,  she  seems  to  have  taken  part 
with  a  ready  spirit  in  all  the  joyous 
follies  of  Roman  life,  in  all  "the 
revel  and  the  masque  of  Italy,"  and 
to  have  wanted  no  taste  for  art  or 
for  the  growing  superiority  of  Ital- 
ian music.  She  was,  according  to 
St  Simon,  well  qualified  to  take 
the  lead  in  any  line  of  life.  She 
was  above  the  middle  height,  with 
blue  eyes  which  expressed  anything 
she  pleased ;  she  had  a  perfect 
figure  and  bust ;  a  face  without 
regular  beauty,  but  yet  charming  ; 
a  noble  air,  an  exquisite  and  natural 
grace.  St  Simon,  whose  experi- 
ence was  great,  said  he  never  saw 
anything  approaching  her  charm  of 
manner  ;  it  was  flattering,  caress- 
ing, animating,  yet  kept  always  in 
due  limits,  as  though  she  wished  to 
please  merely  for  the  sake  of  pleas- 
ing. It  was  impossible  to  resist 
her  when  she  had  set  her  heart  on 
captivating  and  seducing.  With  all 
this,  a  most  agreeable  voice  and  a 
faculty  in  conversation  delicious, 
inexhaustible,  and  highly  entertain- 
ing. Since  she  had  seen  many  coun- 
tries and  all  their  chief  people, 
she  was,  moreover,  a  great  judge 
of  character ;  she  attracted  to  her 
the  best  society,  and  kept  quite  a 
little  court  of  her  own  ;  and  from 
her  position  at  Rome,  and  intimacy 
with  the  Roman  cardinals,  she  be- 
came a  mistress  in  that  art  of  polish- 
ed and  subtle  intrigue  of  which 
the  Papal  Court  was  the  unrivalled 
school.  The  portrait  of  St  Simon, 
even  in  this  reduced  form,  will 
afford  some  explanation  of  the  ab- 
sorbing fascination  which  the  Prin- 
cesse des  Ursins  exercised  on  the 
young,  brillian  b,  devoted,  and  heroic- 
natured  Marie  Louise,  the  first  wife 
of  Philip  V.  "  Don't  let  her  speak 
to  you  for  two  hours/'  said  Philip 
Y.  to  his  second  wife,  as  she  was 


1370.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


417 


aoout  to  meet  the  Princesse  des 
Ursins  in  her  first  and  only  inter- 
view, "  or  she  will  enchain  you  for 
ever."  During  the  time  of  her 
second  marriage  she  made  sundry 
visits  to  France,  and  renewed  her 
acquaintance  with  Madame  deMain- 
tonon,  of  whom  she  had  been  a  rival 
in  the  salons  of  the  Hotel  d'Albret 
\vhen  the  latter  was  only  Madame 
Scarron  and  she  herself  was  but  a 
girl.  It  may  be  imagined  that  the 
unrivalled  position  and  influence  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon  may  have 
simulated  the  seeds  of  ambition 
hitherto  dormant  in  her  nature,  for 
slie  certainly  was  conscious  of  no 
ii  i  f eriority  to  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
Ifc  has  been  even  said  that  she  nour- 
ished secretly  the  design  of  dis- 
placing the  rigid  favourite  in  the 
good  graces  of  Louis  XIV.  Of 
this  there  is  no  proof,  but  at  any 
rate  she  was  sufficiently  conscious 
of  her  abilities  and  her  power  of 
command  to  look  out  for  a  theatre 
for  her  activity ;  and  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, as  well  perhaps  as  her 
own  calculations,  drew  her  to  Spain. 
During  the  time  of  her  visits  to 
France  and  to  Versailles  the  ques- 
tion of  the  Spanish  Succession  was 
agitating  all  Europe  ;  and,  as  is 
well  known,  it  was  the  opinion  of 
Innocent  XI.,  formally  expressed  in 
a  letter,  which  finally  determined 
the  moribund  Charles  II.  to  draw 
up  his  famous  testament  in  favour 
of  the  Duke  d'Anjou,  grandson 
cf  Louis  XIV.  The  Duchess  of 
Bracciano,  connected  by  alliance 
with  the  greatest  Pontifical  fami- 
lies, with  her  little  court  in  the 
Piazza  Navona,  attended  by  Roman 
cardinals,  seemed  a  person  deserv- 
ing of  the  attention  of  the  French 
(rovernment.  She  was  thoroughly 
tutored  in  the  matter  by  Torcy, 
the  French  minister,  and  it  was 
recommended  to  her  diplomatic 
advocacy  at  Rome.  She  had  the 
credit  of  having  exercised  a  real 
influence  upon  the  judgment  of 
Innocent  XI.  ;  but  she  achieved 
s  ^mething  more  effective  even  than 
this.  Portocarrero,  the  Archbishop 


of  Toledo,  the  greatest  ecclesiastic 
in  Spain,  the  confidential  adviser 
and  minister  of  Charles  II.,  came 
to  Rome  to  receive  the  pallium  and 
the  cardinal's  hat.  She  completely 
captivated  Portocarrero,  and  elicited 
from  him  a  promise  to  advocate 
the  French  claims  to  the  succession 
with  Charles  II.  When  Louis 
XIV.  knew  that  Portocarrero  was 
won  over,  he  considered  the  matter 
settled.  He  granted  a  pension  to 
the  Duchess  of  Bracciano,  and 
Torcy  wrote  that  he  had  now  only 
to  lower  his  flag  before  her  in  mat- 
ters of  diplomacy,  and  to  become 
her  pupil. 

But  neither  Louis  XIV.,  nor 
Torcy,  nor  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
had  any  notion  of  the  heights  to 
which  ambition  was  now  leading 
the  Duchess  of  Bracciano,  who,  on 
the  death  of  her  husband,  appeared 
before  the  world  as  the  Princesse 
des  Ursins,  Ursins  being  the  French 
for  Orsini,  her  late  husband's  family 
name.  The  Duke  had  become  re- 
conciled to  her  before  he  died,  and 
left  her  all  he  possessed ;  but  she 
disposed  of  the  duchy  and  title  of 
Bracciano  to  Don  Luigi  Odelscalchi, 
her  late  husband's  kinsman.  The 
young  Duke  of  Anjou  had  now  gone 
to  Spain,  and  taken  the  title  of 
Philip  V.,  and  was  about  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  princess  of  Savoy,  aged 
fourteen,  the  daughter  of  the  wily 
Victor  Amadeus,  and  the  sister  of 
the  Duchesse  de  Bourgogne.  Ac- 
cording to  the  usage  of  the  Spanish 
Court,  the  camerera  mayor,  the  head 
lady-in-waiting  of  the  Queen,  was  an 
indispensable  and  awful  function- 
ary, a  sort  of  female  grand  inqui- 
sitor of  etiquette,  to  whom  constant 
domesticity  with  the  royal  couple 
gave  terrible  power  and  autho- 
rity. If  such  was  the  case  ordi- 
narily, what  ascendancy  might  not 
a  camerera  mayor  such  as  the  Prin- 
cesse des  Ursins  attain  over  the 
minds  of  a  boy  king  and  a  girl 
queen  in  the  present  condition  of 
Spain  1 

Such  was  the  reasoning  of  Ma- 
dame des  Ursins  as  she  set  about 


418 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


diplomatising  for  the  post  of  came- 
rera  mayor;  and  she  diplomatised 
in  a  way  which  proved  her  admir- 
able sagacity  in  the  ways  of  courts, 
and  her  knowledge  of  the  natures 
of  kings  and  ministers.  She  was 
by  no  means  so  impolitic  as  to  ask 
at  once  for  the  post,  which  was  of 
course  virtually  in  the  gift  of  Louis 
XIV. :  such  a  proceeding,  she  knew, 
would  raise  the  suspicions  of  the 
politic  monarch  in  her  disfavour. 
She  asked  merely,  as  a  preliminary, 
for  the  honour  of  being  the  lady 
attendant  who,  as  custom  was,  ac- 
companied a  Spanish  royal  bride 
across  the  frontier.  But  she  had 
already  previously  carefully  pre- 
pared her  way  to  Madrid  by  gain- 
ing entirely  the  friendship  of  Por- 
tocarrero in  her  intercourse  with 
him  at  Rome,  and  by  acquiring  the 
favour  of  the  Duchesse  de  Bour- 
gogne,  and  of  the  Piedmontese 
Court,  through  her  activity  in  ob- 
taining the  goodwill  of  the  great 
Spanish  ecclesiastics  and  grandees 
for  the  Piedmontese  marriage  of 
Philip  V. 

Carefully  and  cautiously  did  she 
gradually  disclose  the  real  object 
of  her  diplomacy,  working  by  turns 
through  her  friend,  the  Marechal 
de  Noailles,  through  the  Marechale, 
the  friend  of  Madame  de  Mainten- 
on,  through  Madame  de  Maintenon 
herself,  through  Torcy  the  minister. 
The  Marechale  de  Noailles,  later 
called  by  the  wits  of  Versailles  the 
mother  of  the  ten  tribes  of  Israel 
(she  had  twenty-two  children),  was 
fully  equal  to  the  confidence  re- 
posed in  her  by  the  Princesse  des 
Ursins  and  to  the  occasion.  "I 
think,"  the  Princess  suggested  to 
Madame  de  Noailles,  "  that  if  I  was 
in  a  good  position  I  might  make 
rain  and  sunshine  in  the  Court  of 
Spain  ;  and  that  it  would  be  easy 
enough  for  me  to  establish  a  dozen 
of  mesdemoiselles  vos  filles  in  that 
country."  Moreover,  the  young 
Due  d'Ayen,  the  eldest  son  and 
heir  of  the  Noailles,  was  named 
for  a  mission  to  Spain  at  the  Court 
of  Philip  V.  The  Princesse  des 


Ursins  took  care  to  recommend 
him  carefully  to  Portocarrero  and 
her  friends  among  the  grandees ; 
and  when  the  Due  d'Ayen,  who 
had  himself  considerable  tact  and 
ability,  was  making  way  to  the 
favour  of  king  and  court,  she  be- 
gan to  make  use  of  his  influence 
in  the  most  delicate  way  possible 
— for  it  naturally  required  great 
nicety  of  management  for  an  elderly 
lady  of  the  great  position  of  the 
Princess  to  solicit  any  favour  of  so 
young  a  man  as  the  Due  d'Ayen 
at  the  very  outset  of  his  career. 
The  way  in  which  she  approach- 
ed the  young  Duke  was  a  model 
of  diplomatic  subtlety.  "What 
opinion  can  you  have  of  us  Roman 
ladies,"  she  wrote,  "  when  you  see 
me  making  advances  towards  you, 
and  giving  myself  the  honour  of 
writing  to  you,  before  you  have 
discovered  this  confidence  of  mine?" 
A  more  subtle  turn  of  expression 
for  saving  her  dignity  could  hardly 
be  invented.  The  Princess,  hav- 
ing thus  broken  the  ice,  continues 
her  letter  by  asking  the  Duke  to 
speak  of  her  to  Philip  V.  as  a  lady 
fitted  to  perform  the  merely  hon- 
orary charge  of  conducting  his 
young  bride  to  Madrid.  Next  she 
brought  into  play  her  old  intimacy 
with  Portocarrero ;  and  Portocarre- 
ro, in  pursuance  of  former  promises, 
and  at  the  Princess's  suggestion,  sent 
her  a  letter  representing  that,  in 
his  opinion  and  that  of  the  chief 
statesmen  of  Spain,  the  Princesse 
des  Ursins  was  admirably  qualified 
for  the  distinction  she  desired. 
This  letter  of  Portocarrero  was  duly 
forwarded  to  the  Marechale  de 
Noailles,  who  laid  it  before  the 
French  minister,  Torcy;  but  Torcy 
replied  that  the  selection  must 
depend  on  the  choice  of  Victor 
Amadeus,  Duke  of  Savoy,  the  fa- 
ther of  the  future  Spanish  bride. 
The  Princesse  des  Ursins,  how- 
ever, was  not  to  be  put  off  with 
such  a  reply.  She  knew  that  Torcy 
was  favourably  inclined  towards 
her,  and  she  now,  through  her 
friend  the  Marechale,  made  another 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


419 


fine  diplomatic  suggestion,  to  the 
effect  that  Torcy  should  pay  a  visit 
to  the  Piedmontese  ambassador  at 
Paris,  and  should,  just  in  the  way 
ol  casual  conversation,  carelessly 
inquire  whom  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
thought  of  naming  as  travelling 
cLaperone  to  the  Piedmontese  prin- 
cess, and  then  just  as  carelessly 
throw  out  a  hint  that  the  Princesse 
des  Ursins  would  perform  such  a 
service  admirably  well.  The  Prin- 
cess, knowing  the  ways  well  of 
kings  and  ambassadors,  was  sure 
the  ambassador  would  report  this 
conversation  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy. 
The  event  justified  her  previ- 
sion, for  on  writing  a  letter  with 
her  own  hand  to  the  Duke  of 
Savoy,  he  replied  that  he  himself 
was  not  opposed  to  her  request, 
only  he  referred  the  matter  to 
Louis  XIV.  This  was  precisely 
the  point  to  which  the  Princess 
desired  to  come — that  Louis  XIV. 
and  the  Court  of  Versailles  should 
have  the  absolute  decision  of  the 
aJFair.  All  her  diplomatic  strata- 
gems now,  therefore,  were  made  to 
converge  on  Madame  de  Maintenon 
and  Louis  XIV.  himself.  She  ap- 
proached Madame  de  Maintenon  in 
the  subtlest  and  most  refined  in- 
sinuations of  flattery;  and  as  for 
Louis  XIV.,  she,  with  a  con- 
summate air  of  much  self-denial 
and  modesty,  requested  that  it 
should  be  represented  to  him  that 
slie  would  only,  if  it  seemed 
best,  go  as  far  as  the  frontier 
in  an  official  position,  and 
arterwards  proceed  to  Madrid  to 
pay  her  court  to  the  young  King 
and  Queen  in  a  private  capacity ; 
and  indeed,  moreover,  she  really 
had  business  at  the  Spanish  capital. 
Were  the  meshes  of  diplomacy  ever 
spun  of  a  finer  and  subtler  texture 
than  these  1  Nevertheless,  Louis 
XIV.,  with  his  appreciation  of  cha- 
racter and  his  knowledge  of  the 
ways  of  ambition,  saw  perhaps  be- 
fore anybody  through  those  fine- 
drawn manoeuvres,  and  was  not 
d  ispleased  by  them .  He  saw  clearly 
tiiat  what  Madame  des  Ursins 


really  was  aiming  at  was  the  post 
of  camerera  mayor.  Nevertheless 
the  salutary  advice  he  had  given  to 
his  grandson  on  his  departure  for 
Spain  was  to  take  care  that  all  his 
chief  officers  were  Spaniards,  and 
not  to  favour  the  French  and  arouse 
feelings  of  national  jealousy ;  he 
consequently  had  his  doubts  about 
the  advisability  of  naming  a  French 
lady  for  so  thoroughly  Spanish  a 
dignity  as  that  of  the  camerera 
mayor.  But  he  also  had  advised 
Philip  V.  to  place  every  confidence 
in  Portocarrero,  and  Portocarrero 
was  not  only  wholly  gained  over  by 
the  Princesse  des  Ursins,  but  Porto- 
carrero produced  some  very  solid 
reasons  why,  in  the  present  in- 
stance, a  Spanish  lady  ought  not  to 
fill  the  post,  and  why  the  choice 
of  a  foreign  noblewoman,  who  had 
no  family  to  lead  into  honours, 
dignities,  and  pensions,  and  was 
thus  not  calculated  to  excite  the 
jealousy  and  animosity  of  families 
rivalling  with  her  own,  would  in 
every  respect  be  preferable. 

Madame  de  Maintenon's  media- 
tion was  the  last  and  great  trump- 
card  which  the  Princess  laid  down 
upon  the  hesitation  and  scruples  of 
Louis  XIV.  The  game  was  won, 
and  she  was  actually  named  cam- 
erera mayor  before  she  had  quitted 
Rome,  and  before  the  young  Pied- 
montese princess  had  left  Turin. 

The  Princesse  des  Ursins  began 
forthwith  to  organise  her  household 
so  that  she  might  enter  Spain  in 
due  state.  She  strained  all  her  re- 
sources to  make  a  fitting  display  in 
the  eyes  of  a  people  fond  of  pomp. 
"  I  have  usually  four  gentlemen  in 
waiting,"  she  wrote  to  the  Mare"chal 
de  Noailles  ;  "  now  I  take  another, 
a  Spaniard ;  and  when  at  Madrid  I 
shall  take  two  or  three  more,  who 
shall  be  well  acquainted  with  the 
Court  and  be  calculated  to  do  me 
credit.  Of  the  four  which  I  now 
entertain,  two  are  French  and  two 
are  Italian.  One  of  the  latter  is  of 
one  of  the  best  Sicilian  families, 
the  other  is  a  near  relative  of 
Prince  Vaini."  She  increased  her 


420 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


pages  to  the  number  of  six — "  tous 
gens  de  condition  et  capables  d'etre 
chevaliers  de  Malte."  She  had  her 
chaplain.  "  I  do  not  speak  of  my 
other  attendants ;  I  have  these  of 
every  kind.  I  have  twelve  lackeys 
— my  ordinary  supply.  When  ar- 
rived at  the  Court,  I  will  increase 
the  number  with  Spaniards."  She 
had  one  very  fine  carriage,  "sans 
or  ni  argent  neanmoins  ;"  but  she 
had  another,  a  gilded  state-carriage, 
lately  ordered  ;  this  was  to  go  with 
six  horses  when  she  drove  outside 
Madrid.  However,  she  assures 
her  correspondent,  the  mother  of 
twenty-two  children,  with  an  eye 
on  the  royal  coffer,  that  she  will 
not  have  recourse  to  the  treasury 
of  Louis  XIV.  "  Je  suis  gueuse,  il 
est  vrai ;  mais  je  suis  encore  plus 
fiere"  "On  this  occasion  I  will 
make  it  a  point  of  honour  not  to 
demand  anything.  Nevertheless 
my  expenses  shall  be  suited  to  the 
splendour  of  my  position,  and  shall 
make  the  Spaniards  admire  the 
greatness  of  the  King."  However, 
it  appears  that,  on  the  eve  of  em- 
barking on  her  great  enterprise, 
she  began  to  think  seriously  of  the 
difficulties  into  which  she  was 
about  to  plunge.  "  I  believe,"  she 
wrote  to  Torcy,  "  that  I  shall  meet 
with  as  many  adventures  as  Don 
Quixote  in  the  undertaking  you 
impose  upon  me." 

She  met  the  young  Princess 
Marie  Louise  de  Savoie  at  Villa- 
franca,  near  Nice,  to  which  place 
she  had  gone  by  sea.  She  was  de- 
lighted with  the  appearance  of  the 
young  queen,  and  wrote  to  Torcy, 
"qu'elle  saurait  faire  la  reine  a 
merveille;"  and,  indeed,  Marie 
Louise,  without  being  a  perfect 
beauty,  was  a  worthy  sister  of  the 
Duchess  de  Bourgogne,  the  darling 
of  Louis  XIV.  and  the  Court  of 
Versailles.  She  was  tall  and  well 
made,  with  a  brilliant  though  pale 
complexion,  with  a  loving  heart 
and  a  noble  nature,  thoroughly 
capable  of  appreciating  the  fine 
qualities  of  Madame  des  Ursins, 
to  whom  she  speedily  attached  her- 


self with  childish  affection.  From 
Villafranca  and  Nice  the  camerera 
mayor  travelled  through  the  south 
of  France,  side  by  side  with  her 
young  charge,  in  a  litter,  to  Figui- 
eres, on  the  Spanish  frontier.  Th  ere 
is  no  need  to  say  that  they  were 
received  with  royal  honours  and 
discharge  of  artillery  at  every  town 
on  their  route,  and  that,  according 
to  invariable  Spanish  custom  on 
arriving  at  the  frontier,  the  Pied- 
montese  attendants  were  dismissed, 
and  their  place  supplied  by  the  stiff 
and  formal  ladies  of  Spain. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place 
at  Figuieres,  and  Marie  Louise  was 
to  enter  Spain  as  queen  in  fact  and 
in  name.  The  young  couple — the 
King  of  eighteen  and  the  bride  of 
fourteen — were  duly  united  ;  but 
after  the  marriage  ceremony  some 
incidents  ensued  of  an  amusing 
character,  most  characteristic  of 
Spain,  and  of  the  usual  reception 
of  royal  Spanish  brides. 

The  supper  had  been  prepared 
half  of  French  and  half  of  Spanish 
fashion ;  the  dishes  half  of  one  kind 
and  half  of  the  other.  But  the 
Spanish  ladies — the  attendants  of 
their  newyoungQueen — had  visited 
the  supper-table  before  the  royal 
couple  sat  down,  and  saw  with  dis- 
gust this  array  of  heretical  French 
meats  on  the  table.  Ever  since 
the  beginning  of  time,  so  to  speak, 
the  Spaniards  had  insisted  that  the 
brides  of  their  sovereigns  should, 
immediately  on  entering  Spain,  be- 
come pure  Spanish  at  once,  conform 
to  the  severe  usages  of  Spanish 
etiquette,  and  take  to  the  Spartan 
diet,  the  national  pucliero,  and  the 
garlic  of  Spain.  The  Spanish  la- 
dies at  once  seized  these  abomin- 
able French  inventions,  and  threw 
them  into  corners  of  the  room 
and  out  of  windows  into  the  street. 
This  energetic  proceeding  naturally 
caused  immense  surprise  to  the  only 
three  foreign  persons  of  the  party 
at  Figuieres — to  the  young  King 
and  his  bride,  and  to  the  Princesse 
des  Ursins.  Nevertheless,  all  had 
sufficient  self  -  command  to  go 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


421 


through  the  supper  without  re- 
mark. However,  as  soon  as  the 
young  Queen  was  alone  with  her 
husband  and  the  Princesse  des 
Ursins,  her  indignation  broke  loose. 
She  sobbed,  she  wept,  and  she 
stormed.  She  complained  bitterly 
of  the  dismissal  of  her  Piedmontese 
attendants.  She  was  indignant  at 
the  coarseness  of  the  Spanish  ladies, 
and  declared  that  she  would  go  no 
farther,  but  return  to  Piedmont. 
It  was  impossible  to  appease  the 
wrath  of  the  young  bride.  Philip 
finally  left  the  room,  hoping  that, 
in  his  absence,  the  indignation  of 
the  Queen  would  subside;  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  this.  Marie  Louise 
passed  the  night  obstinately  alone, 
declaring,  in  spite  of  all  the  re- 
monstrances of  Madame  des  Ur- 
sins, that  she  would  return  instant- 
ly back  to  Turin.  Here  was  a 
scandalous  beginning  of  royal  wed- 
ded life  !  The  poor  child  did  not 
recover  even  on  the  following  day 
from  her  ill-humour  and  vexation ; 
so  on  the  following  night,  Philip 
himself,  acting  on  the  advice  of  his 
chief  gentleman-in-waiting,  assum- 
ed the  air  of  the  injured  party,  and 
sent  word  to  his  Queen  that  he 
would  retire  to  rest  alone.  This 
brought  Marie  Louise  to  reason. 
She  apologised  for  her  childish 
conduct,  promised  to  behave  in 
future  like  a  queen  and  a  woman ; 
and  on  the  third  morning  after  the 
marriage  the  young  couple  left  Fi- 
.^uieres  completely  reconciled. 

Madame  des  Ursins,  in  the  com- 
mencement, wisely  confined  her 
cares  to  the  duties  of  her  office, 
which  were  for  the  most  part  of  a 
singularly  domestic  character  for  a 
descendant  of  the  great  family  of 
the  Tremouilles.  She  writes  to  the 
Marechal  de  Nbailles,  "  Dans  quel 
emploi,  bon  Dieu  !  m'avez  vous 
mise  I  Je  n'ai  pas  le  moindre 
repos." 

In  fact,  the  Princess  writes  she 
could  neither  take  her  ease  after 
dinner,  nor  eat  when  she  was  hun- 
gry. She  was  only  too  happy  to 
snatch  a  bad  meal  as  she  ran  on 


her  duties.  It  was,  she  said,  very 
rare  for  her  not  to  be  called  the 
moment  she  sat  down  to  table. 
"  In  truth,  Madame  de  Maintenon 
would  laugh  if  she  knew  the  details 
of  my  charge.  Tell  her,  I  beg,  that 
it  is  I  who  have  the  honour  of  tak- 
ing the  King  of  Spain's  dressing- 
gown  when  he  goes  to  bed,  and  of 
giving  him  that  and  his  slippers 
when  he  rises.  That,  however,  I 
could  make  light  of  ;  but  really  it 
seems  too  absurd  that  every  even- 
ing, when  the  King  comes  to  the 
Queen's  bedchamber,  the  Conde 
de  Benavente  should  hand  me  the 
King's  sword,  and  a  bottle  and  a 
lamp,  which  I  ordinarily  upset  on 
my  dress/'  Indeed,  among  the 
other  strange  fashions  of  royal  eti- 
quette in  Spain,  there  was  one 
which  provided  that  the  King, 
when  he  went  to  visit  the  Queen 
at  night,  could  go  in  a  cloak 
armed  with  sword  and  buckler, 
and  carrying  a  bottle.  The"  came- 
rera  mayor  had,  moreover,  to  wake 
the  King  in  the  morning,  and  some- 
times "  he  is  so  kind,'5  wrote  the 
Princess,  "  that  he  often  sends  for 
me  two  hours  at  least  before  I  want 
to  rise."  All  know  of  the  rigours 
of  old  palace  Spanish  etiquette, 
which  allowed  kings  to  be  roasted 
if  the  proper  officer  was  not  at 
hand  to  remove  the  brazier,  and 
queens  to  be  dragged  by  the  stirrup 
to  death  by  rearing  horses,  rather 
than  permit  them  to  be  touched 
by  a  profane  hand.  Some  of  the 
incidents  given  by  the  Princess  of 
the  jealousy  and  rivalry  of  the 
great  grandees  on  matters  of  eti- 
quette are  truly  comic.  Thus  we 
have  the  venerable  Patriarch  of  the 
Indies,  who,  however,  the  Prin- 
cess says,  looked  liked  an  ape, 
taking  a  napkin  surreptitiously 
into  church  with  him,  and  rushing 
at  the  most  solemn  moment  of  the 
sacrament  before  the  King  and 
Queen,  and  producing  his  cloth 
from  his  pocket  for  their  use,  be- 
cause he  found  that  it  had  been 
arranged  that  the  earner  era  mayor 
should  take  his  place  at  the  cere- 


422 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


mony.  Another  scene  described  in 
her  letter  is,  if  possible,  still  more 
amusing :  thus  we  have  the  Conde 
de  Priego  and  the  Duque  de  Osuna 
fighting  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  for 
the  honour  of  moving  his  majesty's 
chair  up  to  his  prie-dieu.  Both 
noblemen  were  very  small,  but  the 
Duque  de  Osuna  carried  the  day; 
and  yet  there  was  a  moment, 
writes  the  Princess,  when  she 
thought  the  Duke,  who  was  no 
bigger  than  a  rat,  would  tumble 
beneath  the  chair,  and  fall  upon 
the  King  at  his  prie-dieu,  who 
would  infallibly,  if  he  had  been 
knocked  over,  have  fallen  upon  the 
Queen. 

The  influence  of  the  strong  mind 
of  the  Princesse  des  Ursins  upon 
the  youthful  King  and  Queen  of 
Spain  became  soon  to  be  felt  even 
in  matters  of  government. 

The  state  of  ruin,  hunger,  and 
desolation  of  Spain  at  the  time  of 
the  accession  of  the  first  Bourbon 
prince  was  something  appalling. 
There  are  no  records  in  history 
which  present  such  a  picture  of 
beggared  pride  and  misery  and  de- 
cay. The  giant  form  which  had 
once  overawed  the  world  had  be- 
come a  ragged  scarecrow — an  object 
of  mockery  and  scorn.  Charles  II., 
the  last  king  of  the  house  of  Aus- 
tria, was  a  beggar  and  a  pauper 
among  monarchs.  He  was  unable 
at  times  to  find  food  for  the  table 
of  the  gentlemen  of  his  bedcham- 
ber, and  even  oats  and  straw  for 
his  horses.  He  went  on  begging 
expeditions  from  town  to  town  to 
ask  for  money,  and  generally  in 
vain.  The  once  -  dreaded  legions 
of  Spain  were  reduced  down  to 
a  miserable,  starved,  ragged  rem- 
nant of  unpaid  boys  arid  old  men, 
numbering  about  fifteen  thousand, 
officered  by  hidalgos,  who  begged 
in  the  streets  of  Flanders  and  in 
the  ports  of  Spain.  The  dockyards 
which  sent  forth  the  invincible 
Armada  had  not  a  ship  on  the 
stocks.  The  art  of  shipbuilding  was 
forgotten,  and  a  few  wretched  men- 
of-war  lay  rotting  in  the  harbours. 


Whole  provinces  had  become  de- 
nuded of  towns  and  villages  ;  the 
most  fertile  districts  of  Spain  had 
become  a  desert ;  commerce  and 
industry  and  agriculture  were  de- 
spised alike  by  all  classes,  and  were 
in  fact  non-existent. 

Nearly  all  the  needs  of  Spain — 
its  clothes  and  its  very  bread — were 
produced  by  foreign  workmen. 
Each  Spaniard  desired,  without  in- 
come, to  live  like  a  nobleman.  The 
population  decreased  yearly.  Peo- 
ple ceased  to  marry,  or  entered 
into  monasteries  and  convents ; 
and  priests  and  monks  owned,  it 
was  supposed,  about  a  third  part 
of  the  soil  of  Spain. 

It  was  not  then  a  misfortune  for 
Spain  to  exchange  the  effete  Aus- 
trian dynasty  for  the  race  of  the 
Bourbons,  under  whose  rule  France 
had  risen  almost  in  the  same  pro- 
portion as  Spain  had  fallen,  which 
had  adopted  more  humane  princi- 

Sles  of  toleration  and  more  en- 
ghtened  ideas  of  political  econo- 
my. Yet  the  difficulty  of  recon- 
ciling the  Spaniards  to  any  reforms 
or  system  of  government  imported 
from  the  institutions  of  their  an- 
cient enemies,  to  be  carried  out  by 
the  French  counsellors  of  Philip 
V.,  was  necessarily  very  great. 
The  hatred  of  the  gavachos,  as  the 
French  have  been  called  in  Spain 
from  time  immemorial,  was  in- 
tense. 

Hence  it  was  that  the  influence 
of  the  Princesse  des  Ursins  was  so 
salutary.  She  was  only  ostensibly  oc- 
cupying the  post  of  camerera  mayor 
without  any  acknowledged  mission 
from  the  Court  of  Versailles,  and 
yet  she  was  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  its  policy  and  in  constant  cor- 
respondence with  Torcy,  the  French 
Minister,  and  with  Madame  de 
Maintenon  and  the  Mare*chal  de 
Noailles.  On  excellent  terms  at  first 
with  Portocarrero,  who  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  reign  of  Philip  V. 
was  all-powerful,  she  had  by  far 
better  opportunities  of  bringing 
about  harmonious  relations  between 
the  governments  of  France  and 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


423 


ft  pain  than  the  French  ambassador 
hdmself,  while  her  previous  resid- 
ence in  Spain  had  made  her  well 
acquainted  with  the  usages  and  ne- 
cessities of  the  country. 

The  task,  however,  was  no  easy 
one  of  getting  the  Spaniards,  on 
the  one  side,  to  accept  the  govern- 
ment of  a  French  King,  assisted  by 
French  ministers,  and  of  co- operat- 
ing with  the  policy  of  Versailles  on 
the  other,  so  as  to  satisfy  the  exact- 
ing supervision  which  Louis  XIV. 
and  his  ministers  exercised  over 
Spanish  affairs ;  for  although  Louis 
XIV.  had  given  his  grandson  the 
advice  not  to  surround  himself  with 
French  ministers,  and  to  respect 
all  Spanish  national  feeling,  yet  this 
vras  but  with  the  view  of  ren- 
dering the  Spaniard  more  easily 
manageable  for  the  purposes  of  his 
own  ambition,  and  the  maintenance 
of  complete  harmony  between  the 
two  governments  was  indispens- 
able in  the  war  of  the  Spanish  Suc- 
cession. 

It  was  no  wonder,  moreover,  that 
a  Queen  of  Spain  should  give  her- 
self wholly  up  to  an  adviser  and  com- 
panion like  the  Princesse  des  Ursins, 
for  the  monotony  and  isolation  of 
palace  life,  guarded  about  by  the  in- 
violable prescriptions  of  Spanish  eti- 
quette, was  something  frightful.  Ac- 
cording to  Spanish  notions,  the  life 
of  a  Spanish  queen  should  partake  of 
the  seclusion  of  the  harem  and  the 
convent.  She  saw  no  society  but 
those  of  her  regular  attendants. 
A  tyrannical  earner  era  mayor  might, 
if  she  chose,  be  intolerable.  She 
might,  as  did  the  camerera  mayor 
of  the  first  queen  of  Charles  II., 
prevent  her  from  looking  out  of 
window.  The  stern  gloom  and 
rigidity  with  which  camereras 
may  ores  had  exercised  their  au- 
thority were  habitual,  and  some 
of  the  former  French  queens  of 
Spain  had  died  of  the  terrible 
monotony  of  their  prison  life.  It 
was,  then,  a  great  boon  for  the  wife 
of  Philip  V.  to  be  allowed  the  un- 
precedented luxury  of  a  French- 
woman for  a  camerera  mayor ,  whose 


liveliness  of  nature,  whose  intel- 
lectual qualities,  whose  education, 
whose  liberality  in  the  matter  of 
etiquette,  and  whose  bright  and  good 
looks  even  at  sixty-six  made  her  an 
entertaining  companion  as  well  as 
a  good  adviser.  The  former  Span- 
ish queens  had  been  condemned  for 
amusement  to  insupportably  child- 
ish games,  something  like  spills, 
with  their  husbands,  and  to  badly- 
acted  Spanish  plays.  The  Princesse 
des  Ursins  endeavoured  to  lighten 
the  heavy  atmosphere  of  the  Span- 
ish Court  by  getting  up  theatrical 
amusements,  in  which  Corneille 
and  Moliere  replaced  Calderon  and 
Lopez  de  la  Vega  ;  and  by  con- 
certs in  which  the  music  of  the 
Italian  masters,  just  then  begin- 
ning to  become  fashionable  in  Eu- 
rope, was  first  heard  in  the  capital 
of  Spain,  in  the  palace  of  Buen 
lie-tiro.  The  young  King  and  Queen 
were  grateful  for  the  vivacity  and 
variety  which  she  thus  ingeniously 
and  incessantly  introduced  into  a 
life  which  both  regarded  as  a  kind  of 
exile  ;  and,  moreover,  the  very  do- 
mestic nature  of  her  charge  gave 
her  an  opportunity  of  tutoring  the 
young  Queen  in  such  fashion  that 
Philip  V.,  who  was  perhaps  the 
most  uxorious  monarch  who  ever 
reigned,  was  completely  at  the  dis- 
posal of  his  wife. 

The  duties  of  her  position  natur- 
ally gave  the  Princess  a  right  of  ad- 
vising on  the  manners,  dress,  and 
habits  of  the  King  and  Queen  ;  she 
extended  this  to  matters  of  high 
policy,  and  invariably  gave  advice 
calculated  to  conciliate  the  Spanish 
nation  towards  the  new  dynasty. 
She  advised  the  use  of  the  Spanish 
language  exclusively  at  Court,  the 
performance  by  the  Queen  of  the 
customary  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine 
of  our  Lady  of  Atocha,  and  other 
sacred  places;  the  adoption  by  Philip 
V.  of  the  Spanish  costume,  and 
especially  of  the  stiff  unsightly  gol- 
illa,  or  Spanish  ruff,  to  which  the 
nobility  were  especially  attached  ; 
the  royal  attendance  at  bull-fights, 
and  the  practice  of  the  national 


424 


The  Princesse  des  TJrsins. 


[April 


juego  de  canas ;  at  tlie  same  time 
she  strongly  dissuaded  the  monarch 
from  attending  at  those  human  sac- 
rifices, the  autos  dafe,  one  of  which 
was  always  prepared  in  honour  of 
every  new  accession  and  every  royal 
marriage.  And  the  young  Bourbon 
King  was  the  first  monarch  who  ven- 
tured thus  to  discountenance  the 
practice  of  those  rites  of  Moloch. 

Madame  des  Ursins,  indeed,  did 
not  hesitate  to  grapple  at  once  with 
the  Inquisition  immediately  on  her 
arrival  in  Spain,  and  her  success  in 
delivering  Aguilar  Diaz,  the  confes- 
sor of  the  late  King,  from  its  dun- 
geons, after  a  struggle  of  four  years, 
created  a  new  power  in  the  country. 
Her  influence  became  so  manifest 
at  last,  that  the  French  ministers 
and  Court  attendants,  including  the 
Jesuit  confessor  who  accompanied 
Philip  V.  to  Madrid,  all  grew  jeal- 
ous of  the  great  influence  of  the 
camerera  mayor  over  the  royal 
councils.  The  French  ambassador 
in  1703,  the  Cardinal  d'Estrees,  es- 
pecially had  made  himself  remark- 
able by  his  hostility  to  Madame  des 
Ursins,  and  a  struggle  for  dominion 
took  place  between  them.  Louis 
XIV.,  who  was  the  arbiter  of  their 
differences  in  the  close  watch  which 
he  kept  upon  the  affairs  of  Spain, 
decided  at  first  in  favour  of  his 
ambassador,  and  determined  on 
recalling  the  camerera  mayor.  He 
changed  his  determination  on  ac- 
count of  the  urgent  entreaties  of  the 
Queen,  who  supplicated,  that  if  Ma- 
dame des  Ursins  was  recalled,  the 
Cardinal  and  his  nephew,  the  Abbe 
d'Estrees,  who  served  him  as  secre- 
tary, should  be  recalled  also.  Other 
representations  in  favour  of  the 
Princess,  which  portrayed  all 
Spain  as  ardently  desiring  the  con- 
tinuance of  her  stay  in  Spain,  were 
made.  A  temporary  reconciliation 
between  the  Cardinal  and  the  Prin- 
cess followed,  as  the  price  of  the 
withdrawal  of  the  recall  of  Madame 
des  Ursins.  However,  at  the  last 
the  Cardinal  was  removed,  and  the 
Abb6  d'Estre"es,  who  had  deserted 
his  uncle  when  he  saw  that  he  was 


likely  to  be  worsted  in  the  conflict, 
remained  as  ambassador;  and  the 
triumph  of  Madame  des  Ursins 
was  completed  by  the  recall  of 
the  Jesuit  confessor,  and  nearly 
every  French  minister  or  attend- 
ant possessed  of  any  authority  in 
Spain.  However,  the  Abbe  d'Es- 
trees,  as  ambassador,  was  unable 
to  reconcile  himself  to  the  part 
he  had  undertaken,  and  while  pro- 
fessing outwardly  complete  sub- 
mission to  the  superiority  of  the 
camerera  mayor,  treacherously  wrote 
a  despatch  to  the  French  minister, 
full  of  bitterness  and  insinuation 
against  his  rival.  He  had  offered 
himself  to  submit  every  despatch  to 
the  perusal  of  Madame  des  Ursins 
before  sending  it  away,  but  this 
one  despatch  he  endeavoured  to 
send  surreptitiously  by  the  ordinary 
courier,  who  not  seeing  upon  it  the 
accustomed  mark  of  the  Princess 
des  Ursins,  as  a  sign  of  her  ac- 
quaintance with  the  contents,  car- 
ried the  despatch  to  the  camerera 
mayor.  With  her  usual  audacity 
Madame  des  Ursins  wrote  indig- 
nant marginal  notes,  and  one  of 
them  of  a  most  singular  character. 

She  had  an  equerry,  named 
d' Aubigny,  called  un  tout  petit  sire 
by  St  Simon,  who  played  a  sort 
of  nondescript  role  among  her  at- 
tendants. He  had  immense  share 
in  her  confidence,  and  it  was  com- 
plained that  he  was  the  only  man 
who  slept  in  the  palace.  Indeed, 
his  apartment  formed  part  of  the 
suite  of  the  Princess's  own.  In  the 
despatch  of  the  Abbe  d'Estrees, 
mention  was  made  of  d'Aubigny, 
and  it  was  stated  that  people  had  no 
doubt  that  he  was  married  to  her. 
" Oh,  pour  mariee,non!"  wrote  the 
Princess  in  all  the  indignation  of  a 
grande  dame,  as  a  marginal  note. 

The  opening  of  this  despatch 
and  the  marginal  note  came  to  the 
knowledge  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  his 
anger  was  great.  However,  by 
the  aid  of  her  friends  at  Versailles, 
the  Camerera  got  over  this  diffi- 
culty, and  the  Abbe"  d'Estrees  in  dis- 
gust followed  his  uncle,  and  gave  up 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


425 


his  post.  But,  nevertheless,  shortly 
afterwards  another  subject  of  dis- 
agreement came  between  the  Court 
of  Versailles  and  that  of  Madrid, 
on  the  subject  of  the  command  of 
the  war  in  Spain.  The  King  insist- 
ed that  Philip  V.  should  shake  off 
what  he  styled  the  shameful  sloth 
of  the  palace,  and  put  himself  at 
the  head  of  his  armies.  Madame 
des  Ursins  and  the  Queen  both,  how- 
ever, set  themselves  against  this 
advice  of  Louis  XIV.  The  opposi- 
tion of  Madame  des  Ursins  was  not 
unknown  at  the  Court  of  Versailles. 
The  Cardinal  d'Estrees,  eager  for 
revenge,  beset  all  her  friends  with 
his  representations,  till,  one  by  one, 
Torcy,  Madame  de  Noailles  (whose 
•son-in-law,  the  Due  de  Grammont, 
arrived  at  the  Embassy  of  Madrid), 
and  even  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
ceased  to  defend  her,  and  she  was 
recalled. 

She  was  recalled,  however,  only 
to  be  sent  back  again  with  greater 
authority  than  before.  Her  dis- 
grace was  the  way  to  her  triumph. 
In  fact,  the  affairs  of  Spain  during 
her  absence  went  from  bad  to  worse. 
The  King,  after  a  brief  effort  at  in- 
dependence, had  made  his  incapa- 
city more  apparent.  Montellano, 
with  the  grandees  in  the  Despacho, 
attempted  to  absorb  the  whole  sover- 
eign power,  to  oppose  every  French 
project,  to  prevent  the  formation  of 
an  army,  and  to  prevent  the  King 
from  being  master  of  it.  The  great 
defeat  of  Blenheim  came  to  throw 
into  still  greater  disfavour  the 
]'"rench  alliance  in  Spain ;  and,  to 
add  to  the  difficulties  of  Louis 
XIV.,  the  chief  grandees  began  to 
be  of  opinion  that  the  only  hope 
of  saving  the  integrity  of  the  Span- 
ish monarchy  was  to  range  Spain 
on  the  side  of  the  allies,  and  against 
the  monarch  of  France.  The  Queen 
of  Spain,  aware  of  the  danger  of 
their  position,  wrote  day  by  day 
the  most  urgent  letters  of  appeal 
to  Madame  de  Maintenon  for  the 
return  of  her  camerera  mayor. 

Louis  XIV.  consented  at  last  to 
send  back  the  indispensable  came- 


rera mayor,  but  he  did  so  -with 
great  repugnance.  He  who  in  early 
life  had  engaged  with  Colbert  to 
deliver  himself  of  any  woman  in 
twenty-four  hours,  as  soon  as  he 
should  be  told  that  she  influenced 
his  politics,  felt  contempt  and  pity 
for  his  weak-minded  grandson,  who 
was  incapable  of  the  slightest  ini- 
tiative, and  was  a  mere  cypher 
without  his  wife,  who  herself  was 
nothing  without  her  lady  of  the 
palace.  Of  his  intense  desire  to 
get  rid  of  Madame  des  Ursins  alto- 
gether, and  to  efface  the  traces  of 
her  influence  in  Spain,  evidence  is 
extant,  in  the  pseudonymous  cor- 
respondence which  he  carried  on 
with  his  ambassador,  the  Duke  of 
Grammont ;  yet  he  became  con- 
vinced at  last  that  Madame  des 
Ursins  was  the  only  person  capable 
of  reconciling  the  discordant  ele- 
ments of  which  the  Council  of  Ma- 
drid was  composed. 

Having  resolved,  therefore,  that 
she  should  return  to  Spain,  his 
policy  naturally  was  that  she  should 
return  with  all  the  consideration  and 
prestige  which  royal  favour  could 
bestow  upon  her;  and  Louis  XIV. 
accordingly  went  through  his  part 
with  a  grand  resignation  which  con- 
cealed all  the  sadness  which  must 
have  been  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

A  courier  was  accordingly  des- 
patched to  Toulouse,  where  Ma- 
dame des  Ursins  was  residing,  with 
permission  for  her  to  appear  at 
Versailles. 

"Nothing,"  says  St  Simon,  "could 
equal  the  air  of  triumph  which  Madame 
des  Ursins  assumed  at  Marly  {at  a  ball), 
or  the  attention  of  the  King  to  distin- 
guish her  and  do  her  honour  and  every- 
thing ;  it  was  as  if  she  were  a  small 
Queen  of  England  in  the  very  freshness 
of  arrival.  Nothing  could  equal  the 
majestic  fashion  with  which  everything 
was  received  by  the  Princess.  She  bore 
herself  with  a  mixture  of  grace  and 
politeness  long  since  effaced,  and  which 
recalled  the  memory  of  the  oldest  times 
of  the  queen-mother. 

"  The  King  was  admirable  in  giving  a 
value  to  everything,  and  in  making 
valuable  what  in  itself  had  no  value  at 
all.  Madame  de  Maintenon  and  Madame 


426 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


la  Duchesse  de  Bourgogne  were  only 
occupied  with  Madame  des  Ursins,  who 
made  more  remarkable  the  prodigious 
flight  she  had  taken  by  a  little  dog 
which  she  carried  under  her  arm  than 
by  any  political  distinction.  No  one 
could  recover  from  the  surprise  at  such 
a  familiarity  which  Madame  la  Duchesse 
de  Bourgogne  herself  would  not  have  per- 
mitted herself — trifles  have  such  import- 
ance when  they  are  beyond  example. 
The  King  at  the  end  of  one  of  these 
balls  caressed  the  little  spaniel !!!  which 
was  another  subject  of  surprise  for  the 
spectators.  Since  that  time  Madame 
des  Ursins  was  never  to  be  seen  at  the 
Chateau  of  Marly  without  this  little 
spaniel  under  the  arm,  which  became 
for  her  the  last  mark  of  favour  and  dis- 
tinction." 

Madame  des  Ursins  not  only 
went  back  to  Spain,  but  she  went 
back  with  conditions  drawn  up  by 
her  in  the  form  of  a  regular  treaty, 
and  accepted  by  the  King ;  and  she, 
moreover,  named  herself  a  new 
French  ambassador,  Amelot,  in  the 
place  of  the  Due  deGrammont,  and 
Orry,  whose  talents  as  an  admin- 
istrator and  financier  of  the  school 
of  Colbert  had  obtained  for  him  a 
previous  mission  to  Spain,  was  also 
said  to  give  her  assistance. 

The  nine  years,  from  1705  to 
17 14,  which  followed,  were  the  most 
important  of  Madame  des  Ursins's 
existence.  Had  it  not  been  for  this 
French camerera  mayor,  Louis  XI V. 
would  have  abandoned  his  grand- 
son to  the  mercy  of  the  Allies.  Spain , 
under  the  direction  of  Madame  des 
Ursins,  rose  from  the  lowest  state 
of  prostration  and  abasement.  The 
country  which  formed  one  of  the 
main  causes  of  the  ruin  of  Napoleon, 
became,  and  through  her  alone  for  a 
time,  the  single  theatre  where  the 
glory  of  Louis  XIV.  was  not  over- 
whelmed with  disaster.  Almanza 
and  Villaviciosa  came  in  to  balance 
the  evil  fortune  of  Ramilies,  Oude- 
narde,  and  Malplaquet.  The  vic- 
tory of  Almanza  in  1707,  which  con- 
secrated by  a  brilliant  victory  the 
regal  power  of  Philip  V.  in  Spain, 
had  been  in  great  part  prepared  by 
the  careful  administration  and  great 
reforms  of  the  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


Four  years  before  Almanza,  Amelot 
wrote  in  one  of  his  despatches,  that 
Philip  V.  had  neither  troops,  nor 
arms,  nor  artillery ;  his  domestics 
were  not  paid,  and  his  body-guard, 
dying  of  hunger,  went  to  eat  the 
scraps  which  were  distributed  at  the 
gates  of  the  convents.  Even  the  pre- 
vious year,  the  failure  of  the  siege  of 
Barcelona,  then  in  the  hands  of  the 
Allies,  Philip  V.,  with  his  Queen  at 
Burgos,  and  Madrid  occupied  by 
his  rival,  was  as  little  the  King  of 
Spain  as  was  Charles  VII.  of  France 
at  Bourges.  Berwick  had  declared 
that  all  was  lost  in  Estremadura 
and  Castille,  and  that  nothing  re- 
mained for  the  King  but  to  fly  to 
the  mountains  of  the  north  of  Spain, 
to  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the 
frontier  of  France.  Three  parts 
of  Spain  were  in  possession  of  the 
Austrian  prince  who  claimed  the 
succession  of  Charles  II.  The  great 
mass  of  the  grandees  deserted  to  the 
side  of  the  Archduke,  who  was  pro- 
claimed in  Madrid  under  the  title 
of  Charles  III.  Even  the  Cardinal 
Portocarrero,  the  founder  of  the 
Bourbon  dynasty  in  Spain,  obeyed 
the  dictates  of  resentment  at  the  dis- 
grace into  which  he  had  fallen,  em- 
braced openly  the  cause  of  the  rival 
of  Philip  V.,  and  opened  the  gates  of 
Toledo  to  his  enemies.  He  illumin- 
ated his  palace,  had  the  Te  Deum 
sung  in  the  cathedral,  gave  a  splendid 
banquet  to  the  officers  of  the  army 
of  the  Allies,  at  which  they  drank 
to  the  health  of  Charles  III.,  King 
of  Spain,  and  gave  a  public  benedic- 
tion to  the  standards  of  the  Austrian 
pretender.  But  the  cause  of  Philip 
V.  had  been  embraced  by  the  peo- 
ple in  the  capital.  The  populace 
made  use  of  every  hostile  device, 
some  of  them  of  unparalleled 
strangeness,  for  the  destruction  and 
discomfort  of  his  enemies,  and 
peasants  in  the  country  came  in 
bodies  to  the  King  supplicating 
delivery  from  the  yoke  of  the  gran- 
dees who  overrode  them  with  exac- 
tions. The  great  mass  of  the  people 
of  Spain  remained  faithful  to  the 
adopted  heir  of  their  last  sovereign. 


1870.] 


Tlie  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


427 


Madame  des  Ursins  took  admirable 
advantage  of  this  popular  enthusi- 
asm. By  her  addresses,  by  her  letters, 
and  by  the  applications  she  directed, 
she  obtained  voluntary  gifts  for  the 
support  of  the  army  of  the  King  ; 
8000  pistoles  from  the  province  of 
Burgos,  from  another  province 
15,000,  and  much  greater  contribu- 
tions from  the  richest  cities  of  Anda- 
lusia. Money  and  bread  and  clothes 
arrived  in  abundance  at  the  camp 
of  Berwick,  and  the  King  of  Spain 
had  a  satisfaction  long  unknown  to 
iny  monarch  in  the  country,  that  of 
having  his  troops  well  paid  and 
'ed.  He  was  transported  with  this 
wonderful  good  fortune,  and  im- 
mediately wrote  a  letter  of  the 
warmest  thanks  and  acknowledg- 
ments for  the  devotion  of  the  lady 
who  had  procured  such  an  unex- 
pected result  in  the  darkest  hour  of 
his  peril.  One  of  her  letters  from 
Burgos  to  Madame  de  Maintenon 
at  this  time  gave  a  lively  idea  of 
the  straits  to  which  the  royal 
family  was  driven,  and  of  the  life 
of  Madame  des  Ursins. 

"  I  will  give  you  the  description  of 
my  apartment  to  amuse  you.  It  con- 
sists of  a  single  piece,  which  is  not  more 
ihan  twelve  feet  wide  in  any  direc- 
tion. A  large  window,  which  does  Dot 
shut,  exposed  to  the  south,  occupies  all 
one  side.  A  door,  very  low,  serves  me 
for  a  passage  into  the  chamber  of  the 
( )ueen,  and  the  door  leads  to  a  windy 
passage  where  I  do  not  venture  to  go, 
although  two  or  three  lamps  are  always 
1  Burning  there,  for  it  is  so  badly  paved 
that  I  might  break  my  neck.  I  cannot 
say  the  walls  are  white,  for  they  are 
very  dirty.  My  travelling-bed,  with  a 
(amp-stool  and  a  deal  table,  is  the  only 
furniture  I  have,  which  last  serves  me 
j.s  a  writing-table  and  for  eating  the  re- 
mains of  the  Queen's  dinner — for  I  have 
neither  kitchen  nor  money  to  provide 
iae.  I  laugh  at  all  that." 

Nevertheless,  after  the  battle  of 
Almanza,  the  fortunes  of  Philip  V., 
temporarily  upraised  by  a  brilliant 
victory,  seemed  to  have  fallen  lower 
than  before,  and  the  energy  of  Ma- 
dame des  Ursins  alone  saved  the 
Spanish  monarchy  from  dismem- 


berment, and  Philip  from  being  a 
realmless  monarch. 

In  1709,  Louis  XIV.  was  so  hard 
pressed  by  the  Allies,  and  France 
so  exhausted,  that  the  Court  of  Ver- 
sailles seriously  contemplated  the 
abandonment  of  his  grandson.  Phi- 
lip V.  himself  prepared  to  resign 
himself  to  his  fate.  It  was  then 
that  all  the  spirit  of  this  extraor- 
dinary and  intelligent  woman,  now 
seventy  -  four  years  of  age,  was 
aroused.  "  What,  sire ! "  said  she  to 
Philip  V.,  "are  you  a  prince1?  are 
you  a  man — you  who  treat  your 
royal  title  so  lightly  and  have  feel- 
ings weaker  than  a  woman  ? "  Not 
only  did  she  renew  again  all  her 
efforts  for  the  recruiting,  discipline, 
and  support  of  the  Spanish  army, 
but  she  threw  herself  thoroughly 
into  the  state  of  French  affairs, — 
wrote  eloquent  and  indignant  let- 
ters to  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and 
propounded  a  scheme  for  utilising 
anew  the  resources  of  France  and 
filling  afresh  the  exhausted  trea- 
sury for  the  purposes  of  the  war  ; 
and  when  we  add  to  all  the  poli- 
tical difficulties  with  which  she  was 
daily  struggling,  the  illness  of  the 
Queen  after  confinement  of  a  second 
son,  and  upon  whom,  as  camerera 
mayor,  she  was  obliged  to  be  in 
constant  attendance,  it  must  be 
imagined  that  more  anxieties  and 
cares  never  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  sep- 
tuagenarian lady. 

This  stroke  of  policy  of  hers  at 
this  period  was  of  surprising  auda- 
city, and  worthy  of  the  spirit  which 
dictated  the  letters  characterised  by 
Madame  de  Maintenon  as  "  lettres 
a  feu  et  a  sang."  The  Spanish  peo- 
ple were  so  indignant  at  what  they 
considered  the  treachery  of  the 
French  King  in  contemplating  the 
abandonment  of  his  grandson,  that 
the  old  international  hatred  be- 
tween the  two  nations  was  awaken- 
ed. The  French  residents  in  Mad- 
rid were  in  danger  of  their  lives. 
In  this  state  of  things,  Madame  des 
Ursins  ventured  on  the  most  daring 
act  of  her  life.  She  extracted  from 
the  King  a  decree  which  banished 


428 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


all  the  French  from  Spain,  and  thus 
threw  the  new  monarchy  on  the 
undivided  sympathies  of  the  Span- 
ish people.  This  stroke  of  policy 
of  Madame  des  Ursins  had  the  hap- 
piest effect  in  reconciling  the  gran- 
dees of  Spain  to  the  Bourbon  dy- 
nasty. The  Princess  was  carrying 
on  two  great  struggles  at  the  same 
time — one  against  the  supporters  of 
the  Archduke,  and  the  other  against 
the  grandees,  who,  like  all  aristo- 
cracies, seized  the  opportunity, when 
the  monarchy  was  in  this  struggling 
condition,  to  aggrandise  their  privi- 
leges and  pretensions.  The  Span- 
ish nobility  were  now  ambitious  of 
recovering  some  of  their  feudal 
privileges,  which  they  had  lost  un- 
der Charles  V.  and  Philip  II.  From 
the  beginning  of  her  administration 
she  had  opposed  resolutely  the  pre- 
tensions and  unveiled  the  intrigues 
of  some  and  punished  the  treachery 
of  others  of  the  grandees.  Having 
discovered  the  high  treason  of  the 
amirante  of  Castille,  she  had  him 
prosecuted  and  condemned  to  death, 
which  caused  the  Duke  of  Medina 
Celi  to  exclaim,  "  People  like  our- 
selves ought  not  to  be  treated 
thus  !"  But  the  Duke  of  Medina 
Celi  himself,  having  conspired  with 
the  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  having 
as  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  be- 
trayed a  trust  reposed  in  him,  was 
also  arrested,  and  died  in  a  state 
prison ;  and  the  Marquis  de  Lega- 
nez,  another  great  noble,  was  also 
sent  into  captivity  to  France. 

In  fact,  in  almost  every  matter 
of  internal  policy  Madame  des 
Ursins  followed  the  example  of 
statesmanship  in  France,  where  not 
only  the  repression  of  oligarchi- 
cal power,  but  the  centralisation 
and  amplification  of  the  adminis- 
tration, had  been  the  aim  of  every 
French  Government  from  Philip 
Augustus  to  Richelieu  and  Louis 
XIV.  Thus  after  Almanza  she 
ventured  resolutely  on  a  coup  d'etat, 
which  put  an  end  to  the  adminis- 
trative and  legislative  chaos  of  .Spain, 
where,  up  to  that  time,  every  pro- 
vince had  its  ownfueros  and  cortes, 


and  Catalans  and  Arragonese  had 
been  as  jealous  of  Castilians  as 
though  they  had  been  of  different 
nations.  But  this  daring  lady  was 
not  content  with  having  to  grapple 
with  the  Archduke  and  his  allies, 
with  the  great  mass  of  the  grandees, 
and  with  the  thousandfold  abuses 
of  Spanish  administration  and  jus- 
tice ;  stie  dared  to  make  assault 
even  on  the  Inquisition,  and  to 
establish  in  Spain  for  the  Spanish 
Church  that  independence  which 
the  Gallican  Church  had  acquired 
in  France  ;  —  a  proceeding,  how- 
ever, which  was  discouraged  by 
Louis  XIV.,  who  wrote  to  his 
grandson,  "Croyez-moi,  vous  n'etes 
pas  assez  fort  pour  avoir  encore  vos 
libertes  gallicanes." 

The  greatest  proof  of  the  excel- 
lence of  the  administration  of  Ma- 
dame des  Ursins  was  the  devotion 
which  the  people  of  Spain  showed 
towards  the  cause  of  Philip  V., 
and  the  final  reconcilement  of 
the  grandees  to  his  government. 
When  the  Archduke,  after  his 
victory  at  Saragossa,  had  opened 
again  the  way  to  Madrid,  and 
Philip  V.  had  again  taken  his 
Court  to  the  north  to  Valladolid, 
although  the  fugitive  King  had 
given  permission  to  all  the  inhabit- 
ants to  remain  in  the  capital,  yet 
all  citizens  who  were  able  deserted 
the  city  for  Valladolid.  Even  shop- 
keepers and  artizans  followed  the 
general  example ;  and  some  poor, 
and  some  even  infirm,  officers  of 
justice  made  the  journey  to  Vallad- 
olid on  foot.  All  houses  and  shops 
and  workshops  were  shut  up.  The 
capital  seemed  a  desert ;  and  when 
the  allied  troops  entered  the  city, 
and  the  Archduke  Charles  went, 
at  the  head  of  two  thousand  horse- 
men, to  return  thanks  to  Nuestra- 
SeTiora  de  A  tocha,  only  some  ragged 
boys,  in  the  hopes  of  getting  a  few 
maravedis,  cried  Viva  el  Rey  Carlos  ! 

The  grandees  themselves,  in  their 
stately  pride,  were  touched  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  people,  and  came 
over  in  a  body  to  the  King;  a 
change  of  feeling,  manifested  by  a 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


429 


letter  to  Louis  XIV.,  signed  by  all 
the  leading  nobles,  declaring  their 
fidelity  to  his  grandson,  describing 
the  pressing  need  of  his  cause  for 
fresh  assistance,  and  asking  for 
French  co-operation. 

This  application  was  the  propo- 
sition of  the  Duke  of  Medina  Si- 
donia,and  was  signed  by  the  Dukes 
derinfantado,Popoli,d'Arcos,d'Ab- 
rantes,  de  Bagneo,  de  Veraguas,  de 
Montellano  de  Bejar,  the  Condes- 
table  of  Castille,  the  Marquises  de 
Ahnonacid  and  del  Carpio,  the 
Condes  de  Lernos  and  Penaranda, 
and  a  crowd  of  others  of  the  greatest 
names  of  Spain ;  only  the  great 
Duke  d'Osuna,  he  who  was  "no 
bigger  than  a  rat,"  always  faithful 
to  Philip  V.,  refused  to  sign,  from 
true  motives  of  Castilian  pride :  he 
was  haughtily  discontented  with 
Louis  XIV.,  that  lie  should  have 
thought  of  abandoning  his  grandson 
and  Spain,  and  said  Spain  would 
suffice  for  the  work  herself. 

The  joy  of  Louis  XIV.  at  this 
letter  was  immense.  He  read  it 
several  times,  and  agreed  to  send 
to  the  assistance  of  his  grandson 
14,000  men.  The  great  Vendome, 
the  grandson  of  Henri  IV.  and 
Gabrielle  d'Estrees,  was  sent  as 
general ;  and,  on  the  10th  of  De- 
cember 1710,  the  united  Spanish 
and  French  army,  with  Vendome 
as  general  -  in  -  chief,  gained  the 
great  victory  of  Villaviciosa,  which 
established  the  Bourbon  dynasty 
securely.  The  nobles  of  Spain, 
fired  with  their  new  fidelity,  and 
jedous  of  distinction  under  the 
eyes  of  the  famous  French  gene- 
ral, fought  with  brilliant  valour, 
and  thousands  of  standards  were 
taken,  of  which  the  French  mar- 
shal made  a  couch  for  the  first 
Bourbon  king  of  Spain  on  the  night 
of  the  victory.  After  ten  years  of 
struggle  and  persecution,  the  stan- 
dard of  the  fleur-de-lis  was  firmly 
planted  in  Spain. 

Madame  des  Ursins,  to  whom 
so  large  a  portion  of  that  success 
must  be  attributed,  was  herself 
already  a  grandee  of  Spain.  She 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIV. 


now  received,  in  company  with  the 
Duke  de  Vendome,  the  title  of  Her 
Highness,  and  the  order  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  with  a  promise  of  a 
sovereign  principality  in  the  Low 
Countries. 

In  the  year  1711  everything 
turned  to  the  advantage  of  Philip 
V. :  the  Archduke,  his  rival,  was 
elected  Emperor.  His  allies  were 
not  inclined  to  confer  upon  Austria 
that  aggrandisement  which  they 
had  refused  to  France,  and  to  create 
another  empire  like  that  of  Charles 
V. ;  they  consequently  refused  to 
make  further  efforts  in  his  behalf. 
Marlborough,  whose  scientific  blows 
had  nearly  laid  helpless  the  French 
monarchy,  fell  into  disgrace,  and 
was  recalled  ;  and  in  1712,  the 
French,  under  Villars,  were  en- 
abled to  win  the  battle  of  Denain, 
and  to  lay  down  the  basis  of  the 
Peace  of  Utrecht. 

Madame  des  Ursins,  however, 
though  her  great  work  was  achiev- 
ed still  remained  in  Spain,  direct- 
ing reforms,  administrative  and 
financial,  of  the  Colbert  character, 
with  the  aid  of  the  industrious  Orry, 
and  fighting  with  the  Inquisition. 
Nevertheless  the  Inquisition  was 
still  too  strong  for  her;  for,  says 
Llorente,  1574  persons  were  burnt 
in  the  reign  of  Philip  V.,  and 
11,750  subjected  to  penitential 
punishment.  But  the  power  of 
the  Church  in  Spain  was  enormous. 
.  "  The  abuses  of  the  clergy,"  wrote 
1  Macau az,  a  jurist  employed  by 
Madame  des  Ursins  to  fight  her 
battles,  and  made  by  her  a  member 
of  the  Despacho, "  have  weakened  the 
royal  power.  The  ecclesiastic  immu- 
nities only  serve  to  favour  usurpa- 
tion and  disorder.  The  churches 
are  become  the  refuges  of  criminals, 
and  the  right  of  asylum  has  been 
extended  from  these  sacred  edifices 
to  adjoining  houses,  to  shops,  and 
whole  neighbouring  quarters.  The 
ecclesiastics,  the  monks  and  the 
nuns,  encroach  yearly  on  the  rights 
of  the  King  by  continual  acquisition 
of  secular  property,  which  forth- 
with becomes  exempt  from  taxa- 
2G 


430 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


tion.  The  clergy  have  in  the  State 
more  subjects  than  the  King.  The 
ambition  of  some  ministers  has 
tolerated  these  abuses  to  give  them 
the  opportunity  of  enriching  their 
families  with  the  goods  of  the 
Church."  Dangerous  words  these 
in  the  days  of  the  Inquisition,  when 
its  name  made  men's  blood  still 
run  cold  with  terror,  and  its  power 
was  sufficient  to  lodge  the  greatest 
grandee  in  its  dungeons.  The 
documents  in  which  it  was  spoken 
of  were  consequently  kept  pro- 
foundly secret  ;  and  the  very 
Council  of  Castille  first  resolved  to 
adopt  the  precaution,  in  their  pro- 
ceedings against  the  Inquisition,  of 
voting  by  ballot.  The  Inquisitors, 
it  was  argued,  could  not  seize  on 
the  whole  Council  at  once ;  yet  even 
then  the  Council  was  afraid.  The 
Inquisitors,  working  on  the  relig- 
ious prejudices  of  the  people,  got 
up  a  popular  commotion  at  Madrid; 
and  Philip  V.  himself,  and  all  his 
Council,  were  too  terrified  at  the 
awful  power  they  were  confronting 
to  follow  the  energetic  advice  of 
Madame  des  Ursins  and  Orry,  and 
abolish  it.  So  the  Inquisition  still 
remained  unshorn  of  much  of  its 
terrible  power  ;  yet  the  struggle  of 
Madame  des  Ursins  with  it  was  not 
wholly  fruitless.  She  had  found 
a  vigorous  and  firm  ally  in  Eng- 
land, who,  since  the  Peace  of 
Utrecht,  had  maintained  an  am- 
bassador in  Madrid ;  and  it  was 
decreed  that  the  palace  of  the 
English  ambassador,  and  every  En- 
glish ship  in  a  Spanish  harbour, 
should  be  exempt  from  the  power 
of  the  Inquisition.  The  British 
flag  and  the  British  nationality, 
owing  to  Madame  des  Ursins, 
alone  braved  the  Inquisition  in  the 
soil  of  Spain,  and  offered  protec- 
tion to  every  victim. 

But  the  reign,  as  it  may  be  called, 
of  the  Princess  was  drawing  to  an 
end.  Her  young  protectress  and 
friend,  the  Queen  of  Spain,  who 
joined  to  the  affection  of  a  daughter 
the  deepest  respect  for  her  great 
intelligence,  died  at  the  age  of 


twenty-five  in  1714.  The  heroic 
Marie  Louise,  who  had  given  a  soul 
to  her  weak-minded  husband — who 
had  been  a  wanderer  with  him  in 
his  rapid  and  forced  flight  amidst 
the  rugged  mountains  of  the  Astu- 
rias,  where  she  had  often  to  be  con- 
tent with  the  bed  and  fare  of  a 
peasant  and  a  mountaineer,  worn 
out  with  ten  years  of  difficulty, 
and  sometimes  of  privation,  during 
which  she  was  subject  to  the  moral 
distress  of  seeing  her  own  father, 
the  faithless  Duke  of  Savoy,  ranged 
among  her  enemies — was  no  more, 
and  Madame  des  Ursins  was  left 
alone  with  Philip  V. 

The  position  of  Madame  des  Ur- 
sins was  now  necessarily  extremely 
delicate ;  and  in  the  ten  months 
which  intervened  between  the  death 
of  Marie  Louise  and  the  second  final 
disgrace  of  the  Princess,  her  conduct 
was  not  of  a  nature  to  disarm  jeal- 
ousy and  to  avert  the  venomous  force 
of  scandal.  She  should  have  exer- 
cised greater  precaution,  since  she 
well  knew  that  she  was  detested 
by  the  priests,  and  that  the  gran- 
dees and  ministers  of  the  Spanish 
Court  were  not  attached  to  her,  but 
only  tolerated  the  ascendancy  of 
this  audacious  French  old  lady,  who 
was  satisfied  with  nothing  in  Spain, 
who  carried  her  reforming  mania 
into  everything,  and  had  even  vio- 
lated the  most  inviolable  rules  of 
Court  etiquette.  Louis  XIV.,  who 
detested  all  meddling  of  women  in 
politics,  moreover,  had  also  only 
tolerated  her  as  being  for  a  time  in- 
dispensable, and  had  been  highly 
indignant  that  Philip  V.,  out  of 
gratitude  to  the  Princess,  had  sup- 
ported, with  the  allies,  her  claims 
to  a  sovereign  principality  in  Fland- 
ers, in  return  for  her  services,  with 
such  pertinacity,  that  he  delayed 
the  signing  of  the  Peace  of  Utrecht. 
Madame  des  Ursins,  however,  in 
all  the  pride  of  her  conscious  supe- 
riority, continued  governing  Spain 
with  a  high  hand.  She  exiled  one 
of  her  chief  ministers  from  motives 
of  personal  discontent — she  impris- 
oned two  of  the  greatest  grandees — 


1870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


431 


broke  with  all  whom  she  considered 
1  er  enemies,  or  even  lukewarm 
friends— set  the  Duke  of  Berwick, 
who  was  sent  to  a  military  com- 
mand in  Spain,  at  defiance — and 
treated  even  Madame  de  Maintenon 
with  haughtiness. 

Being  now  close  upon  eighty, 
and  Philip  V.  only  thirty-two,  she 
may  have  imagined  scandal  could 
make  nothing  of  their  relations, 
and  she  kept  the  King  in  leading- 
strings,  and  hardly  let  him  out  of 
Ler  sight.  At  the  palace  of  the 
Duke  of  Medina  Celi,  to  which  she 
transferred  the  King  from  the 
I'.uen  Retiro  after  the  death  of  his 
queen,  she  had  a  corridor  made 
between  the  monarch's  apartments 
a  ad  her  own.  This  corridor  gave 
rise  to  immense  scandal  in  Madrid. 
Yet  Madame  des  Ursins,  it  must 
be  remembered,  was  not  only  chief 
political  adviser  of  the  King,  but 
the  governess  of  his  children,  who 
lived  in  her  apartments ;  and  the 
constant  society  of  the  young 
princes  was  the  chief  consolation 
of  Philip  V.  for  the  loss  of  Marie 
Louise. 

Nevertheless  the  evil  tongues  of 
Madrid  made  much  of  the  corridor. 
The  Jesuit  confessor  of  Philip  one 
day  during  an  interview  confided 
to  him  that,  both  in  France  and 
Spain,  people  thought  he  meant  to 
marry  her.  "  Moi  Vepouser!"  re- 
plied the  King ;  "  oh  !  pour  cela, 
n<m  /"  Fatigued  at  last,  however, 
ho  said  to  Madame  des  Ursins, 
"  Cherchez-moi  unefemme;  nos  tetes- 
a-tetes  scandalisent  lepeuple." 

There  was  at  this  time  at  Madrid, 
in  the  service  of  the  legation  of  the 
Duke  of  Parma,  an  intriguing, 
restless,  ambitious  Italian  priest, 
Alberoni  by  name,  who  had  been 
brought  originally  to  Spain  by  the 
Duke  of  Vendome.  He  was  him- 
self a  Parmesan  by  birth,  and 
tlie  son  of  a  gardener.  The  great 
role  which  Madame  des  Ursins 
played  in  Spanish  affairs  stimulated 
his  ambition,  and  he  was  destined 
to  outdo  her  and  to  take  her  place. 
He  saw  the  part  which  a  foreigner 


might  play  in  Spanish  politics.  He 
allied  himself  at  first  with  the 
Grand  Inquisitor,  the  Cardinal  del 
Guidice,  and  offered  his  services 
secretly  to  defend  the  Inquisition 
against  the  assaults  of  the  camerera 
mayor.  Then  the  wily  Italian 
broke  apparently  with  Del  Guidice, 
and  paid  his  court  to  Madame  des 
Ursins. 

The  Princess  of  Parma  happened 
to  be  among  the  number  of  prin- 
cesses who  were  considered  as  eli- 
gible for  marriage  with  the  Spanish 
king.  She  was,  as  her  subsequent 
history  proved,  one  of  the  most 
intractable,  imperious,  and  domi- 
neering of  ladies — a  royal  virago. 
Madame  des  Ursins  was  naturally 
anxious  that  the  new  queen  should 
be  of  a  precisely  opposite  character. 
Alberoni,  from  being  at  the  Court 
of  Parma,  was  acquainted  with 
the  character  of  the  princess,  and 
on  being  personally  consulted  by 
Madame  des  Ursins  as  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  Princess  of  Parma, 
assured  her  that  the  princess  was 
one  of  the  most  docile  of  creatures, 
and  that  she  would  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  establishing  an  empire 
as  complete  over  her  as  she  had 
held  over  the  late  Queen  of  Spain. 

Madame  des  Ursins  was  ravished 
at  this  false  account  of  the  Princess 
of  Parma,  and  despatched  Alberoni 
forthwith  to  negotiate  the  mar- 
riage. Some  expressions,  however, 
of  the  satisfaction  of  her  enemies 
at  the  step  she  had  taken  reached 
her.  After  further  inquiry  she  be- 
came aware  that  Alberoni  had  de- 
ceived her,  and  she  endeavoured  to 
stop  the  marriage  by  sending  a 
courier.  The  courier  arrived  at 
Parma  a  day  or  two  before  the  mar- 
riage. The  Court  of  Parma  got  wind 
of  his  errand,  and  had  him  seized 
and  threatened  with  death  if  he 
divulged  a  word  of  his  mission. 
Madame  des  Ursins  set  forth  from 
Madrid  to  meet  the  new  queen  as 
camerera  mayor.  One  of  the  last 
acts  of  this  remarkable  woman  be- 
fore she  went  to  encounter  the 
fiery  young  princess  who  was 


432 


Tlie  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


[April 


to  annihilate  her  political  exist- 
ence, was  the  establishment  of 
an  academy  at  Madrid,  framed 
after  the  model  of  the  Academic 
Franqaise.  She  had  some  warn- 
ings of  the  fate  which  awaited 
her ;  but  she  despised  all.  Every- 
thing, however,  had  been  arranged 
for  her  overthrow.  The  King 
himself  had,  with  consummate 
cowardice  and  treachery,  and  with 
palpitating  uxoriousness,  sent  his 
wife  full  powers.  Everything  had 
been  arranged  by  a  conspiracy  of 
the  King  and  his  bride,  and  the 
Inquisition,  and  the  old  aristocracy 
of  Spain,  for  dismissing  into  in- 
stantaneous exile  an  aged  lady  who 
had  laboured  unceasingly  for  fifteen 
years  in  the  desperate  cause  of  the 
Spanish  monarchy.  The  Queen- 
Dowager,  the  widow  of  Charles 
II.,  an  aunt  of  Elizabeth  Farnese, 
had  an  interview  with  the  new 
queen  at  Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, 
as  she  approached  Spain.  The 
Queen-Do  wager  was  not  only  a  per- 
sonal enemy  of  Madame  des  Ursins, 
but  she  had  been  thoroughly 
tutored  by  the  Grand  Inquisitor, 
Del  Guidice,  who  was  residing  like 
herself  at  Bayonne,  as  to  the  advice 
she  should  tender  to  the  Queen. 
Alberoni  saw  the  latter  alone  at 
Pampeluna,  and  with  consummate 
art  roused  the  fury  of  the  young 
virago  to  an  unnecessary  pitch  of 
exasperation. 

Madame  des  Ursins,  as  camerera 
mayor,  had  organised  the  Queen's 
household.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
royal  marriage  should  take  place  at 
Guadalaxara.  She  had  a  last  inter- 
view alone  with  the  King  at  that 
place,  on  the  22d  of  December,  and 
advanced  to  meet  the  bride  at 
Quadraque,  a  small  village  seven 
leagues  further  on.  The  Princesse 
des  Ursins  had  not  the  slightest 
notion  of  what  was  awaiting  her 
— even  the  cruel  brow  and  scorn 
of  the  vixenish  young  Eliza- 
beth Earnese  as  she  received  her 
obeisance  were  insufficient  to  pre- 
pare her  for  what  was  to  come. 
There  are  various  accounts  of  what 


took  place;  but  the  most  trust- 
worthy report  relates  that  when 
left  alone  with  Elizabeth  Farnese, 
the  latter  burst  forth  in  a  torrent 
of  reproach  on  the  whole  of  her  ad- 
ministration, accused  her  of  the 
death  or  exile  of  all  the  great 
grandees  who  had  been  her  ene- 
mies, and  finally,  lashing  herself 
into  fury,  screamed  for  Don  Antonio 
Amazaga,  the  officer  of  the  body- 
guard, and  told  him  "  to  put  that 
mad  woman  out  of  her  room" — to 
arrest  her,  and  not  to  leave  her  till 
he  had  put  her  into  a  carriage. 
She  then  called  for  the  groom  of 
the  royal  equipages,,  and  ordered 
him  to  get  ready  a  carriage  and  to 
take  the  Princesse  des  Ursins  off 
at  once  to  Bayonne  by  Burgos. 
Amazaga  represented  that  the  King 
of  Spain  alone  had  the  power  to 
give  such  orders.  She  demanded 
with  haughtiness  if  he  had  not 
orders  from  the  King  to  obey  her 
in  everything ;  and  Philip  had  in- 
deed had  the  ingratitude  and  cowar- 
dice to  give  such  orders,  knowing 
full  well  what  was  intended. 

A  strange  but  a  veritable  object 
for  commiseration  was  now  the  Prin- 
cesse des  Ursins.  It  was  night,  the 
eve  but  one  before  Christmas,  and 
bitterly  cold  as  it  is  only  cold  in  cen- 
tral Spain  and  Siberia  when  the  earth 
is  covered  with  ice  arid  snow.  The 
driver  of  the  Princess  lost  a  hand 
with  frost-bite  before  morning. 
Nevertheless  Madame  des  Ursins, 
in  her  eightieth  year,  with  her  grey 
liairs,  in  her  grand  Court  dress,  was 
bundled  into  a  carriage  and  started 
without  a  change  of  raiment,  with- 
out being  allowed  to  alter  her  cum- 
bersome head-dress,  without  money, 
and  without  a  single  means  of  pro- 
tection against  the  cold.  Never 
was  disgrace  in  the  world  more 
unforeseen,  and  hardly  ever  more 
undeserved.  What  must  not  the 
towering  pride  of  the  high-born 
lady,  with  her  quick  and  vast  in- 
telligence, have  suffered  in  that 
long  and  terrible  Siberian  ride,  de- 
prived as  she  was  of  every  neces- 
sary !  This  was  the  end  of  the 


J  870.] 


The  Princesse  des  Ursins. 


433 


service  of  kings, — to  be  rolled  off  at 
a  minute's  notice  through  a  night  of 
arctic  severity,  seated  between  two 
body-guards,  without  a  mantle  to 
wrap  round  her,  and  without  a  ves- 
tige of  food  or  a  single  restorative. 
"What  emotions  must  have  passed 
through  the  brain  of  this  extraor- 
dinary woman  during  that  bitter 
night !  We  may  imagine,  but  can- 
not know;  for  she  never  spoke  a 
word  to  either  of  her  guards  till  the 
morning,  when  they  stopped  to  re- 
fresh the  horses.  And  so  across 
Spain  —  across  desert,  hotelless 
Spain,  where  at  that  time  neither  bed 
nor  food  was  to  be  had  beyond  such 
as  were  fit  for  muleteers — travelled 
the  Princess.  Her  resignation  was 
astonishing :  her  guards  remember- 
ed it  with  admiration  to  their  dying 
clays.  This  dreadful  journey  lasted 
three  weeks — three  weeks  of  every 
kind  of  privation — till  she  reached 
Saint- Jean-de-Luz,  on  the  14th  of 
January ;  and  yet  not  a  tear,  not  a 
single  regret,  not  a  single  complaint 
at  all  the  hardships  and  suffering 
she  underwent,  or  at  the  ingrati- 
tude and  rigour  of  the  King  or  his 
new  Queen,  escaped  her. 

Such  was  her  exit  from  Spain, 
which  she  had  entered  ten  years 
before  in  triumph  and  in  the  full 
blaze  of  summer,  when  every  town 
on  the  road  from  Madrid  to  Burgos 
was  full  of  spectators  assembled 
from  the  capital,  and  indeed  from 
all  parts  of  the  country,  to  clap 
their  hands,  to  wave  sombreros,  and 
to  shout  her  a  welcome  back  to 
Spain, — when  the  King  and  Queen 
themselves  advanced  two  leagues 
from  the  capital  to  meet  her  and 
embrace  her  with  affection. 


What  need  to  relate  the  subse- 
quent neglect  she  met  with  from 
the  moribund  Louis  XIV.  and  Ma- 
dame de  Maintenon  on  her  arrival  in 
France  1  She  who  had  lived  in  royal 
state  in  Madrid,  with  guards  in  her 
antechamber  and  about  her  car- 
riage, was  reduced  at  Versailles, 
whither  she  went  to  have  a  solitary 
audience  with  the  King,  to  lodge 
with  the  wife  of  a  clerk  of  the  office 
of  foreign  affairs. 

She  finally  retired  to  Eome,  the 
congenial  retreat  of  fallen  greatness, 
where  she  received  immense  respect 
from  the  Pope  and  cardinals;  where, 
too,  she  received  some  tokens  of 
consideration  from  Philip  V.  as 
atonement  for  the  past.  There  she 
lived  in  intimacy  with  the  exiled 
and  discrowned  race  of  Stuart ;  and 
there  ultimately  she  came  face  to 
face  with  both  Del  Guidice  and 
Alberoni,  the  authors  of  her  dis- 
grace, both  vagrant  and  in  exile ; 
and  there  she  died,  with  her  lucid 
intelligence  vigorous  and  active,  in 
1722,  in  her  eighty-seventh  year. 

The  pages  of  St  Simon,  where 
he  describes  his  interviews  with 
Madame  des  Ursins,  are  among  the 
most  curious  of  his  Memoirs ;  and 
although  not  personally  inclined 
towards  her,  on  account  of  his  rela- 
tions with  her  enemy  the  Regent, 
who  had  been  guilty  of  treason- 
able plots  against  the  throne  of 
Philip  V.,  yet  he  does  full  justice 
to  her  courage,  her  powers  of  appli- 
cation, and  her  wonderful  intelli- 
gence ;  and  declared  that  "  her  life 
deserved  to  be  written,  since  it 
would  hold  a  place  among  the  most 
curious  portions  of  history  of  the 
time  in  which  she  lived." 


434 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


JOHN. — PART    VI. 


CHAPTEK  XVII. 


FOE  some  days  after  the  fire,  John 
continued  in  a  sadly  uncomfortable 
state  both  of  body  and  mind.  The 
two,  indeed,  were  not  dissimilar. 
He  was  much  burnt,  though  super- 
ficially, and  suffered  double  pangs 
from  the  stinging,  gnawing,  unre- 
laxing  pain.  His  spirit  was  burnt 
too — scorched  by  sudden  flames  ; 
stiff  and  sore  all  over,  like  his 
limbs,  with  points  of  exaggerated 
suffering  here  and  there, — a  thing 
he  could  not  take  his  thoughts  from, 
nor  try  to  forget.  He  was  very 
unmanageable  by  his  attendants, 
was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to 
obey  the  doctor's  prescriptions,  and 
absolutely  refused  to  lay  himself 
up.  "  The  end'll  be  as  you'll  kill 
yourself,  sir,  and  that  you'll  see," 
said  his  landlady.  "Not  much 
matter  either,"  John  murmured 
between  his  teeth.  He  was  smart- 
ing all  over,  as  the  poor  moth  is 
which  flies  into  the  candle.  It 
does  the  same  thing  over  again  next 
minute,  no  doubt ;  and  so,  prob- 
ably, would  he  :  but  in  the  mean 
time  he  suffered  much  both  in 
body  and  mind.  He  would  not 
keep  in  bed,  or  even  in-doors, 
notwithstanding  the  doctor's  or- 
ders; and  it  was  only  downright 
incapacity  that  kept  him  from  ap- 
pearing in  the  temporary  offices 
which  had  been  arranged  for  the 
business  of  the  bank.  Mr  Crediton 
had  come  in  from  Fernwood  at 
once  to  look  after  matters ;  but  on 
that  day  John  was  really  ill,  and 
so  had  escaped  the  visit  which 
otherwise  would  have  been  inevit- 
able. Mr  Whichelp  came  that 
evening  to  bring  his  principal's 
regrets.  "He  was  very  much  cut 
up  about  not  seeing  you,"  said  the 
head-clerk.  "  You  know  your  own 
affairs  best,  and  I  don't  wish  to  be 
intrusive ;  but  I  think  you  would 


find  it  work  better  not  to  keep  him 
at  such  a  distance." 

"I  keep  Mr  Crediton  at  a  dis- 
tance ! "  said  John,  with  a  grimace 
of  pain. 

"You  do,  Mr  Mitford.  I  don't 
say  that  he  is  always  what  he  might 
be  expected  to  be ;  but,  anyhow, 
no  advances  come  from  your  side." 

"  It  is  not  from  my  side  advances 
should  come,"  John  said,  turning 
his  face  to  the  wall  with  an  obstin- 
acy which  was  almost  sullen ;  while 
at  the  same  time  he  said  to  himself 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  What 
does  it  matter  1  These  were  but 
the  merest  outward  details.  The 
real  question  was  very  different. 
Did  a  woman  know  what  love 
meant? — was  it  anything  but  a 
diversion  to  her — an  amusement  1 
was  what  he  was  asking  himself; 
while  a  man,  on  the  other  hand, 
might  give  up  his  life  for  it,  and 
annul  himself,  all  for  a  passing  smile 
— a  smile  that  was  quite  as  bright 
to  the  next  comer.  Such  thoughts 
were  thorns  in  John's  pillow  as  he 
tossed  and  groaned.  They  burned 
and  gnawed  at  his  heart  worse  than 
his  outward  wounds ;  and  there 
were  no  cool  applications  which 
could  be  made  to  them.  He  did  not 
want  to  be  spoken  to,  nor  to  have 
even  the  friendliest  light  thrown 
upon  the  workings  of  his  mind.  To 
be  let  alone — to  be  left  to  make  the 
best  of  it — to  be  allowed  to  resume 
his  work  quietly,  and  go  and  come, 
and  wait  until  the  problem  had 
been  solved  for  him,  or  until  he 
himself  had  solved  it, — it  seemed 
to  John  that  he  wished  for  nothing 
more. 

"  That  may  be,"  said  Mr  Which- 
elo  ;  "  but  all  the  same  you 
don't  take  much  pains  to  concili- 
ate him  —  though  that  is  not  my 
business.  A  man  who  has  had  a 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


435 


number  of  us  round  him  all  his 
life  always  anxious  to  conciliate — 
as  good  men  as  himself  any  day," 
the  head-clerk  added,  with  some 
heat,  "but  still  in  a  measure  de- 
pendent upon  his  will  for  our  bread 
— it  takes  a  strong  head  to  stand 
such  a  strain,  Mr  Mitford.  An 
employer  is  pretty  near  a  despot, 
unless  he's  a  very  good  man.  I 
don't  want  to  say  a  word  against 
Mr  Crediton " 

"It  will  be  better  not,"  said 
John,  with  another  revulsion  of 
feeling,  not  indisposed  to  knock 
the  man  down  who  ventured  to 
thrust  in  his  opinion  between 
Kate's  father  and  himself ;  and  Mr 
Whichelo  for  the  moment  was 
silent,  with  a  half-alarmed  sense 
of  having  gone  too  far. 

"  He  is  very  grateful  to  you  for 
your  promptitude  and  energy,"  he 
continued  :  "  but  for  you  these 
papers  must  have  been  lost.  It 
v/ould  have  been  my  fault,"  said 
Mr  Whichelo,  with  animation,  yet 
in  a  low  tone.  There  was  even 
emotion  in  his  words,  and  some- 
thing like  a  tear  in  his  eye.  •  If  he 
had  been  a  great  general  or  a  dis- 
tinguished artist,  his  professional 
reputation  could  not  have  been 
more  precious  to  him.  But  John 
was  preoccupied,  and  paid  no  at- 
tention. He  did  not  care  for  hav- 
ing saved  Mr  Whichelo's  charac- 
ter any  more  than  Mr  Crediton's 
money,  though  he  had,  indeed, 
risked  his  life  to  do  it.  He  Was 
in  such  a  mood  that  to  risk  his  life 
was  rather  agreeable  to  him  than 
otherwise,  not  for  any  "good  mo- 
tive," but  simply  as  he  would  have 
thrust  his  burnt  leg  or  arm  into 
cold  water  for  the  momentary  re- 
lief of  his  pain. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  it,"  he  said  ;  "  they  are  safe, 
I  suppose,  and  there  is  an  end  of 
it;.  But  how  I  got  out  of  that 
place,"  he  added,  turning  himself 
once  more  impatiently  on  his  un- 
easy bed,  "is  a  mystery  to  me." 

"  You  have  your  friend  to  thank 
for  that,"  said  his  companion,  with 


the  sense  that  now  at  last  a  topic 
had  been  found  on  which  it  would 
be  safe  to  speak. 

"My— what?"  cried  John,  sit- 
ting suddenly  upright  in  his  bed. 

"  Your — friend, — the  gentleman 
who  was  with  you.  Good  God ! 
this  is  the  worst  of  all,"  cried  poor 
Whichelo,  driven  to  his  wits'  end. 

And,  indeed,  for  a  minute  John's 
expression  was  that  of  a  demon. 
He  had  some  cuts  on  his  forehead, 
which  were  covered  with  plaster ; 
he  was  excessively  pale  ;  one  of  his 
arms  was  bandaged  up  ;  and  when 
you  have  added  to  all  these  not 
beautifying  circumstances  the  dim 
light  thrown  upon  the  bed  under 
its  shabby  curtains,  and  the  look 
of  horror,  dismay,  and  rage  which 
passed  over  the  unhappy  young 
fellow's  face,  poor  Mr  Whichelo's 
consternation  may  be  understood. 
"  My — friend  !  "  he  repeated,  with 
a  groan.  He  could  not  himself 
have  given  any  reason  for  it ;  but 
it  seemed  at  the  moment  to  be  the 
last  and  finishing  blow. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr  Whichelo,  "so 
they  told  me.  He  found  you  lying 
in  the  passage  with  the  engines 
playing  upon  you,  and  dragged  you 
out.  It  was  very  lucky  for  you  he 
was  there." 

John  fell  back  in  his  bed  with  a 
look  of  utter  weariness  and  lassi- 
tude. "  It  doesn't  matter,' '  he  said. 
"  But  is  anybody  such  a  fool  as  to 
think  that  I  should  have  died  with 
the  engines  playing  on  me  *?  Non- 
sense. He  need  not  have  been 
so  confoundedly  officious  :  but  it 
don't  matter,  I  tell  you,"  he 
added,  angrily ;  "  don't  let  us 
speak  of  it  any  more." 

"  My  dear  Mr  Mitford,"  said  Mr 
Whichelo,  "  I  don't  wish  to  inter- 
fere ;  but  I  am  the  father  of  a 
family  myself,  with  grown-up  sons, 
and  I  don't  like  to  see  a  young 
man  give  way  to  wrong  feeling. 
The  gentleman  did  a  most  friendly 
action.  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure, 
if  you  would  have  died — but — he 
meant  well,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that." 


436 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


"Confound  him!"  said  John 
between  his  closed  teeth.  Mr 
Whichelo  was  glad  he  could  not 
quite  hear  what  it  was;  perhaps, 
however,  he  expected  something 
•worse  than  "confound  him" — for  a 
sense  of  horror  crept  over  him, 
and  he  was  very  thankful  that  he 
had  no  closer  interest  in  this  impa- 
tient young  man  than  mere  ac- 
quaintanceship— a  man  who  was 
going  in  for  the  Church !  he  said  to 
himself.  He  sat  silent  for  a  little, 
and  then  got  up  and  took  his  hat. 

"I  hear  you  have  to  be  kept 
very  quiet,"  he  said ;  "and  as  it  is 
late,  I  will  take  my  leave.  Good 
evening,  Mr  Mitford  ;  I  hope  you 
will  have  a  good  night ;  and  if  I  can 
be  of  any  use " 

"  Good  -  night,"  said  John,  too 
much  worn  to  be  able  to  think  of 
politeness.  And  when  Mr  Whichelo 
was  gone  the  doctor  came,  who 
gave  him  a  great  deal  of  suffering 
by  way  of  relieving  him.  He  bore 
it  all  in  silence,  having  plenty  of 
distraction  afforded  him  by  his 
thoughts,  which  were  bitter  enough. 
"Doctor,"  he  said,  sitting  up  all 
at  once  while  his  injured  arm  was 
being  bandaged,  "  answer  me  one 
question  :  I  hear  I  was  found  lying 
somewhere  with  the  engines  play- 
ing on  me  ;  could  I  have  died  like 
that?" 

"  You  might — in  time,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  smile,  "but  not  just 
for  as  long  as  the  fire  lasted ;  un- 
less you  had  taken  cold,  which  you 
don't  appear  to  have  done,  better 
luck." 

"But  there  was  no  other  dan- 
ger?" 

"  You  could  not  have  been  burnt 
alive  with  the  engines  playing  on 
you,"  said  the  doctor.  "Yes,  of 
course  there  was  danger  :  the  roof 
might  have  fallen  in,  which  it  did 
not  —  thanks,  I  believe,  to  your 
promptitude ;  or  even  if  the  parti- 
tion had  come  down  upon  you,  it 
would  have  been  far  from  pleasant ; 
but  I  should  think  you  have  had 
quite  enough  of  it  as  it  is." 

"I  want  to    make  sure,"  said 


the  patient,  with  incomprehensible 
eagerness,  "  not  for  my  own  sake — 

but there  never  was  any  real 

danger  1  you  can  tell  me  that." 

"  One  can  never  say  as  much/'  was 
the  answer.  "  I  should  not  myself 
like  to  lie  insensible  in  a  burning 
house,  close  to  a  partition  which 
fell  eventually.  At  the  least  you 
might  have  been  crippled  and  dis- 
figured for  life." 

A  groan  burst  from  John's  breast 
when  he  found  himself  alone  on 
that  weary  lingering  night.  How 
long  it  seemed  ! — years  almost  since 
the  excitement  of  the  fire  which 
had  sustained  him  for  the  moment, 
though  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  He 
put  his  hand  up  to  his  eyes,  and 
found  that  there  were  tears  in 
them,  and  despised  himself,  which 
added  another  thorn  to  his  pillow. 
He  had  nobody  to  console  him; 
nobody  to  keep  him  from  brooding 
over  the  sudden  misery.  Was  it  a 
fit  revenge  of  fate  upon  him  for  his 
feeling  of  right  in  regard  to  Kate  ? 
He  had  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to 
her  because  he  had  saved  her  life. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  taken 
an  ungenerous  advantage  of  that  1 
He  went  back  over  the  whole  mat- 
ter, and  he  said  to  himself  that, 
had  he  loved  a  girl  so  much  out  of 
his  sphere,  without  this  claim  upon 
her,  he  would  have  smothered  his 
love,  and  made  up  his  mind  from 
the  beginning  that  it  was  useless. 
But  the  sense  that  he  had  saved 
her  life  had  given  him  a  sense  of 
power — yes,  of  ungenerous  power 
— over  her.  And  now  he  himself 
had  fallen  into  the  same  subjection. 
Another  man  had  saved  his  life ; 
or,  at  least,  was  supposed  by  others, 
and  no  doubt  would  himself  believe 
that  he  had  done  so.  This  thought 
scorched  his  heart  as  the  flames 
had  done  his  body.  It  caught  him 
like  a  fiery  breath,  and  shrivelled 
up  his  nerves  and  pulses.  Fred 
Huntley,  whom  she  had  taken  into 
her  confidence,  to  whom  she  had 
described  the  state  of  the  affairs 
between  them,  whose  advice  al- 
most she  had  asked  on  a  matter 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


437 


which  never  should  have  been 
breathed  to  profane  ears — Fred 
Huntley  had  saved  his  life.  He 
groaned  in  his  solitude,  and  put  up 
his  hand  to  his  eyes,  and  despised 
himself.  "  I  had  better  cry  over  it, 
like  a  sick  baby,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, with  savage  irony ;  and  oh  to 
think  that  was  all,  all  he  could  do ! 
Next  morning  John  insisted  on 
getting  up  in  utter  disobedience  to 
his  doctor.  He  had  his  arm  in  a 
.sling,  but  what  did  that  matter? 
and  he  had  still  the  plaster  on  the 
cuts  on  his  forehead.  He  tried  to 
read,  but  that  was  not  possible. 
He  wrote  to  his  mother  as  best  he 
could  with  his  left  hand,  telling  her 
there  had  been  a  fire,  and  that  he 
had  burned  his  fingers  pulling  some 
papers  out  of  it — "  nothing  of  the 
least  importance,"  he  said.  And 
when  he  had  done  that  he  paused 
and  hesitated.  Should  he  write  to 
Kate  1  He  had  not  done  it  for 
.several  days  past.  It  was  the 
longest  gap  that  had  ever  occurred 
in  their  correspondence.  His  heart 
yearned  a  little  within  him  not- 
withstanding all  its  wounds,  and 
then  he  flung  down  the  pen  and 
shut  himself  up.  Why  should  he 
write1?  She  must  have  heard  all 
about  it  from  Fred  Huntley  and 
from  her  father.  She  had  heard,  no 
doubt,  that  Fred  had  saved  his  life 
— and  she  had  taken  no  notice. 
Why  should  she  take  any  notice  ? 
It  did  not  humiliate  a  woman  to 
be  under  such  an  obligation,  but  it 
did  humiliate  a  man.  John  rose 
and  stalked  about  his  little  room, 
which  scarcely  left  him  space 
enough  for  four  steps  from  end  to 
end.  He  stared  out  hopelessl}'  at 
the  window  which  looked  into  the 
little  humble  suburban  street  with 
its  tiny  gardens ;  and  then  he  went 
and  stared  into  the  little  glass  over 
the  mantelpiece,  which  was  scarcely 
tall  enough  to  reflect  him  unless  he 
stooped.  A  pretty  sight  he  was  to 
look  at;  three  lines  of  plaster  on 
liis  forehead,  marks  of  scorching  on 
Ids  cheek,  dark  lines  of  pain  under 
Ms  eyes,  and  the  restless,  anxious, 


uneasy  expression  of  extreme  suf- 
fering on  his  scarred  face.  He  was 
not  an  Adonis  at  the  best,  poor 
John,  and  he  was  conscious  of  it. 
What  was  there  in  him  that  she 
should  care  for  him  1  She  had 
been  overborne  by  his  claim  of 
right  over  her.  It  had  been  un- 
generous of  him  ;  he  had  put  forth 
a  plea  which  never  ought  to  be 
urged,  and  which  another  man  now 
had  the  right  of  urging  over  him- 
self. With  a  groan  of  renewed  an- 
guish John  threw  himself  down  on 
the  little  sofa,  and  leaned  his  head 
and  his  folded  arms  on  the  table 
at  which  he  had  been  writing  his 
mother's  letter.  He  had  nothing 
to  fall  back  upon :  all  his  life  and 
hopes  he  had  given  up  for  this,  and 
here  was  what  it  had  come  to.  He 
had  no  capability  left  in  his  mind 
but  of  despair. 

It  was,  no  doubt,  because  he  was 
so  absorbed  in  his  own  feelings  and 
unconscious  of  what  was  passing, 
that  he  heard  nothing  of  any  arri- 
val at  the  door.  He  scarcely  raised 
his  head  when  the  door  of  his  own 
little  sitting-room  was  opened.  "  I 
want  nothing,  thanks,"  he  said, 
turning  his  back  on  his  officious 
landlady,  he  thought.  She  must 
have  come  into  the  room  more 
officious  than  ever,  for  there  was 
a  faint  rustling  sound  of  a  woman's 
dress,  and  the  sense  of  some  other 
persons  near  him ;  but  John  only 
turned  his  back  the  more  obsti- 
nately. Then  all  at  once  there 
came  something  that  breathed  over 
him  like  a  wind  from  the  south, 
something  made  up  of  soft  touch, 
soft  sound,  soft  breath.  "  John, 
my  poor  John ! "  said  the  voice  j 
and  the  touch  was  as  of  two  arms 
going  round  that  poor  wounded 
head  of  his.  It  was  impossible — 
it  could  not  be.  He  suffered  his 
hands  to  be  drawn  down  from  his 
face,  his  head  to  be  encircled  in  the 
arms,  and  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  a  dream.  "Am  I  mad?"  he 
said,  half  aloud  ;  "  am  I  losing  my 
head  1 — for  I  know  it  cannot  be." 

"What    cannot    be?    and   why 


438 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


should  not  it  beT'  said  Kate  in 
his  ear.  "  Oh,  you  unkind,  cruel 
John  !  Did  you  want  me  to  break 
my  heart  without  a  word  or  a  mes- 
sage from  you1?  Not  even  to  see 
papa !  not  to  send  me  a  single  line ! 
to  leave  me  to  think  you  were  dying 
or  something,  and  you  not  even  in 
bed.  If  I  were  not  so  glad,  I  should 
be  in  a  dreadful  passion.  You  hor- 
rid, cruel,  brave,  dear  old  John  !  " 

He  did  not  know  what  to  think 
or  say.  All  his  evil  thoughts  slid 
away  from  him  unawares,  as  the 
ice  melts.  There  was  no  reason 
for  it ;  but  the  sun  had  shone  on 
them,  and  they  were  gone.  He  took 
hold  of,  and  kept  fast  in  his,  the 
hands  that  had  touched  his  aching 
head.  "  I  do  not  think  it  is  you," 
he  said ;  "  I  am  afraid  to  look  lest 
it  should  not  be  you." 

"  I  know  better  than  that,"  said 
Kate  ;  "  it  is  because  you  will  not 
let  me  see  your  face.  Poor  dear 
face ! "  cried  the  impulsive  girl,  and 
cried  a  little,  and  dropped'  a  sud- 
den, soft,  momentary  kiss  upon  the 
scorched  cheek.  That  was  her  tri- 
bute to  the  solemnity  of  the  occa- 
sion. And  then  she  laughed  half 
hysterically.  "  John,  dear,  you  are 
so  ugly,  and  I  like  you  so/'  she 
said ;  and  sat  down  by  him,  and 
clasped  his  arm  with  both  her 
hands.  John's  heart  had  melted 
into  the  foolishest  tenderness  and 
joy  by  this  time.  He  was  so  happy 
that  his  very  pain  seemed  to  him 
the  tingling  of  pleasure.  "I  can- 
not think  it  is  you,"  he  said, 
looking  down  upon  her  with  a 
fondness  which  could  find  no 
words. 

"  I  have  come  all  this  way  to  see 
him,"  she  cried,  "  and  evidently 
now  he  thinks  it  is  not  proper. 
Look,  I  have  brought  Parsons  with 
me.  There  she  is  standing  in  the 
window  all  this  time,  not  to  in- 
trude upon  us.  Do  you  think  J 
am  improper  now?" 

"  Hush  !"  he  said,  softly;  "  don't 
blaspheme  yourself.  Because  I  can- 
not say  anything  except  wonder  to 
feel  myself  so  happy " 


"  My  poor  John,  my  poor  dear 
old  John!"  she  said,  leaning  the 
fairy  head  against  him  which  ought 
to  have  had  a  crown  of  stars  round 
it  instead  of  a  mite  of  a  bonnet. 
Kate  took  no  thought  of  her  bon- 
net at  that  moment.  She  sat  by 
his  side,  and  talked  and  talked, 
healing  his  wounds  with  her  soft 
words.  And  Parsons  drew  a  chair 
quietly  to  her  and  sat  down  in  the 
window,  turning  her  back  upon  the 
pair.  "  Lord,  if  I  was  to  behave 
like  that,"  Parsons  was  saying  to 
herself,  "  and  somebody  a-looking 
on  !  "  And  she  sat  and  stared  out 
of  the  window,  and  attracted  a  bar- 
rel-organ, which  came  and  played  be- 
fore her,  with  a  pair  of  keen  Italian 
eyes  gleaming  at  her  over  it  from 
among  the  black  elf-locks.  Parsons 
shook  her  head  at  the  performer ; 
but  her  presence  was  enough  for  him, 
and  he  kept  on  grinding  "  La  Don- 
na 6  Mobile "  slowly  and  steadily, 
through  her  thoughts  and  through 
the  murmuring  conversation  of  the 
other  two.  Neither  Kate  nor  John 
paid  any  attention  to  the  music. 
They  had  not  heard  it,  they  would 
have  said ;  and  yet  it  was  strange 
how  the  air  would  return  to  both  of 
them  in  later  times. 

"  I  see  now  you  could  not  write," 
said  Kate ;  "  but  still  you  have 
scribbled  something  to  your  mo- 
ther. I  think  I  might  have  had  a 
word  too.  But  I  did  not  come  to 
scold  you.  Oh,  that  horrid  organ- 
man,  I  wish  he  would  go  away! 
You  might  have  sent  me  a  message 
by  papa." 

"  I  did  not  see  him,"  said  John. 

"  Or  by  Fred  Huntley.  You  saw 

him,  for  he  told  me John !  what 

is  the  matter1?  Are  you  angry] 
Ought  I  not  to  have  come1?" 

Then  there  was  a  pause  ;  he  had 
drawn  his  arm  away  out  of  her 
clasping  hands,  and  all  at  once  the 
tingling  which  was  like  pleasure  be- 
came pain  again,  and  gnawed  and 
burned  him  as  if  in  a  sudden  endea- 
vour to  overcome  his  patience.  And 
yet  it  was  so  difficult  to  look  down 
upon  the  flushed  wondering  face, 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


439 


the  eyes  wide  open  with  surprise, 
the  bewildered  look,  and  remain 
unkind  to  her.  For  it  was  unkind 
to  pull  away  the  arm  which  she  was 
clasping  with  both  her  hands.  He 
felt  himself  a  barbarian,  and  yet  he 
could  not  help  it.  Huntley's  name 
was  like  a  shot  in  the  heart  to  him. 
And  the  organ  went  on  with  its 
creaks  and  jerks,  playing  out  its 
air.  "That  organ  is  enough  to 
drive  one  wild,"  he  said,  pettishly, 
and  felt  that  he  had  committed 
himself  and  was  to  blame. 

"  Is  it  only  the  organ  ] "  said  Kate, 
relieved.  "  Yes,  is  it  not  dreadful  1 
but  I  thought  you  were  angry  with 
me.  Oh,  John,  I  don't  think  I 
could  bear  it  if  I  thought  you  were 
really  angry  with  me.'; 

"  My  darling !  I  am  a  brute,"  he 
said,  and  put  the  arm  which  he  had 
drawn  so  suddenly  away  round 
lier.  He  had  but  one — the  other 
was  enveloped  in  bandages  and 
supported  in  a  sling. 

"  Does  it  hurt1? "  said  Kate,  laying 
soft  fingers  full  of  healing  upon  it. 
''I  do  so  want  to  hear  how  it  all 
happened.  Tell  me  how  it  was. 
They  say  the  bank  might  all  have 
been  burned  down  if  you  had  not 
seen  it,  and  papa  would  have  lost 
such  heaps  of  money.  John,  dear, 
1  think  you  will  find  papa  easier  to 
manage  now." 

"  Do  you  think  so1?"  he  said,  with 
a  faint  smile ;  "  but  that  is  buying 
his  favour,  Kate." 

"  Never  mind  how  we  get  it,  if 
-we  do  get  it,"  cried  Kate.  "  I  am 
sure  I  would  do  anything  to  buy 
Ids  favour — but  I  cannot  go  and 
save  his  papers  and  do  such  things 
for  him.  Or,  John,  was  it  for  me  ? " 
she  said,  lowering  her  voice,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  was  for 
you,"  he'answered,  rather  hoarsely ; 
'•  and  it  was  not  for  him.  I  did  it 
because  I  could  not  help  it,  and  to 
escape  from  myself." 

"  To  escape  from  yourself !  Why 
did  you  want  that  1 "  she  said,  with 
an  innocent  little  cry  of  astonish- 
ment. It  was  clear  she  was  quite 


unaware  of  having  done  him  any 
wrong. 

"  Kate,  Kate,"  he  said,  holding 
her  close,  "you  did  not  mean  it; 
but  why  did  you  take  Fred  Huntley 
into  your  confidence — why  did  you 
speak  to  him  about  you  and  me  1 " 

She  gave  him  a  wondering  look, 
and  then  the  colour  rose  into  her 
cheek.  "  John  !  "  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  amazement,  "  what  is  this 
about  Fred  Huntley  1  Are  you  jeal- 
ous of  him — jealous  of  him  ?  Oh,  I 
hope  I  am  not  quite  so  foolish  as 
that." 

Was  that  all  she  was  going  to 
say  ?  No  disclaimer  of  having 
given  him  her  confidence,  nothing 
about  her  part  in  the  matter,  only 
about  his.  Was  he  jealous1?  the 
question  sank  into  John's  heart 
like  a  stone. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  am  jealous," 
he  said,  with  a  falter  in  his  voice, 
which  went  to  Kate's  impression- 
able heart.  "  It  must  be  worse  to 
me  than  it  is  to  you,  or  you  would 
not  ask  me.  To  have  said  anything 
to  anybody  about  us,  Kate  !  " 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  holding  away 
from  him  a  little;  "I  see," — and 
was  silent  for  two  seconds  at  least, 
which  felt  like  two  hours  to  them 
both.  And  the  man  went  on  play- 
ing "La  Donna  e"  Mobile," — and 
Parsons,  very  red  in  the  face,  kept 
shaking  her  head  at  him,  but  did 
not  attempt  to  leave  her  post.  Then 
Kate  .turned  and  lifted  her  pretty 
eyes,  full  of  tears,  to  her  lover's 
face,  and  spoke  in  his  very  ear. 
"  John,  it  was  very  silly  of  me,  and 
thoughtless,  and  nasty,  I  see.  But 
I  have  had  nobody  to  tell  me  such 
things.  I  have  never  had  a  mother 
like  you;  I  say  whatever  comes  into 
my  head.  John!  I  am  so  sorry " 

Could  he  have  let  her  say  any 
more  1  he  ended  the  sweet  confes- 
sion as  lovers  use ;  he  held  her  to 
him,  and  healed  himself  by  her 
touch,  by  her  breath,  by  the  soft- 
ness of  her  caressing  hands.  He 
forgot  everything  in  the  world  but 
that  she  was  there.  She  had  meant 
no  harm,  she  had  thought  no  harm. 


440 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


It  was  her  innocence,  her  ignorance, 
that  had  led  her  into  this  passing 
error,  and  foolish  John  was  so  happy 
that  all  his  sufferings  passed  from 
his  mind. 

"  His  old  remembrances  went  from  him 

wholly, 
And  all  the  ways  of  men,   so  vain  and 

melancholy." 

Everything  smiled  and  brightened 
before  him  ;  the  organ-grinder 
stopped  and  found  out  from  poor 
Parsons's  perpetual  gesticulations 
that  pennies  were  not  to  be  expect- 
ed; and  something  soft  and  tranquil 
and  serene  seemed  to  steal  into  the 
room  and  envelop  the  two,  who 
were  betrothing  themselves  over 
again,  or  so  they  thought.  "  Papa 
says  you  are  to  come  to  Fernwood. 
You  must  come  and  let  me  nurse 
you,"  Kate  whispered  in  his  ear. 
"  That  would  be  too  sweet,"  John 
whispered  back  again ;  and  then  she 
opened  the  note  to  his  mother  and 


wrote  a  little  postscript  to  it,  with 
his  arm  round  her,  and  his  poor 
scarred  face  over  her  shoulder 
watching  every  word  as  she  wrote 
it.  "  He  looks  so  frightful,"  Kate 
wrote,  "  you  never  saw  any  one  so 
hideous,  dear  mamma,  or  such  a 
darling  [don't  shake  my  arm,  John]. 
I  never  knew  how  nice  he  was,  nor 
how  fond  I  was  of  him,  till  now." 

This  was  how  the  day  ended 
which  had  been  begun  in  such  mis- 
ery ;  for  it  was  nearly  dusk  when 
Kate  left  him  with  the  faithful 
Parsons.  "Indeed  you  shall  not 
come  with  me,"  she  said,  "  you 

who  ought  to  be  in  bed "  but, 

notwithstanding  this  protest  and 
all  his  scars,  he  went  with  her  till 
they  came  within  sight  of  the  bank, 
where  the  carriage  was  standing. 
Of  course  it  did  him  harm,  and  the 
doctor  was  very  angry;  but  what 
did  John,  in  the  delight  of  his 
heart,  care  for  that  1 


CHAPTER  xvirr. 


A  day  or  two  after  this  visit  John 
found  himself  at  Fernwood. 

It  was  not  perhaps  a  judicious 
step  for  any  of  them.  He  came 
still  suffering — and,  above  all,  still 
marked  by  his  sufferings — among  a 
collection  of  strangers  to  whom  the 
bank,  and  the  fire,  and  the  value  of 
the  papers  he  had  saved,  were  of  the 
smallest  possible  consequence,  and 
who  were  intensely  mystified  by  his 
heterogeneous  position  as  at  once  the 
betrothed  of  Kate  Crediton  and  a 
clerk  in  her  father's  bank.  Then  there 
was  a  sense  of  embarrassment  be- 
tween him  and  Mr  Crediton  which 
it  was  impossible  either  to  ignore  or 
to  make  an  end  of — John  had  done 
so  much  for  the  man  who  was  so 
unwilling  to  grant  him  anything  in 
return.  He  had  not  only  saved  the 
banker's  daughter,  but  his  papers, 
perhaps  his  very  habitation,  and  the 
bulk  of  all  he  had  in  the  world,  and 
Mr  Crediton  was  confused  by  such 
a  weight  of  obligations.  "  I  must 
take  care  he  don't  save  my  life  next," 


he  said  to  himself ;  but,  notwith- 
standing this  weight  of  gratitude 
which  he  owed,  he  was  not  in  the 
least  changed  in  his  reluctance  to 
pay.  To  give  his  child  as  salvage- 
money  was  a  thing  he  could  not 
bearto  think  of;  and  when  he  looked 
at  John's  pale  face  among  the  more 
animated  faces  round  him,  Mr  Cre- 
diton grew  wellnigh  spiteful.  "That 
fellow  !  without  an  attraction  ! " — 
he  would  say  to  himself.  John  was 
not  handsome  ;  he  had  little  of  the 
ready  wit  and  ready  talk  of  society ; 
he  did  not  distinguish  himself 
socially  above  other  men  ;  he  was 
nobody  to  speak  of  —  a  country 
clergyman's  son  without  a  penny. 
And  yet  he  was  to  have  Kate  ! 
Mr  Crediton  asked  himself  why 
he  had  ever  consented  to  it,  when 
he  saw  John's  pale  face  at  his 
table.  He  had  done  it — because 
Kate  had  set  her  heart  upon  it — 
because  he  thought  Kate  would  be 
fickle  and  change  her  mind — be- 
cause—he could  scarcely  tell  why, 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


441 


but  always  with  the  thought  that  it 
would  come  to  nothing.  He  would 
not  allow,  when  any  one  asked  him, 
that  there  was  an  engagement. 
"  There  is  some  nonsense  of  the 
kind,"  he  would  say,  "  boy  and  girl 
trash.  I  take  it  quietly  because  I 
know  it  never  can  come  to  anything. 
Be  saved  her  that  time  her  horse  ran 
away  with  her,  and  it  is  j  ust  a  piece 
of  romantic  gratitude  on  her  part. 
If  I  opposed  it  I  should  make  her 
twice  as  determined,  and  therefore  I 
don't  oppose/'  He  had  said  as  much 
to  almost  everybody  at  Fernwood, 
though  neither  of  the  two  most  im- 
mediately concerned  had  the  least 
idea  of  it.  And  this  was  another 
reason  why  the  strangers  were 
mystified  and  could  not  make  out 
what  it  meant. 

As  for  Kate,  though  she  had  been 
so  anxious  for  his  coming,  it  cannot 
be  said  that  it  made  her  very  happy; 
for  the  first  time  the  complications 
of  the  matter  reached  her.  She 
was  not,  as  when  she  had  been  at 
Fanshawe,  a  disengaged  young  lady 
able  to  give  up  her  time  to  her 
lover,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  with  all  her 
guests  to  look  after,  and  a  thousand 
things  to  think  of.  She  could  not 
sit  and  talk  with  him,  or  walk  with 
him,  as  she  had  done  at  the  Rectory. 
Be  could  not  secure  the  seat  next 
to  her,  or  keep  by  her  side,  as,  in 
other  circumstances,  it  would  have 
been  so  natural  for  him  to  do.  He 
got  her  left  hand  at  table  the  first 
day  of  his  arrival,  and  was  happy, 
and  thought  this  privilege  was  al- 
ways to  be  his  ;  but,  alas  !  the  next 
day  was  on  the  other  side,  unable 
so  much  as  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
her.  "  I  am  the  lady  of  the  house. 
I  have  to  be  at  everybody's  beck 
and  call,"  she  said,  trying  to  smooth 
him  down.  "  On  the  contrary,  you 
oight  to  do  just  what  you  please," 
suid  foolish  John;  and  he  wandered 
about  all  day  seeking  opportunities 
to  pounce  upon  her — for,  to  be  sure, 
he  cared  for  nobody  and  nothing 
at  Fernwood  but  Kate,  and  he  was 
ill  and  sensitive,  and  wanted  to  be 


cared  for,  even  petted,  if  that  could 
have  been.  He  could  not  go  out  to 
ride  with  the  rest  of  the  party  on 
account  of  his  injured  hand,  but 
Kate  had  to  go,  or  thought  she 
must,  leaving  him  alone  to  seek 
what  comfort  was  possible  in  the 
library.  No  doubt  it  was  very  self- 
ish of  John  to  wish  to  keep  her 
back  from  anything  that  was  a 
pleasure  to  her,  but  then  he  was  an 
eager,  ardent  lover,  who  had  been 
much  debarred  from  her  society, 
and  was  set  on  edge  by  seeing 
others  round  her  who  were  more 
like  her  than  he  was.  To  be  left 
behind,  or  to  find  himself  shut  out 
all  day  from  so  much  as  a  word  with 
her,  was  one  pang;  but  to  find 
even  when  he  was  with  her,  that  he 
had  little  to  say  that  interested  her, 
and  to  see  her  return  to  the  common 
crowd  as  soon  as  any  excuse  occurred 
to  make  it  possible,  was  far  harder 
and  struck  more  deep.  He  would 
sit  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room 
and  look  and  listen  while  the  con- 
versation went  on.  They  talked 
about  the  people  they  knew,  the 
amusements  they  had  been  enjoy- 
ing, the  past  season  and  the  future 
one,  and  a  hundred  little  details 
which  only  persons  "in  their  own 
"  set "  could  understand.  John 
himself  could  have  talked  such  talk 
in  college  rooms  or  the  chambers  of 
a  friend,  but  he  would  have  thought 
it  rude  to  continue  when  strangers 
were  present ;  but  the  fashionable 
people  did  not  think  it  rude.  And 
even  when  he  was  leaning  over  her 
chair  whispering  to  her,  he  could 
note  that  Kate's  attention  failed, 
and  could  see  her  face  brighten 
and  her  ear  strain  to  hear  some 
petty  joke  bandied  about  among 
the  others.  "  Was  it  Mr  Lunday 
that  said  that  1  it  is  so  like  him," 
she  said  once  in  the  very  midst 
of  something  he  was  saying.  And 
poor  John's  heart  sank  down  — 
down  to  his  very  boots.  That  he 
did  not  himself  find  any  companion- 
ship among  the  fashionable  people 
was  of  very  much  less  consequence. 
What  did  that  matter?  He  had 


442 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


not  gone  to  Fernwood  to  make  fine 
acquaintances.  He  had  gone  to  see 
her — and  there  was  not  five  minutes 
in  the  day  when  he  could  have  her 
to  himself  ;  and  even  in  these  five 
minutes  her  attention  would  go 
away  from  him,  attracted  by  some 
nonsense  spoken  by  some  one  who 
was  nothing  to  her,  and  whose  talk 
was  not  worth  listening  to.  What 
a  fate  for  him  !  And  then  she  had 
a  hundred  things  to  do  in  concert 
with  these  insipidities.  She  sang 
with  one,  and  John  did  not  sing, 
and  had  to  look  on  with  the  for- 
lornest  thoughts,  while  a  precious 
hour  would  pass,  consumed  by  duet 
after  duet  and  such  talk  as  the  fol- 
lowing:— "Do  you  know  this?" 
"  Let  us  try  that."  "  I  must  do 
something  to  amuse  all  those 
people,"  she  would  say,  when  he 
complained.  She  was  not  angry 
with  him  for  complaining,  but  al- 
ways kind  and  sweet,  and  ready,  if 
she  gave  him  nothing  else,  to  give 
him  one  of  her  pretty  smiles. 

"  But  I  shall  be  gone  directly, 
and  I  have  not  had  ten  minutes  of 
you,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal  more  than  ten 
minutes/'  said  Kate ;  "  you  unkind, 
exacting  John !  When  I  was  at 
Fanshawe  I  had  all  my  time  on 
my  hands,  and  nobody  but  you  to 
think  of ; — I  mean,  no  other  claims 
upon  me.  Don't  you  think  it  hurts 
me  as  much  as  any  one,  when  they 
all  sweep  round  me,  and  I  see  your 
dear  old  face,  looking  so  pale  and 
glum,  on  the  outside  1  Please  don't 
look  so  glum  !  You  know  I  should 
so  much,  much  rather  be  with  you." 

"  Should  you  ?"  said  John,  mourn- 
fully. Perhaps  she  believed  it; 
but  he  found  it  so  very  hard  to  be- 
lieve. "  Dear,  I  don't  mean  to  be 
glum,  and  spoil  your  pleasure,"  he 
said,  with  a  certain  pathetic  hu- 
mility ;  "  perhaps  I  had  better  go 
and  get  to  my  work  again,  and  wait 
for  the  old  Sunday  nights  when 
you  come  back." 

"  That  will  look  as  if  you  were 
angry  with  me,"  she  said.  "Oh, 
John,  I  thought  you  would  under- 


stand !  You  know  I  can't  do  what 
I  would  do  with  all  these  people 
in  the  house.  What  I  should  like 
would  be  to  nurse  you  and  take 
care  of  you,  and  be  with  you  al- 
ways ;  but  what  can  I  do  with  all 
these  girls  and  people  1  I  hate 
them  sometimes,  though  they  are 
my  great  friends.  Don't  go  and 
make  me  think  you  are  angry.  It 
is  that  that  would  spoil  my  plea- 
sure. Look  here!  come  and  get 
your  hat,  and  bring  me  a  shawl ; 
there  is  time  for  a  little  walk  before 
the  dinner-bell  rings." 

And  then  the  poor  fellow  would 
be  rapt  into  paradise  for  half  an 
hour  under  shadow  of  the  elm-trees, 
which  were  beginning  to  put  on 
their  bright-coloured  garments.  His 
reason  told  him  how  vain  this 
snatch  of  enjoyment  was,  and  gave 
him  many  a  dim  warning  that  he 
was  spending  his  life  for  nought, 
and  giving  his  treasure  for  what 
was  not  bread  ;  but  at  such  mo- 
ments John  would  not  listen  to  the 
voice  of  reason.  Her  hands  were  on 
his  arm — her  head  inclining  towards 
him,  sometimes  almost  touching 
his  sleeve — her  eyes  raised  to  his — 
her  smile  and  her  sweet  kind  words 
all  his  own.  She  was  as  kind  as 
if  she  had  been  his  mother — as 
tender  and  affectionate  and  forbear- 
ing with  him.  "  You  are  so  cross, 
and  so  exacting,  and  so  unkind. 
Because  I  am  fond  of  you,  is  that 
any  reason  why  you  should  tyran- 
nise over  me?"  said  Kate,  with  a 
voice  as  of  a  dove  close  to  his  ear. 
And  how  could  he  answer  her  but 
with  abject  protestations  of  peni- 
tence and  ineffable  content  ? 

"  It  is  because  I  hunger  for  you, 
and  I  have  so  little  of  my  darling," 
said  repentant  John  ;  "  what  do  I 
care  for  all  the  world  if  I  have  not 
my  Kate?" 

"But  you  have  your  Kate,  you 
foolish  boy,"  she  said ;  "  and  what 
does  anything  matter  when  you 
know  that  ?  Do  I  ever  distrust 
you  1  When  I  see  you  talking  to 
somebody  at  the  very  other  end  of 
the  drawing-room,  just  when  I  am 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


443 


wanting  you  perhaps,  I  don't  make 
myself  wretched,  as  you  do.  I 
only  say  to  myself,  Never  mind, 
ho  is  my  John  and  not  hers ;  and 
I  am  quite  happy — though  I  am 
sure  a  girl  has  a  great  deal  more 
cause  to  be  uneasy  than  a  man." 

And  when  John  had  been  brought 
to  this  point,  he  would  swallow 
such  a  speech,  and  would  not  allow 
himself  to  ask  whether  it  was  pos- 
sible that  his  absence  at  the  other 
end  of  the  drawing-room  could 
irake  Kate  wretched.  Had  he  put 
the  question  to  himself,  no  doubt 
Reason  would  have  come  in;  but 
why  should  Reason  be  allowed  to 
come  in  to  spoil  the  moments  of  hap- 
piness which  come  so  rarely  ?  He 
held  the  hands  which  were  clasped 
on  his  arm  closer  to  his  side,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  the  sweetness. 
.A  nd  he  kept  her  until  ever  so  long 
after  the  dressing-bell  had  pealed 
its  summons  to  them  under  the 
silent  trees.  It  was  the  stillest  au- 
tumn night — a  little  chill,  with  a 
new  moon  which  was  just  going  to 
sot  as  the  dining-room  was  lighted 
up  for  dinner — and  now  and  then  a 
leaf  detached  itself  in  the  soft  dark- 
ness, and  came  down  with  a  noise- 
less languid  whirl  in  the  air,  like 
a  signal  from  the  unseen.  One  of 
these  fell  upon  Kate's  pretty  head 
a.s  she  raised  it  towards  her  lover, 
and  he  lifted  the  leaf  from  her 
hair  and  put  it  into  his  coat.  "  I 
will  give  you  a  better  flower,"  said 
Kate ;  "  but  oh,  John,  I  must  go  in. 
I  shall  never  have  time  to  dress. 

Well then,  just  one  more  turn : 

and  never  say  I  am  not  the  most 
foolish  yielding  girl  that  ever 
was,  doing  everything  you  like  to 
ask — though  you  scold  me  and 
threaten  to  go  away." 

This  interview  made  the  evening 
bearable  for  John ;  and  it  was  all 
the  more  bearable  to  him,  though 
it  is  strange  to  say  so,  because 
Fred  Huntley  had  returned,  and 
sat  next  him  at  dinner.  He  had 
hated  Fred  for  some  days,  and 
was  not  yet  much  inclined  towards 
him ;  but  still  there  was  a  pleasure 


in  being  able  to  talk  freely  to  some 
one,  and  to  feel  himself,  to  some 
extent  at  least,  comprehended,  po- 
sition and  all.  He  was  very  dry 
and  stiff  to  Huntley  at  first,  but  by 
degrees  the  ice  broke.  "  I  have 
never  seen  you  since  that  night/' 
said  Fred.  "  My  heart  has  smote 
me  since  for  the  way  in  which  I 
left  you,  lying  on  those  door-steps. 
In  that  excitement  one  forgets 
everything.  But  you  bear  consid- 
erable marks  of  it,  I  see." 

"  Nothing  to  signify,"  said  John ; 
and  Fred  gave  him  a  nod,  and  be- 
gan to  eat  his  soup  with  an  indif- 
ference which  was  balm  to  the 
other's  excited  feelings.  Finding 
thus  that  no  gratitude  was  claimed 
of  him,  John  grew  generous.  "  I 
hear  it  was  you  who  dragged  me 
out;  and  I  have  never  had  a  chance 
of  thanking  you,"  he  said. 

"Thanking  me  —  what  for1?  I 
don't  remember  dragging  any  one 
out,"  said  Fred.  "  It  was  very  hot 
work.  I  did  not  rush  into  the 
thick  of  it,  like  you,  to  do  any 
good;  but  I  daresay  I  could  give 
the  best  description  of  it.  Have 
they  found  out  how  much  damage 
was  done"?  —  but  I  suppose  the 
bank  is  still  going  on  all  the 
same." 

"Banks  cannot  stop,"  said  John, 
"  unless  things  are  going  very  badly 
with  them  indeed." 

"  That  comes  of  going  in  for  a 
special  study,"  said  Huntley;  "you 
always  did  know  all  about  politi- 
cal economy,  didn't  you  1  No,  it 
wasn't  you,  it  was  Sutherland — 
never  mind  ;  if  you  have  not  stud- 
ied it  theoretically,  you  have  prac- 
tically. I  often  think  if  I  had  gone 
in  for  business  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  on  the  whole." 

"  You  have  less  occasion  to  say 
so  than  most  men,"  said  John. 

"Because  we  are  well  off? — or 
because  I  have  got  my  fellowship, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  ?  I  don't 
know  that  it  matters  much.  A  man 
has  to  work — or  else,"  said  Fred, 
with  a  sigh,  swallowing  something 
more  than  that  entree,  "he  drifts 


444 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


somehow  into  mischief  whether  he 
will  or  no." 

Did  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  head 
of  the  table  as  he  spoke,  where  Kate 
sat  radiant,  dispensing  her  smiles 
on  either  hand  1  It  was  difficult 
to  imagine  why  he  did  so,  and  yet 
so  it  seemed.  John  looked  at  her 
too,  and  for  the  moment  his  heart 
failed  him.  Could  he  say,  as  she 
herself  had  suggested,  "  After  all, 
she  is  my  Kate  and  no  one's  else," 
as  she  sat  there  in  all  her  splen- 
dour 1  What'could  he  give  her  that 
would  bear  comparison  1  Of  all 
the  men  at  her  father's  table,  he 
was  the  most  humble.  At  that 
moment  he  caught  Kate's  eye,  and 
she  gave  him  the  most  imperceptible 
little  nod,  the  brightest  moment- 
ary glance.  She  acknowledged  him 
when  even  his  own  faith  failed  him. 
His  heart  came  bounding  up  again 
to  his  breast,  and  throbbed  and 
knocked  against  it,  making  itself 
all  but  audible  in  a  kind  of  shout 
of  triumph.  Then  he  turned  half 
round  to  his  companion,  with 
heightened  colour,  and  an  anima- 
tion of  manner  which  was  quite 
unusual  to  him.  He  found  Hunt- 
ley's  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  look- 
ing at  him  with  grave,  wondering, 
almost  sympathetic  interest.  Of 
course  Fred's  countenance  changed 
as  soon  as  he  found  that  it  was  per- 
ceived, and  sank  into  the  ordinary 
expressionless  look  of  good  society. 
He  was  the  spectator  looking  on  at 
this  drama,  and  felt  himself  so  much 
better  qualified  to  judge  than  either 
of  those  more  closely  concerned. 

"  How  do  you  like  Fernwood  1" 
Huntley  began,  with  some  precip- 
itation. "It  is  rather  too  full  to 
be  pleasant  while  you  are  half  an 
invalid,  isn't  it?  Does  your  arm 
give  you  much  pain  1 " 

"It  is  very  full/'  said  John, 
"  and  one  is  very  much  alone 
among  a  crowd  of  people  whom 
one  does  not  know." 

"You  will  soon  get  to  know 
them, "  said  Fred,  consolingly  ; 
"people  are  very  easy  to  get  on 
with  nowadays  on  the  whole." 


"  I  am  going  away  on  Thursday," 
said  John. 

"  What!  the  day  after  to-morrow1? 
before  your  arm  is  better,  or — any- 
thing different1?  Do  you  know, 
Mitford,  I  think  you  stand  a  good 
deal  in  your  own  light." 

"  That  may  be,"  John  said,  hotly, 
"  but  there  are  some  personal  mat- 
ters of  which  one  can  only  judge 
for  one's  self." 

Fred  made  no  answer  to  this  ;  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little  as 
who  should  say,  It  is  no  business 
of  mine,  and  began  to  talk  of  poli- 
tics and  the  member  for  Camelford, 
about  whose  election  there  were 
great  searchings  of  heart  in  the  bor- 
ough and  its  neighbourhood.  An  in- 
quiry was  going  on  in  the  town,  and 
disclosures  were  being  made  which 
excited  the  district.  The  two 
young  men  turned  their  thoughts, 
or  at  least  their  conversation,  to 
that  subject,  and  seemed  to  forget 
everything  else ;  but  whether  the 
election  committee  took  any  very 
strong  hold  upon  them,  or  if  they 
were  really  much  interested  about 
the  doings  of  the  man  in  the  moon, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

The  drawing-room  was  very  bright 
and  very  gay  that  evening — like  a 
scene  in  a  play,  John  was  tempted 
to  think.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  music,  and  he  sat  in  his  corner 
and  looked  and  saw  everything, 
and  would  have  been  amused  but 
for  the  sinking  of  his  heart.  Kate 
was  in  the  very  centre  of  it  all,  guid- 
ing and  directing,  as  it  was  natu- 
ral she  should  be.  The  spectator 
in  the  corner  watched  her  by  the 
piano,  now  taking  a  part,  now  ac- 
companying, now  throwing  herself 
back  into  her  chair  with  an  air  of 
relief  when  something  elaborate 
had  been  set  agoing,  and  whisper- 
ing and  smiling  behind  her  fan  to 
some  favoured  being,  though  never 
to  himself.  The  drawing  room  was 
long  and  lofty,  with  an  open  arched 
doorway  at  either  end  leading  to 
the  anteroom  on  one  side  and  the 
boudoir  on  the  other.  It  was  at 
the  latter  end  that  John  sat ;  and 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


445 


now  and  then  people  would  go  past 
him  into  the  small  room  to  bonder, 
or  otherwise  amuse  themselves ; 
and  in  his  weariness  his  eyes  some- 
t  inies  followed  these  passing  figures, 
not  that  he  was  attracted  by  them, 
but  only,  as  weary  watchers  have  a 
way  of  doing,  that  he  might  per- 
haps see  some  change  that  should 
be  more  pleasant  to  him  when  his 
eyes  returned  to  their  natural 
centre.  When  they  did  so,  how- 
over,  he  saw  something  which 
llushed  him  with  a  sudden  pang 
and  heat.  It  was  Fred  Huntley,  to 
\vhom  Kate  was  speaking.  He 
%vas  stooping  down  over  her,  lean- 
ing on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and 
Kate's  face  was  raised  to  him  and 
half  screened  with  her  fan.  Their 
talk  looked  very  confidential,  very 
animated  and  friendly ;  and  it 
•seemed  to  John  (but  that  must 
have  been  a  mistake)  that  she  gave 
him  just  the  tips  of  her  fingers  as 
she  dismissed  him.  Fred  rose  from 
the  chair  on  which  he  had  been 
half  kneeling  with  a  little  move- 
ment of  his  head,  which  Kate  recip- 
rocated, and  went  off  upon  a  me- 
undering  passage  round  the  room. 
tShe  had  given  him  some  commis- 
sion, John  felt — to  him,  and  not  to 
me,  he  said  bitterly  in  his  heart, 
und  then  tried  to  comfort  himself, 
not  very  successfully,  with  the 
words  she  had  taught  him,  "  After 
ull,  she  is  my  Kate  and  not  his/' 
Was  she  John's  ?  or  was  it  all  a 
dream  and  phantasmagoria,  that 
might  vanish  in  an  instant  and 
leave  no  trace  behind  1  He  felt 
that  if  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  might  find,  on  reopening 
them,  that  all  the  lights  and  the 
brightness  had  vanished,  that  the 
music  had  resolved  itself  into  some 
chance  bourdonnement  of  bird  or 
insect,  and  that  he  should  know 
himself  to  be  in  fact,  as  he  was 
in  spirit,  alone.  And  he  did  close 
his  eyes  in  the  caprice  of  a  heart 
very  ill  at  ease.  When  he  opened 
them  again  he  found  that  some- 
thing had  happened  more  disen- 
chanting than  if  the  light  had 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCUV. 


turned  into  darkness  and  the  gay 
sounds  into  nothing.  It  was  that 
Fred  Huntley  was  approaching 
himself,  and  that  this  was  the  mis- 
sion with  which  Kate,  giving  him 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  had  intrust- 
ed the  man  whom  of  all  others  it 
most  revolted  him  to  be  put  in 
charge  of.  Fred  managed  the 
business  very  cleverly,  and  would 
have  taken  in  any  unsuspicious 
person  ;  but  John,  on  the  contrary, 
was  horribly  suspicions,  looking 
for  pricks  at  all  possible  points. 
The  ambassador  threw  himself  into 
a  vacant  chair  which  happened  to 
be  handy,  and  stretched  himself 
out  comfortably  in  it,  and  said 
nothing  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
yawned  (was  that,  too,  done  on 
purpose  1)  and  turned  to  John. 
"  Were  you  asleep,  Mitford  1 "  he 
said  :  "  I  don't  much  wonder.  It's 
very  amusing,  but  it's  very  mono- 
tonous night  after  night." 

"  I  have  not  had  so  much  of  it 
as  you  have,  to  get  so  tired  of  it," 
said  John. 

"  Well,  perhaps  there  is  some- 
thing in  that ;  but,  after  all,  there 
are  some  nice  people  here.  The 
worst  for  a  new-comer,"  said  Fred, 
poising  himself  lazily  in  his  chair, 
"  is,  that  everybody  has  made  ac- 
quaintance before  he  comes ;  and 
till  he  has  been  there  for  some  time 
and  gets  used  to  it,  he  is  apt  to 
feel  himself  left  out  in  the  cold. 
Of  course  you  can't  have  any  such 
sensations  in  this  house — but  1  have 
felt  it;  and  Ka — Miss  Crediton, 
though  she  is  an  admirable  hostess, 
can't  be  everywhere  at  once." 

"  But  she  can  send  ambassadors," 
said  John,  with  a  faint  attempt  at 
a  smile. 

"  Oh  yes ;  of  course  she  can 
send  ambassadors,"  said  Huntley, 
confused,  "  when  she  has  any  am- 
bassadors to  send.  I  wanted  to 
ask  you,  Mitford,  about  that  archae- 
ological business  your  father  takes 
so  much  interest  in.  I  hear  they 
are  to  visit  Dulchester " 

"Did  she  tell  you  that?"  said 
John.  "  My  dear  fellow,  say  to  me 
2  H- 


446 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


plainly,  I  have  been  sent  to  talk  to 
you  and  draw  you  out.  That  is 
reasonable  and  comprehensible,  arid 
I  should  not  be  ungrateful.  But 
let  us  talk  since  we  are  required  to 
do  so.  When  are  you  likely  to  be 
at  Westbrook  ]  I  want  to  go  home 
one  of  these  days  ;  and  my  mother 
would  like  to  see  you,  to  thank 
you " 

"  To  thank  me  for  what  ?  "  said 
Fred,  with  much  consternation. 

"  For  dragging  me  out  of  that 
fire.  I  don't  say  for  saving  my 
life,  for  it  did  not  come  to  that — 
but  still  you  have  laid  me  under  a 
great  obligation/'  said  John,  with 
a  setting  together  of  his  teeth 
which  did  not  look  much  like  gra- 
titude ;  and  then  he  rose  up  sud- 


denly and  went  away  out  of  the 
corner,  leaving  Huntley  alone  in 
the  chair,  and  not  so  happy  as  his 
wont.  As  for  John  himself,  he  was 
stung  to  exertions  quite  unusual 
to  him.  He  went  and  talked  poli- 
tics, and  university  talk,  and  sport- 
ing talk,  with  a  variety  of  men.  He 
did  not  approach  any  of  the  ladies 
— his  heart  was  beating  too  fast  for 
that }  but  he  stood  up  in  the  door- 
way and  against  the  walls  wher- 
ever the  men  of  the  party  most 
congregated.  And  he  never  so 
much  as  looked  at  the  creature 
who  was  at  once  his  delight  and 
his  torment  during  all  the  long 
weary  tedious  evening,  which  look- 
ed as  if  it  never  would  come  to  an 
end  and  leave  him  at  peace. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


Next  morning  John  packed  him- 
self up  before  he  saw  any  one.  He 
had  not  slept  all  night.  It  is  true 
that  the  incidents  of  the  past  even- 
ing had  been  trifling  enough — not 
of  sufficient  consequence  to  affect, 
as  his  sudden  departure  might  do, 
the  entire  complexion  of  his  life. 
It  was  only  as  a  climax,  indeed, 
that  they  were  of  any  importance 
at  all;  but  as  such,  they  had  wound 
him  up  to  a  point  of  resolution. 
The  present  state  of  affairs,  it  was 
evident,  could  not  go  on.  Had  he 
been  a  mere  idle  man  of  society,  he 
said  to  himself,  in  whose  life  this 
perpetual  excitement  might  supply 
a  painful-pleasant  sensation,  then 
it  might  have  been  possible ;  but 
he  could  not,  love  as  he  might, 
wear  away  his  existence  in  watch- 
ing a  girl's  face,  or  waiting  for  such 
moments  of  her  society  as  she  might 
be  able  to  give  him.  It  was  impos- 
sible :  better  to  go  away  where  he 
should  never  see  her  again  ;  better 
to  give  up  for  ever  all  the  joys  of 
life,  than  wear  out  every  vestige  of 
manliness  within  him  in  this  hope- 
less way.  He  had  been  born  to 
higher  uses  and  better  purposes 
surely,  or  where  was  the  good  of 


being  born  at  all  1  Accordingly  he 
prepared  all  his  belongings  for  in- 
stant departure.  He  did  not  enter 
on  the  question,  what  should  come 
after,  or  whether  any  result  would 
follow.  He  was  not  breaking  off 
anything,  he  said  to  himself.  Kate 
was  still  dearer  to  him  than  any- 
thing in  earth  or  heaven,  he  acknow- 
ledged with  a  sigh  ;  but  unless  per- 
haps time  or  Providence  might 
arrange  the  terms  of  their  inter- 
course on  a  more  possible  footing, 
that  intercourse  for  the  present 
must  be  suspended.  He  could  not 
go  on.  With  this  resolution  in  his 
mind  he  went  down-stairs ;  and 
looked  so  pale,  that  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  lady  who  sat 
next  to  him  at  the  breakfast-table, 
where  Kate,  who  was  so  often  late, 
had  not  yet  appeared. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  ill,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  fear  your  arm  pains  you 
more  than  usual.  I  think  I  knew 
your  mother,  Mr  Mitford,  a  thou- 
sand years  ago.  Was  not  she  a 
Miss  Olive,  of  Burton  ?  Ah,  yes  ! 
I  remember — one  of  the  prettiest 

girls  I  ever  saw.     I  think you 

are  a  little  like  her,"  said  this  bene- 
volent woman,  with  a  slight  hesita- 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


447 


don.  And  then  there  was  a  titter  at 
:he  table,  in  which  John  did  not 
feel  much  disposed  to  join. 

"Oh  no,"  cried  Kate,  who  had 
just  come  in  ;  "  it  is  not  him  that 
is  like  Mrs  Mitford,  but  me.  I 
illow  he  is  her  son,  but  that  does 
not  matter.  I  was  at  Fanshawe 
Regis  ever  so  long  in  summer.  Mr 
John,  tell  Lady  Winton  she  was  like 
ne  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  I  shall 
be  like  her  when  I  am  an  old  lady. 
You  know  it  is  so." 

And  she  paused  a  moment  just 
beside  him,  with  her  hand  on  Lady 
Winton's  chair,  and  looked  into 
John's  pale  face  as  he  rose  at  her 
appeal.  Something  was  wrong — 
iiate  was  not  sure  what.  Lady 
Winton,  perhaps,  had  been  annoy- 
ing him  with  questions,  or  Fred 
Huntley  with  criticism.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  she  herself 
could  be  the  offender.  She  looked 
i  nto  John's  face,  meaning  to  say  a 
thousand  things  to  him  with  her 
eyes,  but  his  were  blank,  and  made 
no  reply. 

"  She  was  prettier  than  you  are, 
Kate,"  said  Lady  Wiiiton,  with  a 
(-mile. 

"  Nay, "  said  John,  unawares. 
He  had  not  meant  to  enter  into 
1  he  talk — but  to  look  at  her  stand- 
ing there  before  him  in  her  fresh 
morning  dress,  in  all  her  perfection 
of  youth  and  sweetness,  and  to  be- 
Jieve  that  anybody  had  ever  been 
more  lovely,  was  impossible.  At 
that  moment,  when  he  was  about 
to  leave  her,  he  could  have  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
dress.  It  seemed  the  only  fitting 
thing  to  do,  but  it  could  not  be 
done  before  all  these  people.  Kate 
was  still  more  and  more  perplexed 
what  he  could  mean.  His  eyes, 
which  had  been  blank,  lighted  up 
all  in  a  moment,  and  spoke  things 
to  her  which  she  could  not  under- 
stand. What  was  the  meaning  of 
the  pathos  in  them  —  the  melan- 
choly, the  dumb  appeal  that  almost 
made  her  cry  ?  She  gave  a  little 
liugh  instead,  much  fluttered  and 
disturbed  in  her  mind  the  while, 


and  nodded  her  head  and  went  on 
to  her  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  When  one's  friends  begin  to 
discuss  one's  looks,  don't  you  think 
it  is  best  to  withdraw  1 "  she  said. 
"  Oh,  thanks,  Madeline,  for  doing 
my  duty.  It  is  so  wretched  to  be 
late.  Please,  somebody,  have  some 
tea." 

And  then  the  ordinary  talk  came 
in  and  swept  this  little  episode  out 
of  sight. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  and 
one  after  another  the  guests  began 
to  disperse  to  their  morning  occu- 
pations, Kate,  turning  round  to 
accompany  one  of  the  last  to  the 
morning  room,  where  all  the  em- 
broidery and  the  practising  and  the 
gossip  went  on,  had  her  uncom- 
fortable thoughts  brought  back  in 
a  moment  by  the  sight  of  John 
standing  right  in  her  way,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "I  am  obliged  to 
go  away,"  he  said,  in  the  most  calm 
tone  he  could  muster.  "  Good-bye, 
Miss  Crediton ;  and  thanks,  many 
thanks." 

"  Going  away  !  "  cried  Kate, 
standing  still  in  her  amazement. 
"  Going  away  !  Has  anything  hap- 
pened at  Fanshawe  Regis Your 

mother— or  Dr  Mitford 1 " 

"  They  are  both  well,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  Fanshawe,  only 
back  to  the  town  to  my  work. 
Good-bye." 

"I  must  hear  about  this,"  said 
Kate,  abruptly.  "Please  don't  wait 
for  me,  Madeline  ;  I  want  to  speak 
to  Mr  Mitford.  Go  on,  and  I  will 
join  you.  Oh,  John,  what  does  it 
mean1?"  she  cried,  turning  to  her 
lover,  almost  without  waiting  until 
the  door  had  closed  on  her  compan- 
ion. By  this  time  everybody  was 
gone,  and  the  two  were  left  alone 
in  the  great  empty  room  where 
five  minutes  ago  there  had  been  so 
much  sound  and  movement.  They 
were  standing  in  front  of  one  of  the 
deeply-recessed  windows,  with  the 
light  falling  direct  upon  them  as 
on  a  stage.  He  held  out  his  hand 
again  and  took  hers,  which  she  was 
too  much  disturbed  to  give. 


448 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  with  a 
forlorn  sort  of  smile,  "  except  just 
that  I  must  go  away.  Don't  let 
that  cloud  your  face,  dear.  I  can't 
help  myself.  I  am  obliged  to  go." 

"Is  any  one  ill?"  she  cried;  "is 
that  the  reason  1  Oh,  John,  tell 
me !  are  you  really  obliged  to  go  1 
Or  is  it  —  anything  —  we  have 
done  ? " 

"  No/'  he  said,  holding  her  hand 
in  his.  "It  is  all  my  fault.  It 
does  not  matter.  It  is  that  I  can- 
not manage  this  sort  of  life.  No 
blame  to  you,  my  darling.  Don't 
think  I  am  blaming  you.  When  I 
am  back  at  my  work,  things  W7ill 
look  different.  I  was  not  brought 
up  to  it,  like  you.  You  must  par- 
don me  as  you  would  pardon  me 
for  being  ignorant  and  not  knowing 
another  language  ;  but  it  is  best  I 
should  go  away." 

"  John  !  "  she  cried,  the  tears 
coming  with  a  sudden  rush  into 
the  clear  wondering  eyes  that  had 
been  gazing  at  him  so  intently, 
"  what  have  I  done  1 " 

"Nothing  —  nothing,"  he  said, 
stooping  over  her  hand  and  kissing 
it  again  and  again.  "  There  is  only 
myself  to  blame.  I  can't  take 
things,  I  suppose,  as  other  people 
do.  I  am  exacting  and  inconsid- 
erate and Never  mind,  dear. 

I  must  go  away ;  and  you  will  not 
remember  my  faults  when  I  am 
gone." 

"But  I  never  thought  you  had 
any  faults,"  cried  Kate.  "  You 
speak  as  if  it  were  me.  I  never 
have  found  fault  with  you,  John — 
nor  asked  anything  more — nor — I 
know  I  am  silly.  Tell  me,  and 
scold  me,  and  forgive  me.  Say  as 
papa  does  —  it  is  only  Kate.  I 
know  I  did  not  mean  it.  Oh, 
John,  dear,  if  I  beg  your  pardon, 
though  I  don't  know  what  I  have 
done " 

"You  have  done  nothing/'  he 
cried,  in  despair.  "  Oh,  my  Kate  ! 
are  you  my  Kate  ?  or  are  you  a 
witch  coming  into  my  arms  to  dis- 
tract me  from  everything?  No, 
no,  no  !  I  must  not  be  conquered 


this  time.  My  love,  it  will  be  best 
for  both  of  us.  I  cannot  go  on  see- 
ing you  always  within  my  reach 
and  always  out  of  my  reach.  I 
would  have  you  always  like  this — 
always  here — always  mine;  butr  I 
can't  have  you;  and  I  have  no 
strength  to  stand  by  at  a  distance 
and  look  on.  Do  you  understand 
me  now  1  I  shall  go  away  so  much 
happier  because  of  this  five  minutes. 
Good-bye." 

"But,  John!"  she  cried,  cling- 
ing to  him,  "  don't  go  away ;  why 
should  you  go  away  ?  I  will  do 
anything  you  please.  I  will  — 
make  a  change;  don't  go  and  leave 
me.  I  want  you  to  be  here." 

"  You  break  my  heart !  "  he 
cried;  "but  I  cannot  be  here. 
What  use  is  it  to  you  1  And  to 
me  it  is  distraction.  Kate!  don't 
ask  me  to  stay." 

"But  it  is  of  use  to  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  flush  on  her  face,  and 
an  expression  unlike  anything  he 
had  seen  before — an  uneasy  look, 
half  of  shame  and  half  of  alarm. 
Then  she  turned  from  him  a  little, 
with  a  slight  change  of  tone.  "  It 
is  a  strange  way  of  using  me,"  she 
said,  looking  steadfastly  at  the  car- 
pet, "  after  my  going  to  you,  and  all ; 
not  many  girls  would  have  gone  to 
you  as  I  did  ;  you  might  stay  now 
when  I  ask  you — for  my  sake." 

"  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  your  sake,"  he  said;  "but, 
Kate,  it  does  you  no  good,  you 
know.  It  is  an  embarrassment  to 
you,"  John  went  on,  with  a  half- 
groan  escaping  him,  "and  it  is 
distraction  to  me." 

Then  there  followed  a  pause. 
She  drew  her  hand  away  from  his 
with  a  little  petulant  movement. 
She  kept  her  eyes  away  from  him, 
not  meeting  his,  which  were  fixed 
upon  her.  Her  face  glowed  with  a 
painful  heat;  her  little  foot  tap- 
ped the  carpet.  "  Do  you  mean 
that — other  things — are  to  be  over 
too  ? "  she  said  ;  and  twisted  her 
fingers  together,  and  gazed  out  of 
the  window,  waiting  for  what  he 
had  to  say. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  F7. 


449 


Sach  a  question  comes  naturally 
to  the  mind  of  a  lover  whenever 
there  is  any  fretting  of  his  silken 
chain  ;  and  accordingly  it  was  not 
novel  to  John's  imagination — but 
it  struck  upon  his  heart  as  if  it  had 
been  a  blow.  "  Surely  not — surely 
not,"  he  answered,  hastily;  "not 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

And  then  they  stood  again — for 
how  long  ? — side  by  side,  not  look- 
ing at  each  other,  waiting  a  chance 
word  to  separate  or  to  reunite  them. 
Should  she  be  able  to  bear  her  first 
rebuff  1  she,  a  spoiled  child,  to  whom 
everybody  yielded  1  Or  could  she 
all  in  a  moment  learn  that  sweet 
philosophy  of  yielding  in  her  own 
person,  which  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence between  sorrow  and  unhappi- 
ness?  Everything — the  world  it- 
self— seemed  to  hang  in  the  balance 
for  that  moment.  Kate  terminated 
it  suddenly,  in  her  own  unexpected 
way.  She  turned  on  him  all  at 
once,  with  all  the  sweetness  restor- 
ed to  her  face  and  her  voice,  and 
held  out  her  hand  :  "  Neither  shall 
it  be  so  far  as  I  am  concerned/'  she 
said.  "Since  you  must  go,  good- 
bye, John ! " 

And  thus  it  came  to  an  end. 
When  he  was  on  his  way  back  to 
Camelford,  and  the  visit  to  Fern- 
wood,  with  all  its  pains  and  pleas- 
ures, and  the  last  touch  of  her 
hand,  were  all  things  of  the  past, 
John  asked  himself,  with  all  a 
lover's  ingenuity  of  self -torment, 
if  this  frank  sweetness  of  reply 
was  enough  ?  if  she  should  have  let 
him  go  so  easily  ?  if  there  was  not 
something  of  relief  in  it  ?  He 
drove  himself  frantic  with  these 
questions,  as  he  made  his  way  back 
to  his  poor  little  lodgings.  Mr 
Crediton  had  looked  politely  in- 
different, rather  glad  than  other- 
wise, when  he  took  his  leave. 
"  Going  to  leave  us  1 "  Mr  Credi- 
ton had  said.  "  I  am  very  sorry  ; 
I  hope  it  is  not  any  bad  news. 
But  perhaps  you  are  right,  and 
perfect  quiet  will  be  better  for 
your  arm.  Never  mind  about 
business. —  you  must  take  your 


own  time.  If  you  see  Whichelo, 
tell  him  I  mean  to  come  in  on 
Saturday.  I  am  very  sorry  you 
have  given  us  so  short  a  visit. 
Good-bye."  Such  was  Mr  Credi- 
ton's  farewell ;  but  the  young  man 
made  very  little  account  of  that. 
Mr  Creditors  words  or  ways  were 
not  of  so  much  importance  to  him 
as  one  glance  of  Kate's  eye.  What 
she  meant  by  her  dismay  and  dis- 
tress, and  then  by  the  sudden  change, 
the  sweet  look,  the  good-bye  so 
kindly,  gently  said,  was  the  ques- 
tion he  debated  with  himself ;  and 
naturally  he  had  put  a  hundred 
interpretations  upon  it  before  he 
reached  the  end  of  his  journey.  It 
was  still  but  mid- day  when  he 
reached  the  little  melancholy  shabby 
rooms  which  were  his  home  in 
Camelford.  The  place  might  be 
supportable  at  night,  when  he  came 
in  only  for  rest  after  the  day's  la- 
bours, though  even  then  it  was 
dreary  enough  ;  but  what  could  be 
thought  of  it  in  the  middle  of  a 
bright  autumn  day,  when  the  young 
man  came  in  and  closed  his  door, 
and  felt  the  silence  hem  him  in 
and  enclose  him,  and  put  seals,  as 
it  were,  to  the  grave  in  which  he 
had  buried  himself.  Full  day,  and 
nothing  to  do,  and  a  little  room  to 
walk  about  in,  four  paces  from  one 
side  to  the  other — and  a  suburban 
street  to  look  out  upon,  with  blinds 
drawn  over  the  windows,  and  plants 
shutting  out  the  air,  and  an  organ 
grinding  melancholy  music  forth 
along  each  side  of  the  way  :  could 
he  stay  still  and  bear  it  1  When  he 
was  at  Fernwood  his  rooms  looked 
to  him  like  a  place  of  rest,  where 
he  could  go  and  hide  himself  and 
be  at  peace.  But  as  soon  as  he 
had  entered  them,  it  was  Fernwood 
that  grew  lovely  in  the  distance, 
where  Kate  was,  where  there  were 
blessed  people  who  would  be  round 
her  all  day  long,  and  the  stir  of 
life,  and  a  thousand  pleasant  mat- 
ters going  on.  He  was  weary  and 
sick  of  himself,  and  sick  of  the 
world.  Could  he  sit  down  and 
read  a  novel  in  the  light  of  that 


450 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


October  day — or  what  was  he  to 
do? 

The  end  was  that  he  took  his 
portmanteau,  which  had  not  been 
unpacked,  and  threw  it  into  a  pass- 
ing cab,  and  went  off  to  the  rail- 
way. He  had  not  gone  home  since 
he  came  to  his  clerkship  in  the 
bank,  and  that  was  three  months 
since.  It  seemed  the  only  thing 
that  was  left  for  him  to  do  now. 
He  went  back  along  the  familiar 
road  with  something  of  the  feelings 
of  a  prodigal  approaching  his  home. 
It  seemed  strange  to  him  when  the 
porter  at  the  little  roadside  station 
of  Fanshawe  touched  his  cap,  and 
announced  his  intention  of  carry- 
ing Mr  John's  portmanteau  to  the 
Rectory.  He  felt  it  strange  that 
the  poor  fellow  should  remember 
him.  Surely  it  was  years  since  he 
had  been  there  before. 

And  this  feeling  grew  as  John 
walked  slowly  along  the  quiet  coun- 
try road  that  led  to  his  home. 
Everything  he  passed  was  asso- 
ciated with  thoughts  which  were  as 
much  over  and  past  as  if  they  had 
happened  in  a  different  existence. 
He  had  walked  along  by  these  hedge- 
rows pondering  a  thousand  things, 
but  scarcely  one  that  had  any  refer- 
ence to,  any  relation  with,  his  pre- 
sent life.  He  had  been  a  dreamer, 
planning  high  things  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  world ;  he  had  been  a 
reformer,  rousing,  sometimes  ten- 
derly, sometimes  violently,  the  in- 
different country  from  its  slumbers ; 
sometimes,  even,  retiring  to  the 
prose  of  things,  he  had  tried  to 
realise  the  details  of  a  clergyman's 
work,  and  to  fit  himself  into  them, 
and  ask  himself  how  he  should  per- 
form them.  But  never,  in  all  these 
questionings,  had  he  thought  of 
himself  as  a  banker's  clerk — a  man 
working  for  money  alone,  and  the 
hope  of  money.  It  was  so  strange 
that  he  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  it.  As  he  went  on,  the  other 
John,  his  former  self,  seemed  to  go 
with  him — and  which  was  the  real 
man,  and  which  the  phantom,  he 
could  not  tell.  All  the  quiet  coun- 


try lifted  prevailing  hands,  and 
laid  hold  on  him  as  he  went  home. 
It  looked  so  natural — and  he,  what 
was  he  ]  But  the  country,  too,  had 
changed  as  if  in  a  dream.  He  had 
left  it  in  the  full  blaze  of  June,  and 
now  it  was  October,  with  the  leaves 
in  autumn  glory,  the  fields  reaped, 
the  brown  stubble  everywhere,  and 
now  and  then  in  the  clear  blue  air 
the  crack  of  a  sportsman's  gun. 
All  these  things  had  borne  a  dif- 
ferent aspect  once  to  John.  He 
too  had  been  a  little  of  a  sports- 
man, as  was  natural ;  but  the  dog 
and  the  gun  did  not  harmonise 
with  the  figure  of  a  banker's  clerk. 
The  women  on  the  road,  who  stared 
at  him,  and  curtsied  to  him  with 
a  smile  of  recognition,  confused 
him,  he  could  not  tell  why.  It  was 
so  strange  that  everybody  should 
recognise  him — he  who  did  not 
recognise  himself. 

An  das  he  approached  the  Rectory, 
a  vague  sense  that  something  must 
have  happened  there,  came  over 
him.  It  was  only  three  days  since 
he  had  received  a  letter  from  his 
mother  full  of  those  cheerful  de- 
tails which  it  cost  her,  though  he 
did  not  knowit,so  much  labour  and 
pain  to  write.  He  tried  to  remind 
himself  of  all  the  pleasant  every- 
day gossip,  and  picture  of  things 
serene  and  unchangeable  which  she 
had  sent  him  ;  but  still  the  nearer 
he  drew  and  the  more  familiar 
everything  became,  the  more  he 
felt  that  something  must  have  hap- 
pened. He  went  in  by  the  little 
garden -gate,  which  opened  noise- 
lessly, and  made  his  way  through 
the  shrubbery,  to  satisfy  himself 
that  no  cloud  of  uttermost  calamity 
had  fallen  upon  the  house.  It  was 
actually  a  relief  to  him  to  see  that 
the  blinds  were  up  and  the  win- 
dows open.  It  was  a  warm  genial 
autumn  day,  very  still,  and  some- 
what pathetic,  but  almost  as  balmy 
as  summer.  And  the  drawing- 
room  window  stood  wide  open 
as  it  had  done  through  all  those 
wonderful  June  days  when  John's 
life  had  come  to  its  climax.  The 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI. 


451 


lilies  had  vanished  that  stood  up 
in  great  pyramids  against  the  but- 
tresses ;  even  their  tall  green  stalks 
were  gone,  cut  down  to  the  ground ; 
and  there  were  no  roses,  except  here 
and  there  a  pale  monthly  one,  or 
a  half-nipped,  half-open  bud.  John 
paused  under  the  acacia-tree  where 
he  had  so  often  placed  Kate's  chair, 
and  which  was  now  littering  all 
the  lawn  round  about  with  its 
leaflets — to  gain  a  glimpse,  before 
he  entered,  of  what  was  going  on 
within.  The  room  was  in  the 
shade,  and  at  first  it  was  difficult 
to  make  oat  anything.  The  dear, 
tender  mother  !  to  whom  he  had 
been  everything — all  her  heart  had 
to  rest  on.  What  had  she  to 
recompense  her  for  all  the  tender 
patience,  all  the  care  and  labour 
she  took  upon  herself  for  the  sake 
of  her  Saviour  and  fellow -crea- 
tures !  Her  son,  who  had  taken 
things  for  granted  all  this  time  as 
sons  do,  opened  his  eyes  suddenly 
as  he  stood  peeping  in  like  a  stran- 
ger, and  began  to  understand  her 
life.  God  never  made  a  better, 
purer  woman  ;  she  had  lived  fifty 
years  doing  good  and  not  evil  to 
every  soul  around  her,  and  what 
had  she  in  return  1  A  husband, 
who  thought  she  was  a  very  good 
sort  of  ignorant  foolish  little  wo- 
man on  the  whole,  and  very  use- 
ful in  the  parish,  and  handy 
to  keep  off  all  interruptions  and 
annoyances ;  and  a  son  who  had 
gone  away  and  abandoned  her  at 
the  first  chance — disappointed  all 
her  hopes,  left  her  alone,  doubly 
alone,  in  the  world.  "  It  is  her 
hour  for  the  school,  the  dearest 
little  mother,"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes ; 
"she  never  fails,  though  we  all 
fail  her  ; ;;  but  even  as  the  words 
formed  in  his  mind  he  perceived 
that  the  room  into  which  he  was 
gazing  was  not  empty.  There  she 
sat,  thrown  back  into  a  chair ;  her 
work  was  lying  on  the  floor  at  her 
feet ;  but  John  had  never  seen 
such  an  air  of  weariness  and  lassi- 
tude in  his  mother  before.  He  re- 


cognised the  gown  she  had  on,  the 
basket  of  work  on  the  table,  all  the 
still  life  round  her ;  but  her  he  could 
not  recognise.  She  had  her  hands 
crossed  loosely  in  her  lap,  laid  to- 
gether with  a  passive  indifference 
that  went  to  his  heart.  Could  she 
be  asleep  1  but  she  was  not  asleep ; 
for  after  a  while  one  of  the  hands 
went  softly  up  to  her  cheek,  and 
something  was  brushed  off,  which 
could  only  be  a  tear.  He  could 
scarcely  restrain  the  cry  that  came 
to  his  lips  ;  but  at  that  moment 
the  door,  which  he  could  not  see, 
must  have  opened,  for  she  gave  a 
start,  and  roused  herself,  and  turn- 
ed to  speak  to  somebody.  "  I  am 
coming,  Lizzie,"  John  heard  her 
answer  in  a  spiritless,  weary  tone; 
and  then  she  rose  and  put  away 
her  work,  and  took  up  her  white 
shawl,  which  was  lying  on  the  back 
of  a  chair.  She  liked  white  and 
pretty  bright  colours  about  her, 
the  simple  soul.  They  became 
her,  and  were  like  herself.  But 
when  she  had  wrapped  herself  in 
the  shawl,  which  was  as  familiar 
to  John  as  her  own  face,  his  mother 
gave  a  long  weary  sigh,  and  sat 
down  again  as  if  she  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  to  move.  He 
had  crept  quite  close  to  the  win- 
dow by  this  time,  moved  beyond 
expression  by  the  sight  of  her,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  unspeakable 
compunction  in  his  heart.  "  What 
does  it  matter  now  1 "  she  said  to 
herself,  drearily.  She  had  come 
to  be  so  much  alone  that  the 
thought  was  spoken  and  not  merely 
thought.  When  John  stepped  into 
the  room  a  moment  after,  his  mo- 
ther stood  and  gazed  at  him  as  if 
he  had  risen  out  of  the  earth,  and 
then  gave  a  great  cry  which  rang 
through  all  the  house,  and  fell  upon 
his  neck.  Fell  upon  his  neck — that 
was  the  expression — reaching  her 
arms,  little  woman  as  she  was,  up 
to  him  as  he  towered  over  her;  and 
would  not  have  cared  if  she  had 
died  then,  in  the  passion  of  her 

joy- 

"Mother,   dear,   you  are   trem- 


452 


John.— Part  VI. 


[April 


bling,"  John  said,  as  he  put  her 
tenderly  into  her  chair,  and  knelt 
down  beside  her,  taking  her  hands 
into  his.  "  I  should  not  have  been 
so  foolish  startling  you;  but  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  when  I 
saw  you  here.'7 

"  Joy  does  not  hurt,"  said  Mrs 
Mitford.  "  I  have  grown  so  silly, 
my  dear,  now  I  have  not  you  to 
keep  me  right;  and  it  was  a  sur- 
prise. There — I  don't  in  the  least 
mean  to  cry;  it  is  only  foolish- 
ness. And  oh,  my  poor  John,  your 
arm  ! " 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is 
almost  well.  Never  mind  it.  I  am 
a  dreadful  guy,  to  be  sure.  Is  that 
what  you  are  looking  at,  mamma 
mia  ? "  In  his  wan  face  and  fire- 
scorched  hair  she  had  not  known 
her  child. 

"  Oh,  John,  that  you  could  think 
so,"  she  said,  in  her  earnest  matter- 
of-fact  way.  "  My  own  boy  !  as  if 
I  should  not  have  known  you  any- 
where, whatever  you  had  done  to 
yourself.  It  was  not  that.  John, 
my  dear  ? " 

"  What,  mother  1 " 

"I  was  looking  to  see  if  you 
were  happy,  my  dearest,  dearest 
boy.  Don't  be  angry  with  me. 
As  long  as  you  are  happy  I  don't 
mind — what  happens — to  me." 

John  laid  his  head  down  on  his 
mother's  lap.  How  often  he  had 
done  it ! — as  a  child,  as  a  lad,  as  a 
man — sometimes  after  those  soft 
reproofs  which  were  like  caresses — 
sometimes  in  penitence,  when  he 
had  been  rebellious  even  to  her; 
but  never  before  as  now,  that  her 
eyes  might  not  read  his  heart.  He 
did  it  by  instinct,  having  no  time 
to  think  ;  but  in  the  moment  that 
followed  thought  came,  and  he  saw 
that  he  must  put  a  brave  face  on 
it,  and  not  betray  himself.  So  he 
raised  his  head  again,  and  met  her 
eyes  with  a  smile,  believing,  man 
as  he  was,  that  he  could  cheat  her 
with  that  simulation  of  gladness 
which  went  no  further  than  his 
lips. 


"What  could  I  be  but  happy?" 
he  said  ;  "  but  not  to  see  you  look- 
ing so  pale,  and  trembling  like  this, 
my  pretty  mamma.  You  are  too 
pretty  to-day — too  pink  and  too 
white  and  too  bright-eyed.  What 
do  you  mean  by  it  1  It  must  be 
put  a  stop  to,  now  I  have  come 
home." 

"WThat  does  that  mean?"  she 
asked,  with  tremulous  eagerness. 
He  was  not  happy;  he  might  de- 
ceive all  the  world,  she  said  to 
herself,  but  he  could  not  deceive 
his  mother.  He  was  not  happy, 
but  he  did  not  mean  her  to  know 
it,  and  she  would  not  betray  her 
knowledge.  So  she  only  trembled 
a  little  more,  and  smiled  patheti- 
cally upon  him,  and  kissed  his  fore- 
head, and  shed  back  the  hair  from 
it  with  her  soft  nervous  hands. 
"  Coming  home  has  such  a  sound 
to  me.  It  used  to  mean  the  long 
nice  holidays  ;  and  once  I  thought 
it  meant  something  more;  but 
now — — " 

"  Now  it  means  a  week  or  two," 
he  said ;  "  not  much,  but  still  we 
can  make  a  great  deal  out  of  it. 
And  the  first  thing  must  be  to  look 
after  your  health,  mother.  This 
will  never  do." 

"My  health  will  mend  now," 
she  said,  with  a  smile ;  and  then, 
afraid  to  have  been  supposed  to 
consent  to  the  fact  that  her  health 
had  need  of  mending — "  I  mean  I 
never  was  better,  John.  I  am  only 
a  little — nervous — because  of  the 
surprise ;  the  first  thing  is  to 
make  you  enjoy  your  holiday,  my 
own  boy." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  curious 
smile.  Enjoy  his  holiday  ! — which 
was  the  escape  of  a  man  beaten 
from  the  field  on  which  he  had 
failed  in  his  first  encounter  with 
fate.  But  I  will  not  let  her  know 
that,  John  said  to  himself.  And 
I  must  not*  show  him  that  I  see  it, 
was  the  reflection  of  his  mother. 
This  was  how  they  met  again  after 
the  great  parting  which  looked  like 
the  crisis  of  their  lives. 


1370.] 


Chatterlon. 


453 


CHATTERTON. 


IN  the  middle  of  last  century,  in 
the  year  1752,  there  was  born,  in 
tiie  old  town  of  Bristol,  a  child, 
pirhaps  the  most  remarkable  of  his 
e:itire  generation,  called  Thomas 
Cbatterton.  He  was  a  posthumous 
child,  brought  into  the  world  with 
all  that  natural  sadness  which  at- 
tends the  birth  of  an  infant  de- 
prived, from  the  very  beginning  of 
its  days,  of  one-half  of  the  succour, 
love,  and  protection  to  which  every 
child  has  a  right.  The  father  might 
not  be  much  to  brag  of — might  not 
hive  done  much  for  his  boy;  but 
s*  ill  there  is  nothing  so  forlorn  as 
such  an  entrance  into  the  world. 
And  it  was  a  hard  world  into  which 
the  boy  came,  full  of  the  bitter 
conditions  of  poverty,  with  little 
to  soften  his  lot.  His  mother  was 
poor,  and  had  to  work  hard  for  her 
living  and  his.  She  had  no  time 
to  spare  for  him,  to  understand 
what  kind  of  a  soul  it  was  which 
she  had  brought  into  the  world. 
If  nature  even  had  given  her  capa- 
city to  understand  it,  the  chatter 
of  her  little  pupils,  the  weary  toil 
of  her  needlework,  absorbed  the 
homely  woman.  The  family  to 
which  she  belonged  was  of  the 
lowest  class,  and  yet  possessed  a 
certain  quaint  antiquity  and  flavour 
of  ancient  birth.  As  ancient  as 
many  a  great  family  of  squires  or 
nobles  were  the  Chattertons.  The 
only  difference  to  speak  of  between 
them  and  the  Howards  was,  that 
while  the  representative  of  the  one 
held  the  hereditary  office  of  Earl 
Marshal  of  England,  the  other  held 
only  that  of  gravedigger  of  St 
Mary  Redcliffe — but  with  a  hered- 
itary succession  as  rigid  and  un- 
broken. For  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  which  could  be 
clearly  reckoned,  and  no  one  could 
tell  how  many  more  which  had 


escaped  in  the  darkness  of  time, 
Thomas  had  succeeded  William, 
and  William  Thomas,  in  that  lu- 
gubrious office.  The  pedigree,  such 
as  it  was,  was  complete.  They  had 
buried  all  Bristol,  generation  after 
generation.  The  race,  however,  was 
perhaps  beginning  to  break  up  in 
preparation  for  that  final  bloom 
which  was  to  give  it  a  name  among 
men,  for  Chatterton's  father  had 
not  held  the  hereditary  place.  It 
had  passed  in  the  female  line  to  a 
brother-in-law,  and  he  had  made  a 
little  rise  in  the  social  scale,  first 
as  usher,  and  then  as  master  of  a 
free  school  close  to  the  hereditary 
church  of  St  Mary  Kedcliffe.  Such 
a  position  implies  some  education, 
though  probably  it  was  neither 
profound  nor  extensive.  He  held 
the  office  of  sub-chanter  in  the 
cathedral  at  the  same  time  ;  and 
was  a  member,  it  would  appear,  of 
the  jovial  society  of  tradesmen, 
deriving  a  certain  taste  for  music 
from  the  choral  services  of  the 
cathedral,  which  probably  many  of 
them  had  taken  part  in,  in  their 
boyhood  as  choristers,  which  as- 
sembled in  those  days  in  certain 
well-known  taverns.  The  most 
noticeable  fact  in  his  life,  however, 
so  far  as  his  son  is  concerned,  is 
his  share  in  a  kind  of  general  rob- 
bery perpetrated  by  the  community 
upon  the  muniment  -  room  of  St 
Mary  Eedcliflfe,  where  a  number 
of  old  papers  had  been  preserved 
for  centuries  in  certain  ancient  oak 
chests.  These  chests  were  broken 
open  in  order  to  find  some  deeds 
wanted  by  the  vestry,  and  were 
left,  with  all  their  antique  contents, 
at  the  mercy  of  the  gravedigger's 
family,  or  any  other  that  could  ob- 
tain access  to  them.  The  parch- 
ments were  carried  off  in  boxfuls, 
to  answer  all  kinds  of  sordid  uses. 


Chatterton  :    a  Biographical  Study. 
I  ondon.     1870. 


By  Daniel  Wilson,  LL.D.      Macmillan, 


454 


Cliatlerton. 


[April 


It  was  the  usage  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  No  doubt  if  any  accident 
had  befallen  St  Mary's  itself,  the 
citizens  would  have  carted  off  the 
stones  to  repair  their  garden-walls 
with.  Chatterton  the  schoolmaster 
carried  off  the  old  parchments,  cov- 
ered copy-books  with  them,  and 
kept  the  records  of  medieval  life 
like  waste  paper  about  his  house, 
ready  to  serve  any  small  emer- 
gency. It  was  no  such  dreadful  sin 
after  all,  to  have  been  followed 
by  so  strange  and  solemn  a  pun- 
ishment. Was  it  that  the  ghosts 
of  citizens  whom  a  Thomas  Chatter- 
ton  had  buried,  came  clustering  up, 
a  crowd  of  angry  spirits,  to  avenge 
the  liberty  thus  taken  with  the 
yellow  forgotten  records  of  their 
wishes  and  hopes  1  The  school- 
master, thinking  little  of  the  ghosts 
or  their  vengeance,  left  his  house 
full  of  those  stolen  documents,  and 
thus  left  behind  him,  without 
knowing  it,  the  fate  of  his  unborn 
boy. 

The  widow  was  young — not  more 
than  one-and-twenty — when  this 
child  of  tears  was  born.  She  was 
left,  as  is  all  but  inevitable  in  such 
circumstances,  penniless,  to  strug- 
gle for  herself  as  best  she  could. 
When  such  a  necessity  happens  to 
a  poor  lady,  our  hearts  bleed  over 
the  helpless  creature  ;  but  it  is 
common,  too  common,  to  demand 
any  particular  comment  among  the 
poor.  Mrs  Chatterton  took  up  a 
little  school,  and  took  in  needle- 
work. She  had  a  little  daughter 
older  than  her  boy;  she  had  women- 
friends  about  her  working  with  her, 
helping  her  to  keep  her  head  above 
water,  and  probably,  after  all,  was 
not  so  very  much  to  be  pitied  for 
the  loss  of  her  jovial  husband,  who, 
according  to  the  record,  kept  his 
good-humour  for  his  cronies  out  of 
doors.  But  her  boy  was  a  wonder 
and  a  trouble  to  the  poor  young 
woman.  Probably  it  was  her  hope 
and  longing  from  his  birth  that  he 
should  be  educated  as  became  the 
son  of  a  scholar ;  and  it  broke  her 
heart  to  find  that  "  he  was  dull  in 


learning,  not  knowing  many  letters 
at  four  years  old."  These  were  the 
days  of  infant  prodigies — for  this 
stupidity  on  the  part  of  the  little 
Chatterton  does  not  strike  us  with 
the  same  dismay  as  it  struck  his 
mother.  There  were,  however, 
other  puzzling  peculiarities  about 
the  child.  "  Until  he  was  six  years 
and  a  half  old,  they  thought  he  was 
an  absolute  fool,"  says  his  mother's 
most  intimate  friend  who  lived  in 
the  house.  He  was  sent  back  upon 
her  hands  by  his  father's  successor 
in  the  free  school,  somewhere  about 
that  early  age,  as  an  incorrigible 
dunce.  Poor  little  bothered  melan- 
choly boy  !  he  would  sit  alone  cry- 
ing for  hours,  nobody  knew  why — 
and  the  sense  of  disappointment  so 
natural  to  a  female  household  find- 
ing out  to  its  dismay  that  the  little 
male  creature  belonging  to  it  was 
not  (as  it  hoped)  a  creature  of  over- 
whelming ability,  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  concealed  from  the  child. 
"  When  will  this  stupidity  cease  ? " 
his  mother  cried  when  "  he  was 
in  one  of  his  silent  moods."  She 
had  little  pupils  of  her  own,  brisk 
little  girls,  learning  their  lessons,  no 
doubt,  with  all  the  vivacity  of  town 
children  kept  alert  by  the  tide  of 
ordinary  life  going  on  around  them ; 
and  the  contrast  must  have  been 
very  galling  to  the  young  mother. 
At  seven  years  old,  we  are  told, 
'  'he  would  frequently  sit  musing  in  a 
seeming  stupor;  at  length  the  tears 
would  steal  one  by  one  down  his 
cheeks  —  for  which  his  mother, 
thinking  to  rouse  him,  sometimes 
gave  him  a  gentle  slap,  and  told 
him  he  was  foolish."  No  doubt 
it  must  have  been  very  trying  to 
the  poor  soul :  her  only  boy,  the 
son  of  a  great  scholard,and  nothing 
more  than  this  coming  of  him  ! 
One  can  forgive  Mrs  Chatterton 
for  giving  that  gentle  slap  to  the 
weeping  child  over  the  fire.  It  is 
hard  upon  a  widow  to  be  driven 
to  confess  to  herself  that  there  is 
nothing  more  than  ordinary — nay, 
perhaps  something  less  than  or- 
dinary— about  her  fatherless  boy. 


1370.] 


Chatterton. 


455 


This  dulness,  however,  lasted 
but  a  short  time.  With  a  certain 
curious  wasteful  Vandalism  which 
seems  to  have  been  peculiar  to  the 
a,*e  in  small  things  as  well  as  great, 
Mrs  Chatterton,  who  made  thread- 
papers  of  the  old  parchments  out  of 
St  Mary's,  tore  up  for  waste  paper 
an  old  music-book  of  her  husband's. 
The  moody  child,  sitting  by,  was 
suddenly  attracted  by  the  capital 
letters,  which  were  illuminated,  the 
story  goes  ;  so  that  it  must  have 
been  a  valuable  book  which  his 
mother  was  thus  destroying.  This 
was  the  first  step  in  his  education. 
He  learned  to  read  thereafter  from 
a  black-letter  Bible,  and  never  could 
bear  to  read  in  a  small  book.  In 
this  quaint  way  the  first  difficulties 
weregotover.  One  would  think  that 
to  acquire  modern  English  after- 
wards would  have  been  almost  as 
difficult  as  learning  a  new  language; 
and  the  reader  is  tempted  to  won- 
der how  anyone  in  that  homely  igno- 
rant sempstress -household  should 
have  been  sufficiently  at  home  in 
the  black-letter  to  make  a  primer  of 
it.  Such,  however, are  the  recorded 
facts.  And  what  with  the  illumi- 
nated capitals  and  the  black-letter 
book,  the  little  fellow  left  off  moon- 
ing, and  woke  up  into  the  light  of 
common  day.  "At  seven  he  visibly 
improved,  to  her  joy  and  surprise; 
and  at  eight  years  of  age  was  so 
eager  for  books  that  he  read  from 
the  moment  he  waked,  which  was 
e;irly,  until  he  went  to  bed,  if  they 
would  Jet  him." 

So  early,  it  would  appear,  as  this 
age,  the  child  had  appropriated  to 
himself  a  lumber-room  in  which, 
among  other  rubbish,  were  the 
boxes  into  which  his  father's  spoils 
of  old  parchment  had  been  turned; 
a: id  here  he  was  accustomed  to  shut 
himself  up  with  such  treasures  as 
pleased  him  most.  He  had  a  turn 
for  drawing,  not  unusual  in  chil- 
dren; and,  instead  of  more  ordinary 
playthings,  he  had  collected  "a 
great  piece  of  ochre  in  a  brown  pan, 
pounce-bags  full  of  charcoal -dust, 
which  he  had  from  a  Miss  Sanger, 


a  neighbour ;  also  a  bottle  of  black- 
lead-powder,  which  they  once  took 
to  clean  the  stoves  with,  making  him 
very  angry."  With  these  materials, 
and  the  unceasing  supply  of  parch- 
ments to  daub  them  on,  what  deli- 
cious begrimings  the  little  artist 
must  have  made !  Here,  for  tbe 
first  time,  the  child  becomes  intel- 
ligible— perhaps  an  infant  poet  al- 
ready, as  some  assert ;  but,  what  is 
better,  an  eager  little  boy,  blacked 
all  over  with  his  hideous  pigments, 
and  making,  no  doubt,  horrible 
pictures  upon  his  parchments  and 
his  walls  and  his  floor.  They  could 
not  get  him  out  of  the  room  in 
which  abode  all  this  precious  dirt. 
Sometimes  the  key  was  carried  off, 
out  of  anxiety  for  his  health,  and 
his  clothes,  and  his  little  grimy 
face ;  but  then  the  little  man  fell 
to  kissing  and  coaxing  till  he  got 
it  back  again.  So  long  as  he  re- 
mained in  Bristol  this  garret  was 
the  refuge  and  comfort  of  his  life. 

When  Chatterton  was  nearly 
eight  years  old  he  became  a  scholar 
of  the  Bluecoat  School  of  Bristol, 
an  institution  called  Colston's 
Hospital,  founded  by  a  merchant 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  there- 
fore still  in  its  youth.  The  dress, 
but  unfortunately  nothing  else,  was 
copied  from  that  of  Christ's  Hos- 
pital. Bristol  had  already  a  gram- 
mar-school, and  the  supplementary 
institution  was  for  poor  children, 
and  not  by  any  means  intended  as 
a  ladder  to  help  them  to  ascend. 
They  had  the  blue  gown  and  yel- 
low stockings,  and  funny  little 
round  cap,  called,  apparently,  a  ton- 
sure, in  the  Bristol  school ;  but 
they  had  not  the  liberal  education 
which  has  made  the  London  Blue- 
coat  School  so  famous.  The  chil- 
dren were  to  be  "  instructed  in  the 
principles  of  the  Christian  religion 
as  they  are  laid  down  in  the  Church 
Catechism,"  and  not  demoralised 
by  Latin  and  Greek.  Twice  a- week 
this  grand  epitome  of  doctrine  was 
to  be  expounded  and  brought  down 
uto  the  meanest  capacity"  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  the  Hospital  : 


456 


Chatterton. 


[April 


poor    fare    enough   for   the    little 
genius  whom  poverty  shut  out  from 
any  better  training.     The  child,  we 
are  told,  was  elated  at  his  election, 
"thinking,"  says  his  foster-mother, 
"he  should  there  get  all  the  learn- 
ing he  wanted ;  but  soon  he  seemed 
much  hurt,  as  he  said  he  could  not 
learn  so  much  there  as  at  home." 
Thus  curiously  came  the  first  check 
upon    his    precocious  hopes.     No 
doubt  the  vague  fame  of  his  fa- 
ther's learning  had  been  long  held 
up  before  the  boy,  and  it  is  equally 
certain  that  many  of  the  old  doc- 
uments  with   which  he   had   sur- 
rounded  himself  must  have  been 
in  Latin,  puzzling   and  tantalising 
him  in  his  childish  eagerness.    Per- 
haps, with  a  child's  confidence  in 
his  own  powers,  he  had  felt  equal 
to  the   task   of   puzzling  out  the 
dead  old  solemn  language  by  him- 
self amid  his  ochre  and  his  charcoal 
in  the  lumber-attic;  and  to  come 
to  nothing  but  the  Catechism  was 
hard.     To  be  sure  a  certain  amount 
of  reading  and  writing  must  have 
accompanied  the  theology,  and  the 
life  does  not  seem  to  have  been  a 
particularly  hard  one.     Every  Sat- 
urday he  had  holiday,  and   came 
home  rejoicing  at  noon  to  rush  up 
to  his  attic  and  lose  himself  in  his 
old  dreams.     When  he  came  down 
to   tea  he  was  all   over  stains  of 
black  and  yellow.     There,  at  least, 
he  must  have  been  happy  enough 
— though  it  was  hard  to  get  him 
to  meals ;  and  even  tea-time,  fond 
as  he  was   of   tea,  was  not  so  at- 
tractive   as    his    parchments    and 
his  ochre.     Yet  the  boy  apparently 
was  at  this  time,  to  all  spectators, 
an  ordinary  enough  boy,  with  no- 
thing moody  or  abstracted   about 
him.     He  is  described  as  a  round- 
faced  rosy  child,  with  bright  grey 
eyes,   light  hair,  and  dimples   in 
his  cheeks  ;  very  frank  and  friend- 
ly, making   acquaintances  with   a 
natural    ease    scarcely   to    be    ex- 
pected from  his  other  peculiarities, 
very  affectionate  at  home,  though 
impatient   by  moments,  a  charac- 
teristic not  unusual  in  a  school- 


boy; and  with  every  appearance  of 
entering  quite  cheerfully,  without 
any  clouds  brooding  about  him, 
upon  the  course  of  a  commonplace 
life. 

There  is,  however,  one  wonder- 
ful influence  to  be  taken  account  of 
in  his  education,  which  had  little 
to  do  with  the  training  of  his  con- 
temporaries. Mrs  Chatterton's  lit- 
tle house  was  opposite  to  the  noble 
church  of  St  Mary  Redcliffe,  and 
from  his  earliest  infancy  her  boy 
had  been  accustomed  to  totter  about 
that  wonderful  place.  His  uncle 
was  sexton,  and  no  doubt  the  natu- 
ral pride  of  descent,  pride  common 
to  all  classes,  had  early  made  him 
aware  that  his  ancestors  for  cen- 
turies had  been  its  servants.  It 
opened  its  great  aisles  to  him  full 
of  whispering  stillness,  full  of  weird 
effects  of  light,  with  all  those 
stately  combinations  of  exquisite 
form  and  colour  which  the  age  was 
too  prosaic  to  appreciate,  but  which 
went  into  the  very  depths  of  the 
young  muser's  heart.  He  was  born 
with  a  thirst  upon  him  for  every- 
thing that  was  noble  and  stately  and 
splendid ;  and  here  was  his  palace, 
where  nothing  narrow  confined 
his  imagination,  and  nothing  mean 
distressed  his  fine  sense  of  beauty. 
What  a  wonderful  refuge — what  a 
home  for  the  dreamy  childish  ima- 
gination which  had  no  words  to 
explain  itself,  and  nobody  to  un- 
derstand, could  it  speak  !  "  This 
wonder  of  mansyons/'  he  called  it 
in  later  days,  when  he  got  utter- 
ance ;  and  the  very  title  is  signifi- 
cant, for  it  was  the  boy's  mansion 
— his  house  in  which  he  lived  and 
mused.  There  a  silent  population 
— not  mean  and  imperfect  beings 
like  the  homely  folks  that  walked 
and  talked  out  of  doors,  but  stately 
splendid  images  saying  nothing, 
leaving  all  to  an  imagination  rich 
enough  to  make  up  every  defic- 
iency—  was  around  him;  mailed 
knights,  and  ladies  in  veil  and  wim- 
ple— faithful  mates  lying  solemn 
side  by  side  through  all  the  silent 
ages,  names  once  so  full  of  mean- 


1370.] 


Chatterton. 


457 


it  g,  now   significant   only  to   the 
Ibtle  watcher  with  big  eyes  full  of 
thought  that  brooded  over   them. 
He  is  supposed  to   have   made  a 
little  picture  of  this  house  of  his 
dreams,  representing  himself  in  his 
blue-coat  dress,  led  by  his  mother, 
in  the  midst  of  that  familiar  scene. 
Even   earlier  than   the    blue-coat 
e;-a,  the  little  fellow,  when  missed 
from  home,  would  be  found  seated 
by    the  tomb    of     William    Can- 
ynge  in   the  great    silence.     And 
here,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  arose 
tlie  first  beginnings  of  that  vision- 
ary friendship  which  was  the  soul 
of  all  his   after-life,  his  favourite 
illusion,  and,  as  severe  critics  have 
tiiought,  his  crime.     We  have  but 
to  turn  to  our  own  nurseries,  if  in- 
deed  the   remembrances  of  child- 
hood are  too  far  past  to  be  recalled 
with  a  still  more  personal  force,  for 
an  explanation  of    that  first  germ 
of  Rowley  which,  one  cannot  tell 
when  or  how,  dawned   upon   the 
mind  of  Chatterton  in  his  child- 
hood.    Such   dreams  can  scarcely 
be    called    rare    among    children. 
The  present  writer  has  by  his  side 
at  this  present  moment  a  healthy, 
sturdy  little  boy,  not  overcharged 
with  imagination,  who   lived    for 
several  of  the  first  years  of  his  life  in 
constant   communication   with  an 
imaginary  friend,  a  very  splendid, 
princely  individual,  whose  sympa- 
thy consoled  him  in  many  a  baby 
trouble.     This   child   was   free   to 
talk  of  his  beloved  companion,  who 
gradually   disappeared   behind  the 
growing  realities  of  existence,  and 
iiow  is  as  a  dream  to  its  creator.   But 
iu  is  easy  to  realise  how  such  a  lonely 
little  dreamer  as  the  boy  Chatterton 
would  cling  to  and  expand  into  ever 
fuller  and  fuller  being  the  image 
which  he  loved.     While  he  sat  by 
Canynge's  tomb,  in  the  speechless 
desolation  of  childhood,  all  alone, 
knowing  that  there  was  nobody  in 
all  the  world  with  sufficient  leisure 
to  consider  his  wants  and  console 
liis    despondencies  —  nobody    that 
could    divine   what  he  meant,  or 
the  warmth  of  sympathy  about 


his  little  life, — what  wonder  if  the 
kind  shadow  which  had  full  leisure 
for  him  and  all  his  affairs — time  to 
weave  histories  for  him,  to  beguile 
him  out  of  the  present,  to  fill  his 
ears  with  melodies  which  seem  to 
come  across  the  ages— should  grow 
and  grow  as  the  boy  grew,  strength- 
ening with  his  strength  ?   All  these 
long  imaginary  conversations  which 
we  suppose  every  intelligent  child 
holds  with  a  little  crowd  of  inter- 
locutors,  a  mere    expenditure    of 
superabundant    fancy,   must   have 
been  concentrated  by  little  Chatter- 
ton  into  the  one  person  of  the  kind 
priest,  who  was  the  companion  of 
his  soul,  an  ideal  father  to  him,  a 
teacher    such   as   he   could    never 
have  in  the  flesh.     How  the  forlorn 
little  fellow  must  have  brightened 
unawares  as  he  felt  the  soft  steps  of 
his  visionary  friend  coming  down 
the  long  stately  aisle  from  the  veil- 
ed altar!     Had  he  just  been  saying 
a    mass    for    William     Canynge's 
Christian    soul  ?       Did    he    come 
with  the  serious  calm  upon  him 
of    those    uncomprehended    mys- 
teries 1      When  Priest  Rowley  ap- 
peared out  of  the  religious  light,  the 
little  dreamer  was  no  longer  alone. 
To    any    ordinary   child,  Rowley, 
in  all  likelihood,  would  have  had 
existence  only  as  the  consoler,  the 
depositary  of  childish  grievances, 
the    sympathetic    listener    to    all 
trouble.      But   to    Chatterton    he 
was  more.     The  boy  did  not  know 
in   these   early  days   that   he  was 
himself  a  poet ;  but  he  felt  by  in- 
stinct that  the  friend  was  who  bent 
over  him  in  visionary  intimacy  and 
consolation.     When  he  was  called 
back  unwillingly  to  his  little  mean 
home,  to  the  meals  which  he  was 
not  hungry  enough  to  care  for,  to 
the  monotonous  hum  of  the  lessons 
and  litter  of  the  dressmaking,  and 
to  the  mother  and  sister,  who  were 
all  too  busy  to  do  more  than  scold 
him   for   his  absences,   sometimes 
good-humouredly,  sometimes  sh  arp- 
ly,  but  never  with  any  sense  of  the 
unseen  world,  which  was  reality  to 
him — what  wonder  if  the  boy  was 


458 


Chatterton. 


[April 


like  a  being  dropped  from  another 
sphere?  The  women  at  their  work 
were  not  to  blame.  How  were 
they  to  divine,  as  they  sat  and  cut 
out  their  old-fashioned  sleeves  and 
bodices  from  patterns  made  out  of 
the  parchments  of  the  muniment- 
room,  that  these  were  Kowley's 
parchments,  written  all  over  with  a 
poetry  yet  illegible,  but  destined  to 
grow  clear  in  time  1  They  would 
give  him  "a  gentle  slap"  to  rouse 
him,  as  they  passed ;  they  would 
be  driven  to  momentary  impatience 
by  his  meaningless  silent  tears. 
What  did  it  all  mean1?  when  would 
this  stupidity  cease  ]  But  perhaps 
there  was  a  wedding  order  on  hand — 
perhaps  the  doleful  black,  which  it 
was  still  more  needful  to  get  finished. 
They  had  to  sit  up  into  the  night 
working  for  him,  to  mind  their 
business,  to  thread  those  weary 
needles,  and  stitch  those  long,  long 
lines  of  endless  trains,  or  get 
through  miles  of  frilling  before 
night.  It  was  no  fault  of  theirs, 
poor  souls  !  They  gave  him  all  they 
had  to  give,  and  did  not  even  re- 
fuse the  indulgence  of  that  attic 
solitude,  where  Priest  Rowley 
lived  as  much  as  he  lived  in 
the  church,  and  where  such  tales  of 
wonder  waited  the  tingling  ears  of 
the  little  lonely  boy. 

It  is  hard  to  realise  the  possi- 
bility of  a  very  severe  intellectual 
disappointment  at  eight  or  even 
nine  years  old  ;  but  yet  the  differ- 
ence between  the  practical  and  the 
ideal,  between  the  enthusiasm  of 
learning  into  which  he  was  pre- 
pared to  plunge  and  the  routine  of 
the  merest  schoolboy -life,  seems 
to  have  restored  something  of  the 
despondency  of  his  early  child- 
hood to  this  strange  little  scholar. 
His  mother  and  her  friends  began  to 
grow  anxious  about  him  again  when 
he  shut  himself  up  in  his  attic 
through  the  long  holiday  summer 
afternoons  when  every  other  Blue- 
coat  boy  was  enjoying  the  air  and 
sunshine.  They  made  him  angry 
by  attempts  to  invade  his  solitude. 


"I  wish  you  would  bide  out  of  the 
room — it  is  my  room,"  he  cried,  in 
boyish  rage,  thrusting  his  parch- 
ments out  of  sight.  The  women 
even  alarmed  themselves  with  the 
curious  fancy  that  his  ochre  and 
charcoal  were  intended  to  stain 
his  own  face  in  order  that  he  might 
join  the  gipsies — the  strangest  no- 
tion, considering  the  habits  of  the 
studious  boy  ;  but  "  when  he  be- 
gan to  write  poetry  he  became 
more  cheerful,"  his  sister  testifies. 
All  through  that  childhood  which 
represents  youth  in  his  short  life 
he.  had  been  struggling  with  the 
silence  round  him,  a  little  soul  in 
prison  known  to  no  one  but  his 
Rowley;  but  when  the  gift  of 
utterance  came  his  chains  began  to 
break.  When  he  was  only  ten  he 
seems  to  have  been  confirmed,  a 
curious  instance  of  seeming  matur- 
ity; and  following  on  that  event 
which  appears  to  have  roused  in 
him  all  the  half-real  half-fictitious 
solemnity  so  often  seen  in  children, 
he  wrote  his  first  poem,  or  at  least 
the  poem  first  published — a  little 
"copy  of  verses"  upon  the  Last 
Day,  which  is  only  remarkable  as 
the  beginning  of  his  poetical  ef- 
forts. It  was  published  in  '  Felix 
Farley's  Journal,'  a  local  paper, 
which  afterwards  received  many  of 
his  productions.  From  that  mo- 
ment his  restless  pen  was  never 
still.  A  few  months  later  he  dis- 
covered with  all  the  glee  of  a 
schoolboy  that  he  could  make  it 
a  weapon  of  offence,  and  immedi- 
ately rushed  at  his  foes,  or  at  the 
innocent  persons  whom  he  chose 
to  set  up  as  adversaries.  The  temp- 
tation of  irreverent  youth  to  assail 
local  dignities  of  all  kinds,  and  to 
reap  the  quickly-got  satisfaction  of 
parochial  stir  and  commotion,  is 
always  very  potent ;  and  a  poet  of 
eleven  would  have  been  a  stoic  in- 
deed had  he  been  able  to  with- 
stand it.  He  fell  upon  "  Church- 
warden Joe,"  who  had  pulled  down 
a  beautiful  cross  in  the  churchyard 
of  St  Mary,  and  upon  Apostate 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


459 


Will,  a  less  distinguishable  butt, 
with  wild  delight.  These  early  sa- 
tires reveal  to  us  all  at  once  a  whole 
little  local  world  beyond  Mrs  Chat- 
terton's  house  and  the  lumber-room 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  grand 
aisles  of  St  Mary's  on  the  other. 
Tii ere  are  the  bustling  parish 
authorities,  scorned  yet  feared, 
and  all  the  babbling  bee-hive  of  a 
school,  and  the  masters,  some  de- 
pi  ?ed  and  some  beloved.  And  there 
is  the  half-seen  audience  of  the 
parish  behind  reading  the  paper 
and  chuckling  over  the  allusions 
which  everybody  can  understand; 
the  whole  stirred  up  and  set  into 
motion  by  the  boy  in  his  yellow 
stockings,  about  whom  already  there 
are  strange  rumours  afloat,  and 
who  hugs  himself  in  his  secret, 
ard  feels,  no  doubt,  a  certain  judi- 
ciary power  of  life  and  death,  now 
the  paper  is  open  to  him,  and  all 
Bristol  lying  helpless  ready  to  be- 
come his  victims.  It  says  a  great 
deal  for  Chatterton's  better  nature 
that  a  temptation  so  overwhelming 
at  his  age,  and  so  potent  on  the 
untrained  intelligence  at  all  times, 
should  have  at  least  temporarily 
passed  away  from  him.  It  was 
his  priest  who  drew  him  into  the 
gentler,  more  harmonious,  regions 
of  the  past. 

He  was  only  twelve,  say  vari- 
ous witnesses,  when  he  took  to  an 
usher  called  Phillips,  his  favourite 
in  ister,  a  curious  manuscript  poem, 
which  he  had  found,  he  said,  among 
tha  parchments  taken  by  his  father 
from  St  Mary's.  Phillips  was  a 
kind  master,  sympathetic  and  be- 
loved \  and  he  is  said  to  have  had 
so  me  poetical  knowledge  and  faculty: 
but  he  was  not  learned  in  ancient 
MSS.  He  gazed  at  this  curious 
production  with  mingled  consterna- 
tion and  curiosity.  A  schoolfellow 
who  was  present,  and  who  after- 
wards attained  some  small  local  emi- 
nence as  a  poet,  describes  the  event 
with  something  of  the  contempt  of  a 
man  who  knew  himself  to  be  quite 
as  good  as  Chatterton.  "  For  my  own 


part/'  he  says,  "  having  little  or  no 
taste  for  such  studies,  I  repined 
not  at  the  disappointment.  Phil- 
lips, on  the  contrary,  was  to  all  ap- 
pearance mortified — indeed  much 
more  so  than  at  that  time  I  thought 
the  object  deserved — expressing  his 
sorrow  at  his  want  of  success,  and 
repeatedly  declaring  his  intention 
of  resuming  the  attempt  at  a  future 
period."  The  MS.  this  informant 
asserts  to  have  been  the  ballad  of 
"  Elinoure  and  Juga,"  certainly  a 
very  extraordinary  production  for  a 
poet  of  twelve,  and  which  was  not 
published  till  five  years  later.  It  is 
one  of  the  so-called  Rowley  poems, 
and  if  not  the  first  written,  was  at 
least  the  first  submitted  to  any  eye 
but  his  own. 

Probably  up  to  this  time  no  de- 
finite idea  of  the  dangerous  course 
upon  which  he  was  entering  had 
come  into  the  schoolboy's  eager 
mind.  We  cannot  imagine  for  an 
instant  that  any  deliberate  de- 
ceit was  intended.  It  was  one  of 
the  innocent  mystifications,  strange 
purposeless  webs,  half  of  pure  ima- 
gination, half  of  mischievous  in- 
tent to  bewilder,  which  are  so  com- 
mon among  children.  By  this  time 
his  visionary  companion  had  de- 
veloped into  clearer  and  clearer 
proportions.  Nothing  in  life  had 
come  to  him  with  sufficient  force 
or  vividness  to  withdraw  him  from 
the  society  of  his  gentle,  unreprov- 
ing,  always  sympathetic,  spiritual 
associate.  When  even  the  mother 
was  unkind,  and  the  good  school- 
master hard  upon  him,  Rowley's 
countenance  was  never  averted. 
From  the  first  germ  of  the  benign 
shadow  in  the  great  silent  church 
whole  histories  had  grown.  The 
boy's  imagination  had  worked  out 
every  accessory  of  the  picture.  The 
principal  figure  was  Thomas  Row- 
ley, a  parish  priest,  not  a  friar — the 
name  probably  seized  upon  at  hazard 
from  some  chance  roll  of  ancient 
names — the  story  made  out  bit  by 
bit, — a  friend  of  noble  Master  Can- 
ynge's,  he  of  the  great  tomb— nay, 


460 


Chatlerton. 


[April 


more  than  a  friend — a  brother  dear- 
ly beloved.  And  then  Caiiynge, 
too,  found  his  place  on  the  canvas. 
In  short  it  was  no  canvas,  but  a 
magic  mirror,  into  which  those  mys- 
tic figures  floated,  now  one  by  one, 
now  in  a  stately  crowd.  Natu- 
rally the  priest  became  a  man  of 
letters,  because  in  the  mind  of  the 
dreaming  boy  there  was  nothing  so 
high  or  honourable  ;  and  Canynge 
grew  by  his  side  into  the  enlightened 
patron,  the  head  of  the  gentle  com- 
pany. What  things  they  did,  what 
witty  conversations  they  held,  what 
stately  masques  and  splendid  revels 
were  heard  before  them  !  Chatter- 
ton  was  one  of  them  as  he  mused. 
He  saw  the  correspondence  of  his 
visionary  friend  with  the  abbots, 
and  canons,  and  even  bishops,  who 
loved  song  like  himself,  and  were 
ready  now  and  then  to  throw  in  a 
supplementary  lay.  He  assisted  at 
the  performance  of  "  The  Tragical 
Enterlude,"  and  many  another  pri- 
vate drama  represented  before  the 
refined  society  of  Rudde  House, 
William  Canynge's  dwelling.  Not 
only  names  came  easy  to  his  fancy, 
but  he  was  ready  to  invent  a 
whole  lineage,  build  a  special  con- 
vent, construct  a  new  world,  if 
needful,  to  justify  the  existence  of 
the  various  personages  who  were 
grouped  round  Rowley.  His  whole 
mind  and  leisure  must  have  been 
occupied  by  this  wonderful  dream. 
It  saved  him  from  all  boyish  and 
poetic  yearnings  after  some  one  to 
love,  respect,  and  honour  in  the 
outside  world.  He  had  Rowley 
for  all  these  higher  uses  of  the  soul, 
and  he  was  free,  accordingly,  to 
treat  with  a  frank  contempt  the 
actual  visible,  but  not  half  so  real, 
men  whom  he  saw  around  him 
every  day. 

None  of  the  critics  who  have  ex- 
amined into  the  strange  problem 
of  this  double  existence,  seem  to 
have  realised  the  phenomenon  as 
in  fact  a  sufficiently  common  one, 
elevated  out  of  resemblance  to  the 
ordinary  only  by  the  genius  of  the 
boy.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  per- 


petual drama,  daily  spreading  fur- 
ther and  further  round  him.  His 
imagination  was  delighted  with  a 
constant  succession  of  beautiful 
and  curious  visions.  In  his  garret, 
all  by  himself,  he  was  in  the  midst 
of  the  finest  company.  One  fes- 
tivity led  to  another.  There  were 
tournaments  of  arms  and  tourna- 
ments of  song,  and  a  thousand 
pageants,  which  swept  him  with 
them  in  their  splendid  passage. 
No  doubt  the  first  daring  touch  by 
which  he  made  Rowley's  poetry  into 
actual  verse,  gave  a  certain  thrill 
to  the  boy.  The  actual  and  the 
visionary  clashed,  and  that  tender 
fiction  of  the  heart  appeared,  as  it 
were,  out  of  doors,  where  men,  with- 
out any  just  powers  of  judging, 
might  call  it  falsehood  and  forgery. 
But  he  was  so  young  that  this  fear 
could  not  have  appalled  him  much 
— twelve  years  old  ;  and  no  doubt 
he  felt  a  certain  longing  to  make 
known  to  somebody  what  a  splendid 
world  he  had  possession  of — how 
much  wiser  and  cleverer  he  was 
than  his  neighbours — and  what  a 
horde  of  secret  treasure  he  had 
upon  which  he  could  draw  at  will ; 
a  desire  which  was  all  mixed  up 
and  blended  with  a  child's  romanc- 
ing, its  uncertain  sense  of  the 
boundary  between  the  false  and 
the  fanciful,  and  love  of  everything 
dramatic  and  marvellous.  This, 
according  to  every  canon  of  human 
nature,  and  especially  of  a  child's 
nature,  seems  to  us  the  natural  in- 
terpretation of  the  wonderful  fiction 
of  Rowley's  poems.  Rowley,  no 
doubt,  had  come  into  being  years 
before,  to  the  much  consolation  of 
his  little  companion's  soul. 

We  are  not  told  whether  he  in- 
terpreted to  Phillips  the  wonderful 
MS.  which  so  much  puzzled  him ; 
nor,  indeed,  has  anything  but  the 
date  of  its  first  exhibition,  and  the 
"  mortification ;'  of  the  usher  when 
he  found  himself  unable  to  make  it 
out,  been  preserved  to  us.  A  little 
later  Chatterton  distinguished  him- 
self by  a  piece  of  fiction  of  a  less 
innocent  but  more  amusing  kind. 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


461 


At  the  foot  of  the  bridge  which  he 
had  to  cross  every  Saturday  on  his 
v/ay  home,  was  a  pewterer's  shop, 
kept  by  two  men  called  Catcott  and 
]  hirgum.  They  were  not  of  the  mo- 
dern race  of  shopkeepers,  prone  to 
\illas  in  the  country  and  a  discreet 
silence  as  to  their  means  of  income. 
They  were  men  not  ashamed  of  the 
counter,  ready  to  hold  their  own 
with  any  comer ;  important  in  their 
own  eyes,  and  not  unnoted  among 
their  townsfolk.  Burgum.  was  the 
less  elevated  of  the  two,  not  born 
a  citizen  of  Bristol,  and  possessing 
Kttle  education,  but  much  vanity. 
Catcott,  a  clergyman's  son,  was  a 
man  of  good  connections,  such  as 
\vould  scarcely  be  consistent  nowa- 
days with  the  pewterer's  shop.  His 
brother  was  a  clergyman  in  the 
town,  and  he  would  seem  to  have 
bad  a  certain  place  in  society;  but 
Ms  love  of  display  and  notoriety  was 
known  to  everybody.  He  was  so 
fond  of  self-exhibition  that  he  rode 
his  horse  over  the  planks  of  a  half- 
built  bridge,  in  order  to  have  the 
honour  of  being  the  first  to  cross  it ; 
and,  with  equally  silly  daring,  had 
himself  hoisted  up  to  place  a  pew- 
ter tablet  under  the  crowning  stone 
of  the  new  church  steeple,  by  way 
of  preserving  the  record  of  his  name 
to  all  posterity.  Such  a  pair  would 
seem  to  have  been  marked  out  for 
the  tricks  of  any  mischievous  school- 
boy ;  and  Chatterton  was  full  of 
mischief  and  delight  in  his  own 
skill  and  powers  of  mystification. 
No  doubt  the  boy  was  known  to 
both  of  them,  as  everybody,  even 
a  charity-boy,  becomes  known  in  a 
limited  local  circle.  One  day,  when 
iu  is  supposed  he  was  about  four- 
teen, he  suddenly  entered  the  shop 
Le  had  passed  so  of  ten,  and  disclosed 
a  great  discovery  he  had  made.  He 
liad  found  the  De  Bergham  pedi- 
gree amongst  those  wonderful  inex- 
haustible papers  of  his.  The  shop 
was  in  the  process  of  rebuilding; 
and  Burgum,  poor  soul !  was  prob- 
ably worn  out  by  builders  and 
painters  and  their  lingering  work- 
men when  this  wonderful  news 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIV. 


was  brought  him.  He  fell  at  once 
into  the  snare.  No  wondering 
sense  that  a  Bluecoat  boy  was  an 
unlikely  person  to  make  such  dis- 
coveries seems  to  have  crossed  his 
mind,  any  more  than  it  did  those 
of  greater  critics  at  a  later  period. 
He  accepted  the  De  Bergham  pedi- 
gree for  gospel,  and  begged  a  sight 
of  it.  Within  a  few  days  he  re- 
ceived "  an  old  piece  of  parchment 
about  eight  inches  square,  on  which 
was  the  shield,  blazoned  and  full  of 
quarterings,  of  the  great  family  to 
which  he  was  said  to  belong,  and 
a  first  instalment  of  the  pedigree. 
This  document  was  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  kind.  It  set 
forth  the  arrival  in  England  with 
the  Conqueror,  of  a  certain  knight 
called  Simon  de  Seyncte  Lyze  or 
Seriliz,  whose  marriages  and  great 
deeds  are  described  with  solemn 
gravity.  It  had  a  heading  in 
large  text  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  an  "  Account  of  the  Family 
of  the  De  Berghams  from  the  Nor- 
man Conquest  to  this  time,  collect- 
ed from  Original  Records,  Tourna- 
ment Rolls,  and  the  Heralds  of 
March  and  Garter's  Records,  by 
Thomas  Chatterton."  It  was  en- 
riched with  marginal  references, 
done  in  the  very  irony  of  mischief. 
"Roll  of  Battle  Abbey."  "  Ex- 
stemma  fam.  Sir  Johan  de  Leve- 
ches":— Stowe,  Ashmole,  Collins, 
Dugdale,  Rouge  Dragon,  Garter, 
Norroy,  and  the  Rowley  MSS.  being 
quoted  as  authorities.  The  lad  even 
went  so  far  as  to  cite  "  Oral  ch. 
from  Henry  II.  to  Sir  Jno.  de  Berg- 
ham," as  one  of  the  sources  from 
which  he  had  drawn  his  materials. 
There  were  Latin  notes  to  this 
wonderful  document,  which,  as  at 
present  to  be  seen,  are  translated 
in  the  handwriting  of  Barrett,  the 
author  of  a  history  of  Bristol,  one 
of  the  leading  antiquarians  and 
virtuosi  of  the  neighbourhood. 
These  translations  mark  the  curi- 
ous fact  that  a  man  of  some  learn- 
ing, and  pretending  to  some  ac- 
quaintance with  the  real  antique, 
was  actually  taken  in  by  the  pedi- 
2i 


4G2 


Chatterton. 


[April 


gree,  with  its  circumstantial  records 
and  dazzling  blazonry.  As  for 
Burgum,  who  had  no  learning  at 
all,  he  conceived  no  doubt  on  the 
subject ;  but  with  his  heart  beating 
proudly  in  his  breast,  presented  the 
boy  with  five  shillings  for  his  timely 
and  wonderful  discovery.  Never 
was  there  a  more  successful  prac- 
tical joke ;  and  Chatterton  must 
have  left  the  shop  swelling  with 
fun  and  triumph,  with  his  crown- 
piece  in  his  pocket  and  delight  in 
his  heart. 

He  had  not,  however,  done  with 
the  pewterer.  The  pedigree  thus 
miraculously  found  brought  down 
the  family  of  De  Bergham  only  to 
the  thirteenth  century,  between 
which  and  the  time  of  Henry  Bur- 
gum  there  might  be  many  slips. 
And  accordingly,  the  discoverer, 
too  lavish  in  his  fertile  powers  of 
invention  to  cut  any  thread  short 
which  he  could  spin  out,  caught  up 
the  uncompleted  tale,  and  gave  its 
continuation  with  a  still  more  lavish 
hand.  What  so  easy  as  to  sow  dis- 
tinguished personages  into  the  roll 
which  could  be  subjected  to  no  test 
but  that  of  imagination  ?  Accord- 
ingly he  pauses  in  the  commonplace 
record  of  knights  and  ladies  to  in- 
terpolate a  certain  Master  John  de 
Bergham,  a  Cistercian  monk,  who 
"  was  one  of  the  greatest  ornaments 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lived/'  a  poet, 
and^ranslator  of  the  'Iliad/  whose 
talents  had  been  fully  recognised 
in  his  own  century,  though  grown 
somewhat  dim  in  the  eighteenth. 
"  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the  poetry 
of  the  age/'  said  this  strangest  of 
heralds,  "  take  the  following  piece, 
written  by  John  de  Bergham  in  the 
year  1320."  And  here  follows  the 
"  Komaunte  of  the  Cnyghte,"  one  of 
the  most  archaic  of  all  the  poems, 
which,  as  well  as  a  Latin  letter  from 
the  University  of  Oxford,  commend- 
ing the  high  qualities  of  Friar  John, 
is  introduced  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  pedigree.  We  do  not  need  to 
add  that  the  Latinity  of  this  letter, 
as  well  as  sundry  other  scraps 
which  shall  follow,  was  of  the  most 


doubtful  kind.  The  second  part 
of  the  De  Bergham  pedigree  pro- 
duced another  crown  for  Chatter- 
ton's  empty  pockets,  and  no  doubt 
he  felt  himself  thoroughly  well 
paid  for  the  moment.  A  great  deal 
of  quaint  indignation  has  been 
wasted  on  this  piece  of  most  elabo- 
rate nonsense.  Such  a  trick,  if  per- 
formed by  any  public-school  boy  of 
the  present  day,  would  meet  with 
more  laughter  than  reprobation  ; 
but  Chatterton's  critics  have  made 
it  out  to  be  "  indescribably  ignorant 
and  impudent/'  and  no  better  than 
a  piece  of  swindling.  Poor  fourteen- 
year-old  boy  !  It  was  indescribably 
clever  and  mischievous,  and,  no 
doubt,  would  have  been  punished 
by  a  hard  imposition  had  such  a 
trick  been  discovered  by  a  strong- 
minded  master  at  Eton  or  Har- 
row ;  but  poor  Chatterton  was  not 
permitted  the  privileges  of  his 
boyhood.  "  It  may  console  the 
reader  who  sympathises  in  such 
virtuous  indignation,"  says  Dr  Wil- 
son, who  entertains  other  notions, 
"  to  know  that  the  pedigree  did  not 
after  all  prove  a  bad  investment. 
The  copy-books,  containing  along 
with  it  and  its  "  Romaunte  of  the 
Cnyghte,"  some  of  the  earliest  tran- 
scripts of  the  Rowley  poems,  were 
ultimately  disposed  of  by  the  family 
to  Mr  Joseph  Cottle  for  the  sum  of 
five  guineas."  So  thorough,  how- 
ever, was  the  belief  of  the  descend- 
ant of  the  De  Berghams  in  his  new- 
found pedigree,  that  he  actually  sub- 
mitted the  document  to  the  College 
of  Heralds  for  confirmation — a  step 
which,  however,  it  is  supposed  was 
not  taken  till  after  Chatterton's 
death. 

By  this  time  the  boy  had  begun 
to  make  friends  out  of  his  own 
sphere.  The  antiquarian  Barrett, 
who  was  labouring  busily  at  a  his- 
tory of  Bristol,  which  has  been 
covered  with  confusion,  yet  almost 
introduced  to  fame,  by  the  fact  that 
half  its  assertions  are  made  on  the 
authority  of  the  Rowley  MSS.,  be- 
gan to  traffic  with  him  for  his  won- 
derful stock  of  papers,  and  "  used 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


463 


often  to  send  for  him  from  the 
charity-school,  which  was  close  to  his 
house,  and  differ  with  him  in  opin- 
ion, on  purpose  to  make  him  in 
earnest,  and  to  see  how  wonderfully 
his  eye  would  strike  fire,  kindle,  and 
light  up."  At  one  time  a  hope  of 
studying  medicine  under  the  care 
of  this  gentleman,  who  was  a  doc- 
tor, seems  to  have  crossed  his 
mind  ;  and  it  is  evident  that  he  was 
permitted  to  read  many  medical 
works,  and  to  pick  up  some  super- 
ficial knowledge  of  the  science.  Bar- 
rett is  much  blamed  by  Dr  Wilson 
for  his  want  of  insight  into  the  poet's 
character,  and  for  having  repulsed 
his  confidence  and  lost  the  oppor- 
tunity of  leading  him  safely  into 
the  paths  of  greatness.  But  not- 
withstanding all  the  sympathy  we 
feel  for  Chatterton,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  hoaxed  his  friends 
all  round  with  charming  impartial- 
ity, and  afterwards  satirised  them 
with  a  plainness  of  speech  at  which 
it  is  natural  enough  to  suppose  they 
must  have  winced.  Had  anybody 
been  able  to  foresee  the  blackness 
of  darkness  so  soon  to  overtake  him, 
the  wild  despair  and  miserable  fate 
of  a  boy  so  full  of  exuberant  life 
and  power  and  prodigal  energy,  who 
can  doubt  that  Barrett  and  Catcott 
and  the  rest,  would  have  used  their 
possibilities  of  help  in  a  different 
way  ?  But  nobody  ever  foresees  such 
wonderful  and  tragic  breaks  upon 
the  ordinary  routine  of  existence ; 
and  the  boy  in  his  rash  precocity, 
and  the  men  in  their  commonplace 
indifference,  went  their  way,  roused 
by  no  presentiment.  A  certain 
wonder,  one  would  think,  must  have 
grown  about  the  lad  who  could  pro- 
duce such  treasures  at  a  moment's 
notice ;  but  it  does  not  seem  to  have 
affected  the  minds  of  his  school- 
fellows, who  dabbled  in  small  verses 
themselves,  and  were,  each  boy  to 
his  own  consciousness,  as  good  men 
as  he.  It  is  curious  to  find  that 
none  of  the  admiring  devotion 
with  which  every  gifted  schoolboy 
in  a  higher  class  is  regarded  by  some 
at  least  of  his  comrades,  seems  to 


have  attended  Chatterton.  Proba- 
bly this  is  explained  by  the  lower 
range  of  breeding  and  training,  and 
that  strange  insensibility  to  personal 
influence,  and  high  esteem  for  self, 
which  make  the  tradesman -class 
everywhere  the  one  least  subject  to 
any  generous  weakness  of  enthusi- 
asm. The  Bristol  men  who  were 
boys  with  Chatterton  were  all  in- 
dignant at  the  mere  suggestion  that 
Rowley  and  he  were  one.  They 
were  affronted  by  the  idea.  It  was 
a  personal  injustice  to  them  that 
their  schoolfellow  should  be  made 
out  a  genius.  They  had  no  objec- 
tion to  his  acknowledged  writings, 
which  they  considered  no  better 
than  their  own.  But  Rowley's 
poems,  they  were  sure,  with  an  in- 
dignation which  had  a  touch  of 
bitterness  in  it,  were  no  more  his 
writing  than  theirs.  He  had  friends, 
but  he  had  nobody  who  believed  in 
him — a  curious  distinction  of  the 
class  in  which  he  was  born.  Had 
he  been  a  gentleman's  son,  no  doubt 
a  young  guard  of  honour,  school- 
fellows, college  friends,  half  of  the 
youth  he  came  across  in  his  career, 
would  have  been  ready  to  risk  their 
life  in  proof  of  his  genius.  And 
the  chances  are,  that  in  these  cir- 
cumstances the  lad  himself  would 
never  have  been  tempted  to  the 
fierce  satire  and  bitter  scorn  of 
many  of  his  youthful  productions. 
But  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  accept 
him  as  he  is,  a  poor  charity-boy 
among  a  set  of  young  apprentices, 
Bristol  tradesmen  in  the  bud,  all 
confident  of  being  as  good  as  he 
or  as  any  one,  and  capable  of  no 
worship  of  the  greater  spirit  in 
their  midst. 

After  the  era  of  the  pedigree, 
Chatterton  seems  to  have  gone  on 
with  a  still  stronger  flight.  He 
cannot  have  been  more  than  fifteen, 
for  he  still  wore  the  dress  of  his 
school,  when  he  met  with  the  other 
partner  in  the  pewterer's  firm. 
No  doubt  Burgum  had  exhibited 
proudly  to  his  partner  the  proofs 
of  his  own  splendid  descent,  and 
pointed  out  the  passing  schoolboy 


464 


Chatterton. 


[April 


to  whom  he  owed  it ;  and  Chatter- 
ton  probably  was  attracted  towards 
Catcott  by  the  achievement  above 
recorded,  his  crossing  of  the  half- 
built  bridge  upon  planks  laid  from 
pier  to  pier,  with  a  daring-do  worthy 
of  any  knight  of  romance.  This 
event  took  place  in  June  1767;  and 
in  July  of  the  same  year  the  lad 
left  school,  and  put  off  his  yellow 
stockings  and  tonsure-cap ;  so  it 
must  have  been  on  one  of  the  sum- 
mer days  intervening  that  the  two 
first  met.  Mr  Catcott  was  walking 
with  a  friend  in  Redcliffe  Church 
when  he  was  informed  of  the  fact 
that  several  ancient  pieces  of  poetry 
had  been  found  there,  and  were  in 
the  possession  of  a  "  young  person" 
known  to  his  informant.  This  news 
prompted  him  to  seek  Chatterton, 
perhaps  to  call  him  in  as  he  went 
past,  into  the  shop  already  so  well 
known  to  him,  which  contained 
such  a  monument  of  his  skill.  The 
boy  showed  not  the  least  reluctance 
to  speak  of  his  discoveries ;  and, 
according  to  Catcott's  statement, 
gave  him  at  once  "The  Bristowe 
Tragedie ;  or  the  Deth  of  Sir  Charles 
Bawdin,"  and  several  of  the  smaller 
poems.  Probably  they  were  but 
submitted  to  his  criticism  and  ap- 
probation. He  was  a  man  with  a 
library,  and  every  possibility  of 
getting  at  books  was  precious  to 
the  boy;  and  this  was  the  com- 
mencement of  a  curious  kind  of 
friendship,  in  which  there  seems  to 
have  been  little  regard  on  the  one 
side  or  the  other,  but  a  consider- 
able attempt  at  mutual  profit.  In 
Catcott's  hands  many  of  the  MSS. 
remained  after  Chatterton's  death, 
and  he  does  not  seem  to  have  made 
a  generous  use  of  them ;  nor  did 
any  gleam  of  insight  into  the  strange 
story  occur  to  the  eyes  of  the  self- 
occupied  shopkeeper.  He  too  re- 
ceived Rowley  with  undoubting 
faith.  The  boy  was  but  a  charity- 
boy — one  of  the  many  blue- coated 
urchins  that  swarmed  past  the  shop- 
windows  all  the  year  round,  and 
broke  the  panes,  and  got  in  every- 
body's way.  Genius  !  Mr  Catcott 


would  have  laughed  at  the  idea. 
The  boy  was  old  Chatterton's  grand- 
son, the  gravedigger,  and  no  doubt 
had  got  at  the  poems  exactly  as  he 
said.  Not  the  remotest  suspicion  of 
a  hoax  seems  to  have  disturbed  the 
composure  or  self-conceit  of  these 
shallow  men.  And  thus  the  boy 
went  and  came — to  Barrett,  who  pro- 
bably gave  him  an  occasional  half- 
crown  for  the  bits  of  curious  infor- 
mation about  old  Bristol  which  he 
brought  him  from  time  to  time,  and 
who  liked  to  see  the  light  flash  up  in 
his  great  grey  shining  eyes  ;  to  Cat- 
cott, who  received  his  MSS.  with 
pompous  pretended  knowledge; 
and  by-and-by  to  Catcott's  clergy- 
man brother,  and  other  worthies  of 
their  set,  no  doubt  with  a  wonder 
growing  in  his  mind  that  no  one 
divined  the  real  source  of  all  these 
marvels.  One  can  imagine  the  lad's 
half-trouble,  half-delight,  in  thus 
bewildering  so  many — and  at  the 
same  time  the  wistful  sense  of  un- 
comprehended  power  which  must 
have  grown  upon  him  and  driven 
him  back  to  his  visionary  associates. 
We  are  told  even  that  he  tried  more 
than  once  to  confide  in  Barrett,  fal- 
tering forth  an  admission  that  the 
fine  and  vigorous  poem  called  the 
"  Battle  of  Hastings,"  which  he  pre- 
sented to  the  antiquary  in  his  own 
handwriting,  was  actually  his  own 
composition,  and  "done  for  a 
friend."  Barrett,  wise  man  of  the 
world,  not  to  be  taken  in  by  such 
fictions,  laughed  at  the  boy.  He 
pressed  him  to  produce  the  rest  of 
the  poem,  which  was  accordingly 
done  at  intervals,  in  fragments,  as 
they  could  be  composed  ;  and  pres- 
sed him  still  further  for  the  original 
MS.,  which  the  lad — amazed,  disap- 
pointed, and  yet  filled — who  can 
wonder  1- — with  a  certain  mischiev- 
ous contempt  for  the  man  who  swal- 
lowed every  fiction  he  chose  to  bring 
yet  laughed  at  the  truth — instantly 
began  to  fabricate.  His  docility  in 
such  a  case  is  very  comprehensible. 
All  the  fun  of  his  schoolboy  nature, 
and  all  the  scorn  with  which  an  in- 
experienced young  soul  looks  upon 


1870.] 


Ckatterton. 


465 


stupidity  and  intellectual  blind- 
ness, must  have  moved  him  to  fool 
his  patron  to  the  top  of  his  bent. 
It  was  the  man's  sin,  if  any  real  sin 
was  in  it,  and  not  the  boy's. 

In  July  1767,  Chatterton  was 
transferred  from  school  to  the  office 
of  an  attorney,  to  whom  he  was 
bound  apprentice,  the  fee  being 
supplied  by  the  Hospital.  He  was 
to  have  no  wages,  but  to  be  clothed, 
lodged,  and  maintained  by  his  new 
employer,  a  Mr  Lambert — to  take 
his  meals  with  the  servants  and 
sleep  with  the  footboy ;  an  arrange- 
ment which  was  supposed  by  all 
parties  very  satisfactory  for  a  Blue- 
coat  boy.  So  far  as  we  are  in- 
formed, he  himself  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  any  way  revolted  by 
it  as  we  are ;  for  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  Chatterton  as  yet 
had  only  a  boy's  glorious  sense  of 
being  able  to  do  almost  anything 
he  tried — the  first  and  perhaps  the 
most  delicious  sensation  of  genius — 
without  knowing  what  was  his  own 
real  standing  among  all  the  owls 
and  bats  who  were  so  much  more 
important  in  the  world's  eye  than 
he.  His  office  hours  were  from 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  till 
eight  in  the  evening,  with  an  hour 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  for  dinner, 
and  he  was  expected  to  return  to 
his  master's  house  every  night  by  ten 
o'clock.  Two  hours  in  the  even- 
ing were  thus  all  he  had  for  re- 
creation of  any  kind,  and  these  he 
almost  invariably  spent  at  his 
mother's  house.  During  the  two 
years  he  remained  with  Mr  Lam- 
bert he  was  only  once  late  in  re- 
turning. These  facts  effectually 
dispose  of  all  the  insinuations  made 
against  the  poor  boy's  character. 
He  never  drank,  avoiding  even 
the  most  modest  potations — was 
fond  of  tea,  and  not,  it  would  seem, 
without  an  innocent  liking  for  con- 
fectionery, simplest  of  all  the  tastes 
of  youth.  Twelve  hours  in  the 
solitude  of  the  office,  where  now 
and  then  the  footboy  or  a  maid  from 
Mr  Lambert's  would  come  on  some 
pretended  errand  to  make  sure  that 


he  was  there,  for  the  attorney  him- 
self was  almost  always  absent ;  two 
hours  in  the  evening  spent  with  his 
mother  among  her  shreds  and 
patches,  or  in  the  beloved  retire- 
ment of  his  lumber-room.  Never 
did  monk  observe  a  severer  routine 
of  duty ;  and  yet  the  poor  boy  was 
called  a  profligate  :  no  imputation 
was  ever  more  unjust  or  untrue. 

But  it  would  be  wrong  to  sup- 
pose that  this  intermediate  period 
was  a  loss  to  Chatterton.  Mr  Lam- 
bert's business  seems  to  have  been 
a  very  light  one,  and  his  appren- 
tice must  have  been  as  much  office- 
boy  as  clerk — "  he  had  little  of  his 
master's  business  to  do,  sometimes 
not  two  hours  in  a  day,"  says  his 
sister;  and  though  he  was  supposed 
to  be  "  improving  himself  in  pro- 
fessional knowledge "  by  copying 
precedents  during  the  remainder  of 
the  long  lonely  days,  there  was 
plenty  of  time  left  for  more  con- 
genial work.  "Nearly  four  hun- 
dred closely- written  folio  pages " 
of  these  precedents  are  left  to  prove 
that  he  did  not  neglect  even  this 
musty  work — which  is  no  small 
tribute  to  his  sense  of  duty;  for  the 
master  was  absent,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  keep  him  to  the  grind- 
stone, and  so  many  inducements  to 
drop  away.  The  office  contained, 
besides  a  library  of  law-books,  a 
complete  edition  of  Camden's  *  Bri- 
tannia;' and  his  friends  whom  he 
supplied  with  a  succession  of  won- 
ders lent  him  books  at  least,  which 
was  some  small  return.  A  number 
of  dictionaries  of  Saxon  and  early 
English,  Speght's  '  Chaucer,'  and 
various  old  chronicles,  fed  his  mind 
and  formed  his  style.  We  are  told 
that  he  compiled  from  these  autho- 
rities for  his  own  use  an  elaborate 
glossary  in  archaic  and  modern 
English,  which  was  his  constant 
companion.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
as  Sir  Walter  Scott  suggests,  that 
to  master  a  style  so  cumbrously  and 
artificially  antique  must  have  taken 
almost  as  much  time  as  the  learn- 
ing of  a  new  language  ;  but  yet 
there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  trick  of 


4G6 


Chatterton. 


[April 


such  a  mode  of  writing,  and  we  are 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  real 
labour  must  have  been  in  the  com- 
pilation of  the  glossary,  which  made 
the  rest  easy  enough — especially 
as  the  antiquity  of  the  Rowley 
poems  is  entirely  artificial;  and  the 
young  poet  does  not  seem  to  have 
felt  that  any  study  of  the  senti- 
ments or  forms  of  expression  natural 
to  the  period  was  required  to  give 
an  air  of  truthfulness  to  his  pro- 
ductions, greedily  and  unhesitat- 
ingly as  they  were  swallowed  by  all 
the  authorities  round  him.  The  fact 
seems  to  have  been  that  a  certain 
impetuous,  almost  feverish,  haste 
and  impatience  had  come  upon  the 
lad  unconsciously  to  himself.  The 
silent  moments  flew  over  him 
as  he  laboured  in  that  dreary 
little  office.  Something  in  him, 
something  instinctive,  inarticulate, 
incapable  of  giving  any  warning  of 
what  was  to  come,  had  been  im- 
pressed by  a  sense  of  the  shortness 
of  the  time  and  the  quantity  of 
work  to  do.  We  are  informed  re- 
peatedly that  the  attorney  on  his 
visits  to  the  office  tore  up  pages  of 
poetry  which  he  found  in  his  clerk's 
handwriting,  and  which  he  per- 
ceived was  not  law-work,  nor  with- 
in his  range  of  comprehension ;  so 
that  it  is  perfectly  probable  that 
a  much  larger  quantity  of  the 
Rowley  poems  was  produced  than 
those  which  have  reached  us.  In 
his  ignorance  and  innocence  most 
likely  the  boy  was  swept  along  by 
an  eager  desire  to  set  Rowley,  and 
his  time  and  ways  and  everything 
surrounding  him — the  friends  and 
citizens  and  noble  knights  who 
were  so  much  kinder,  nobler,  and 
more  true  than  anything  in  the 
eighteenth  century — fully  before 
his  audience.  He  wanted,  with  a 
certain  human  longing  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  his  childish  trickery  and 
intrigue,  to  convey  to  others  some 
glimpse  of  that  splendid  visionary 
world  which,  from  his  earliest  years, 
had  surrounded  himself.  And  he 
thought  he  had  succeeded  in  doing 
so,  poor,  brilliant,  foolish  boy  of  ge- 


nius !  He  thought  his  painfully- 
selected,  uncouth  words,  and  won- 
derful spelling,  were  no  masquerade, 
but  gave  a  real  representation  of  the 
life  he  wanted  to  make  apparent  to 
the  world.  Nothing  could  show 
more  clearly  his  unsophisticated  sim- 
plicity ;  for  he  believed  in  their 
truth  himself  as  fervently  as  the 
most  'credulous  of  all  his  dupes, — 
not  in  their  truth  of  fact  as  the 
poems  of  Rowley,  for  that,  of  course, 
was  impossible ;  but  in  their  truth 
to  the  period  they  professed  to  re- 
present, and  real  faithfulness  to  its 
characteristics — a  belief  which  only 
shows  how  little  educated,  how 
simple  and  unacquainted  with  the 
history  of  the  ages,  and  the  dif- 
ference between  one  and  another, 
was  the  boy  poet.  The  masquerade, 
transparent  as  it  is  to  us,  was  re- 
ality to  himself. 

In  1768,  when  Chatterton  was 
sixteen,  after  he  had  been  a  whole 
year  in  Mr  Lambert's  office,  the  new 
bridge,  over  which,  when  half  built, 
Catcott  had  ridden  with  so  much 
silly  braggadocio,  was  formally 
opened ;  and  on  occasion  of  this 
ceremony,  Chatterton  tried  his  hand 
at  a  mystification  of  the  general  pub- 
lic. He  sent  an  extract  to  a  local 
paper  out  of  Rowley's  wonderful 
stories,  in  which,  it  appeared,  every 
kind  of  illustration  appropriate  to 
every  variety  of  experience  might  be 
found.  "  The  following  description 
of  the  Mayor's  first  passing  over 
the  Old  Bridge,  taken  from  an  old 
MS.,  may  not  at  this  time  be  unac- 
ceptable to  the  generality  of  your 
readers,"  he  says,  signing  himself 
"  Dunelmus  Bristoliensis,"  to  *  Far- 
ley's Bristol  Journal;'  and  the  ac- 
companying extract  was  given  with 
all  formality  as  it  is  quoted.  The 
reader  will  perceive  how,  under  the 
strange  and  over-elaborate  marks  of 
antiquity,  are  forms  of  expression 
audaciously  modern,  and  a  general 
air  of  to-day,  by  which  no  true  an- 
tiquary could  ever  be  deceived  : — 

"  On  Fridaie  was  the  Time  fixed  for 
passing  the  newe  Brydge  :  Aboute  the 
Time  of  the  Tollynge  the  tenth  Clock, 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


467 


Master  Greggorie  Dalbenye,  mounted 
en  a  Fergreyne  Horse,  enformed  Master 
Maior  all  Thyngs  were  prepared ;  when 
two  Beadils  want  fyrst  streying  fresh 
t-tre,  next  came  a  Manne  dressed  up  as 
follows :  Hose  of  Goatskyn,  erinepart 
outwards,  Doublet  and  Waystcoat  also, 
over  which  a  white  Robe  without 
sleeves,  much  like  an  albe,  but  not  so 
longe,  reeching  but  to  his  Lends;  a 
girdle  of  Azure  over  his  left  shoulder, 
i  echde  also  to  his  Lends  on  the  Ryght, 
:md  doubled  back  to  his  Left,  bucklying 
with  a  Gouldin  Buckel,  dangled  to  his 
knee;  thereby  representing  a  Saxon 
Elderman.  In  his  hande  he  bare  a 
shield,  the  Maystrie  of  Gille  a  Brog- 
t;on,  who  paincted  the  same,  repre- 
sentyng  Saincte  Warburgh  crossynge 
t,he  Ford.  Then  a  mickle  strong 
Manne,  in  armour,  carried  a  huge 
anlace ;  after  whom  came  six  clary ons 
and  Minstrels,  who  sang  the  Song  of 
Saincte  Warburgh ;  then  came  Master 
Maior,  mounted  on  a  white  Horse, 
dight  with  sable  Trappyng,  wrought 
about  by  the  Nunnes  of  Saiucte  Kenna 
with  gould  and  silver.  Next  followed 
the  "Eldermen  and  Cittie  Broders"  all 
fitly  mounted  and  caparisoned;  and 
after  them  a  procession  of  priests  and 
friars,  also  singing  St  Warburgh's  Song. 
"In  thilk  Manner  reechyng  the 
Brydge,  the  Manne  with  the  anlace 
stode  on  the  fyrst  Top  of  a  Mound, 
yreed  in  the  midst  of  the  Bridge  ;  then 
want  up  the  Manne  with  the  sheelde, 
after  him  the  Minstrels  and  Clarions  ; 
and  then  the  Preestes  and  Freeres,  all 
in  white  Albs,  makyng  a  most  goodlie 
shewe ;  the  Maior  and  Eldermen 
standyng  round,  theie  sang,  with  the 
sound  of  Clarions,  the  Song  of  Saincte 
Baldwyn :  which  beyng  done,  the 
Manne  on  the  Top  threwe  with  greet 
Myght  his  anlace  into  the  see,  and 
the  Clarions  sounded  an  auntiant  charge 
and  Forloyn :  then  theie  sang  againe  the 
Songe  of  Saincte  Warburgh,  and  pro- 
ceeded up  Chryst's  Hill  to  the  Cross, 
where  a  Latin  Sermon  was  preached  by 
Ralph  de  Blundeville.  And  with  sound 
of  clarion  theie  agayne  went  to  the 
Brydge,  and  there  dined ;  spendyng  the 
rest  of  the  Daie  in  Sportes  and  Plaies  : 
the  Freeres  of  Saincte  Augustine  cloeyng 
the  Plai.e  of  the  Knyghtes  of  Bristowe, 
making  a  greete  Fire  at  Night  on  Kyn- 
wulph  Hyll." 

This  bit  of  supposed  antiquity 
caused  a  considerable  sensation  in 
the  town.  It  had  been  brought  to 
the  printing-office  by  a  stranger, 


and  it  was  only  on  his  return  with 
another  communication  of  a  similar 
character  that  his  identity  was  dis- 
covered. Catcott,  to  whom  the  nar- 
rative was  doubly  interesting  on 
account  of  his  recent  exploit,  had 
made  eager  inquiries  about  the 
source  from  which  it  came,  and  was 
no  doubt  confirmed  in  his  belief  in 
llowley  by  finding  that  this  won- 
derful piece  of  narrative  proceeded 
from  the  same  inexhaustible  stores. 
The  boy  appears  to  have  been  rather 
roughly  handled  by  the  printing- 
house  people.  "His  age  and  ap- 
pearance altogether  precluded  the 
idea  of  his  being  the  author;"  and 
when  peremptorily  questioned  as 
to  where  he  got  it,  he  drew  back 
within  himself,  and  became  as  ob- 
stinate as  his  questioners  were 
surly.  It  was  only  when  they  soft- 
ened, and  begged  for  the  informa- 
tion which  he  alone  could  afford, 
that  he  yielded.  He  gave  the  same 
reply  that  he  had  already  done  to 
Catcott  and  Burgum — that  this  was 
one  of  the  many  MSS.  which  his 
father  had  taken  from  the  muni- 
ment-room at  Redcliffe  Church.  At 
the  very  same  time,  however,  he 
showed  to  a  certain  John  Rudhall, 
one  of  his  comrades,  with  boyish 
imprudence,  the  process  by  which 
he  prepared  his  parchments  and 
imitated  the  ancient  writing.  No 
doubt  the  publication  of  this  scrap 
of  history  gave  fresh  energy  to  his 
dealings  with  Barrett,  whom  he 
served  in  the  strangest  way,  hum- 
ouring his  longing  for  original  doc- 
uments, and  inventing,  as  he  went 
along,  with  a  miraculous  appropri- 
ateness to  the  need  of  the  moment, 
which  one  would  think  must  have 
excited  some  suspicion  in  the  mind 
of  the  historian.  Authorities  do 
not  generally  drop  down  from 
heaven  upon  a  writer  exactly  when 
he  wants  them  in  this  lavish  way. 
But  no  doubt  seems  to  have  crossed 
the  mind  of  the  antiquary.  "  No 
one  surely  ever  had  such  good  for- 
tune as  myself,"  he  cried  many  years 
after  ecstatically,  "  in  procuring 
MSS.  and  ancient  deeds  to  help 


468 


Chatterton, 


[April 


me  in  investigating  the  history  and 
antiquities  of  this  city."  It  does 
not  seem  ever  to  have  occurred  to 
the  self-absorbed  compiler  that  there 
was  anything  remarkable  in  the 
fact  of  the  lad  Chatterton  being 
able  to  decipher  and  identify  such 
documents,  even  had  his  possession 
of  them  been  fully  explained.  He 
took  everything  for  granted  with 
the  most  admirable  imbecility,  and 
made  the  fullest  use  of  them,  as 
will  be  seen  from  the  following  ac- 
count of  his  work,  which  we  quote 
from  Dr  Wilson  : — 

"If  the  reader  turn  from  the  bio- 
grapher's pages  to  those  of  the  historian 
and  antiquary  of  Bristol,  for  informa- 
tion about  William  Canynge  the  elder, 
merchant  and  mayor  of  Bristol  in  the 
age  of  Chaucer,  when  Edward  III.  and 
his  grandson  Richard  reigned ;  or  for  the 
facts  concerning  the  younger  Canynges 
of  the  times  of  the  Roses  ;  of  Sir  Symon 
de  Byrtoune,  Sir  Baldwin  Fulford,  or 
even  of  the  good  priest  Rowley, — he 
suddenly  finds  himself  involved  in  the 
most  ludicrous  perplexities.  Mr  Bar- 
rett was,  in  earlier  days,  an  undoubted 
believer  in  Rowley,  and  continued  to 
welcome  with  unquestioning  credulity 
the  apt  discoveries  which  were  ever 
rewarding  the  researches  of  Chatterton 
among  the  old  parchments  purloined  by 
his  father  from  Redcliffe  Church.  Did 
the  historian  attempt  to  follow  up  his 
first  chapter  of  British  and  Roman  Bris- 
tol, with  its  Roman  camps,  roads,  and 
coins,  by  a  second,  treating  in  like 
manner  of  Saxon  and  Norman  Bristol, 
his  meagre  data  are  forthwith  aug- 
mented by  the  discovery  of  an  account 
by  Turgot,  a  Saxon  ecclesiastic,  who 
lived  not  long  after  the  time  assigned 
by  Camden  for  the  origin  of  the  city, 
'  Of  auncient  coynes  found  at  and  near 
Bristowe,  with  the  hystorie  of  the  fyrst 
coynynge,  by  the  Saxon  nes,  done  from 
the  Saxon  ynto  Englyshe,  by  T. 
Rowlie.'  From  the  same  veracioxis 
pen  follows  an  account  of  *  Mayster 
Canynge,  hys  cabinet  of  auntyaunte 
monuments  ; '  the  same  being  a  won- 
drous library  and  antiquarian  museum 
of  Bristol  in  the  days  of  Henry  VI. 
Did  Leland  fail  the  historian,  painfully 
assiduous  in  researches  into  early  eccle- 
siastical foundations  :  an  old  MS.  of 
Rowley  fortunately  turns  up.  with  valu- 
able notes  on  St  Baldwyn's  Chapelle  in 
Baldwyn's  Street;  the  Chapelle  of  St 


Mary  Magdalen,  in  the  time  of  Earl 
Goodwyne ;  Seyncte  Austin's  Chapelle, 
with  its  *  aunciauntrie  and  nice  car- 
vellynge ; '  and  other  equally  curious 
and  apocryphal  edifices. 

*'  So  it  is  throughout  the  volume." 

It  seems  to  have  been  only  when 
he  had  thus  fully  convinced  all  the 
authorities  round  him  —  and  of 
course  such  men  as  the  Catcotts  and 
Barrett  were,  till  he  saw  through 
them,  great  men  to  the  attorney's 
apprentice,  the  charity-boy  and  de- 
scendant of  gravediggers  —  that 
Chatterton  began  to  dream  of  fame 
and  fortune.  No  doubt  it  must 
have  been  every  way  bad  for  the 
boy  to  fathom  so  speedily,  and  find 
out  the  narrowness  and  meanness 
of  the  only  people  he  had  to  look 
up  to.  When  he  perceived  with 
his  clear  eyes  how  utterly  deceiv- 
able  they  were  and  yet  how  self- 
ish, taking  from  him  what  they 
wanted  without  any  attempt  to  help 
him,  or  the  slightest  appreciation 
of  his  powers,  it  is  not  wonderful 
if  the  natural  impulse  of  arrogant 
youth  to  despise  its  pottering  com- 
monplace seniors,  grew  stronger  and 
more  bitter  within  him.  He  took 
these  small  luminaries  as  a  type  of 
the  critics  and  teachers  of  the  world — 
as  indeed,  to  a  certain  extent,  they 
were — and  trimmed  his  pinions  to 
a  loftier  flight.  As  he  had  taken  in 
the  wiseacres  at  home,  no  doubt  he 
could  take  in  the  others  outside  the 
little  world  of  Bristol,  and  make  a 
stepping-stone  of  them,  and  dash 
forth  upon  a  universe  where  surely 
— grand  final  hope  which  represents 
some  faith  still  in  an  ideal  human 
nature — somebody  was  to  be  found 
who  would  know  what  all  those 
hieroglyphics  meant,  and  decipher 
the  strange  language  and  hail  the 
new  poet.  There  is  the  strangest 
mixture  of  simplicity  and  cunning, 
belief  in  the  credulity  of  others, 
and  pathetic  credulity  on  his  own 
part,  in  Chatterton's  first  attempt 
upon  the  larger  world.  He  wrote 
to  Dodsley  the  publisher,  offering 
"  several  ancient  poems,  and  an  in- 
terlude, perhaps  the  oldest  dramatic 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


469 


work  extant,  wrote  by  one  Rowley, 
a  priest  in  Bristol,  who  lived  in . 
the  reigns  of  Henry  VI.  and  Ed- 
ward IV."  Receiving  no  answer 
to  this  letter,  after  an  interval  of 
two  months  he  wrote  again,  a  piti- 
ful epistle,  giving  an  account  of  the 
tragedy  of  "  Ella/'  and  asking  for 
"  one  guinea  to  enable  him  to  pro- 
cure permission  to  copy  it."  Poor 
boy!  The  extreme  poverty  to 
which  one  guinea  is  a  matter  of 
importance  has  something  pathetic 
in  it,  which  drops  a  merciful  veil 
over  those  little  meannesses,  by 
none  more  bitterly  felt  than  by 
those  compelled  to  do  them,  which 
need  produces.  Whether  he  re- 
ceived any  answer  at  all  to  this 
painful  application  there  is  no 
way  of  knowing.  But  shortly 
after,  he  made  another  and  more 
dignified  effort.  Horace  Wai- 
pole,  who  is  so  well  known  to  us 
all — a  man  of  much  greater  cali- 
bre than  the  Catcotts  and  Barrett, 
yet  who  probably  in  the  same 
circumstances  would  have  been  as 
easily  deceived,  and  as  little  con- 
scious of  Chatterton's  real  qualities 
as  they — was,  at  the  distance  from 
which  alone  the  Bristol  boy  could 
regard  such  a  potentate,  as  a  god 
among  men.  Distance,  alas  !  has 
an  immense  deal  to  do  with  many 
reputations.  A  vague  dilated  idea 
of  the  noble  gentleman,  who,  though 
already  in  the  highest  place  which 
fortune  could  bestow,  yet  conde- 
scended to  write,  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  art,  and  to  bestow  a  glorious 
patronage  upon  its  professors,  was 
the  young  poet's  conception  of  the 
dilettante  of  Strawberry  Hill.  He 
was  a  patron  worth  having — a  man 
whose  notice  would  open  an  entire 
world  of  honour  and  gladness  to 
the  ardent  boy.  He  too,  even,  had 
sinned,  if  it  could  be  called  sin,  in 
the  same  splendid  way.  Chatter- 
ton  was  Rowley;  but  was  not  Wai- 
pole  the  Baron  of  Otranto,  able  to 
understand  all  these  quaint  delights 
of  antiquity,  half  simulated,  half 
real— to  see  through  the  disguise, 
and  recognise  the  real  poet?  Such, 


no  doubt,  was  the  poor  lad's  dream 
• — and  such  a  dream  has  aroused, 
one  time  or  another,  every  poetical 
youthful  imagination.  A  sudden 
exhilaration  seems  to  have  filled 
his  mind  when  this  project  dawned 
upon  him.  He  could  not,  would 
not,  doubt  its  success.  "  He  would 
often  speak  in  great  raptures  of  the 
undoubted  success  of  his  plan  for 
future  life,"  says  his  sister.  "His 
ambition  increased  daily.  His 
spirits  were  rather  uneven,  some- 
times so  gloomed  that  for  days 
together  he  would  say  but  very 
little,  and  apparently  by  constraint ; 
at  other  times  exceedingly  cheerful. 
When  in  spirits  he  would  enjoy  his 
rising  fame  :  confident  of  advance- 
ment, he  would  promise  my  mother 
and  me  that  we  should  be  partakers 
of  his  success." 

Strangely  enough,  however,  this 
pure  impulse  to  seek  a  higher 
sphere  and  a  patron  more  likely 
to  comprehend  him,  was  carried 
out  by  another  of  those  amazing 
fictions  to  which  his  mind  had 
grown  familiar.  He  approached 
Walpole  not  as  a  young  poet  seek- 
ing to  make  himself  known,  nor 
even  as  the  discoverer  of  a  poet, 
but  with  a  long,  quaint,  very  ab- 
surd, and,  to  our  eyes,  very  trans- 
parent account  of  a  multitude  of 
medieval  painters,  immortalised 
by  Rowley,  which  might  be  used 
(he  suggests)  in  a  future  edition  of 
Walpole's  'Anecdotes  of  Painting' ! 
Nothing  more  daring  than  this 
sudden  creation  of  a  Bristol  school 
of  painters,  as  numerous  as  the 
Umbrian  or  Venetian,  and  to  all 
appearance  quite  as  distinguished, 
could  be  conceived;  and  it  shows 
the  wonderful  simplicity  of  the 
poor  boy,  and  his  unconsciousness 
of  the  fact  that  history  did  exist 
independent  of  Rowley,  and  that 
his  wonderful  statement  could  be 
put  to  its  test.  In  the  note  which 
accompanied  this  extraordinary  pro- 
duction he  introduced  himself  to 
Walpole  as  a  brother  dilettante. 
"Being  versed  a  little  in  antiqui- 
ties, I  have  met  with  several  curi- 


470 


Chattei-ton. 


[April 


ous  MSS.,"  he  says.  No  doubt  this 
mode  of  approaching  the  great  man 
seemed  to  the  youth  the  perfection 
of  craft  and  prudence;  and  when  he 
received  in  return  a  courtly  letter, 
complimenting  him  upon  his  learn- 
ing, his  urbanity,  and  politeness, 
and  couched  in  the  terms  due  from 
one  stately  student  to  another,  it  is 
not  wonderful  if  he  felt  his  hopes 
almost  realised.  The  poor  boy 
wrote  again,  not  abandoning  his 
grandiloquent  pretences  as  to  Row- 
ley, but  bursting  into  a  little  per- 
sonal history  as  well.  He  told  his 
splendid  correspondent  that  he  was 
"  the  son  of  a  poor  widow  who  sup- 
ported him  with  great  difficulty ; 
that  he  was  still  an  apprentice  to 
an  attorney,  but  had  a  taste  or 
turn  for  more  elegant  studies ; 
and  hinted  a  wish,"  says  Walpole, 
who  is  our  only  authority  as  to  the 
words  of  this  letter,  "  that  I  would 
assist  him  with  my  interest  in  emerg- 
ing out  of  so  dull  a  profession  by 
procuring  him  some  place  in  which 
he  could  pursue  his  natural  bent." 
With  this  letter  Chatterton  enclosed 
no  more  nonsense  about  painters, 
but  several  of  the  Rowley  poems, 
and  awaited  the  result  with,  it  is 
too  easy  to  imagine,  a  beating 
heart. 

The  result  was  such  as  might 
have  been  anticipated.  The  cour- 
teous reception  of  a  doubtful  anti- 
quity from  a  brother  virtuoso,  which 
involved  nothing  more  than  civility 
and  a  learned  correspondence,  was 
one  thing;  but  to  take  bodily  upon 
one's  shoulders  the  charge  of  an 
uneducated  and  penniless  lad,  with 
a  fardel  of  very  suspicious  MSS., 
was  a  totally  different  matter.  Our 
friend  Horace  was  taken  much 
aback.  He  had  no  way  of  knowing 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death 
to  his  correspondent ;  and  even  had 
he  done  so,  it  is  doubtful  whether 
he  would  have  thought  the  despair 
of  a  Bristol  apprentice  anything  like 
so  important  as  his  own  comfort 
and  equanimity.  But  he  was  still 
courteous,  even  kind  in  his  way. 
He  submitted  the  poems  to  Gray 


and  Mason,  whose  opinion  against 
their  genuineness  was  stronger  than 
his  own,  and  he  wrote  very  civilly 
to  the  young  unfortunate.  "  I  un- 
deceived him,"  he  says,  "  about  my 
being  a  person  of  interest,  and 
urged  him  that  in  duty  and  grati- 
tude to  his  mother,  who  had  strait- 
ened herself  to  breed  him  up  to  a 
profession,  he  ought  to  labour  in 
it  that  in  her  old  age  he  might 
absolve  the  filial  debt.  I  told  him 
that  when  he  should  have  made  a 
fortune,  he  might  unbend  himself 
with  the  studies  consonant  to  his 
inclinations."  Pitiless  words  !  yet 
not  meant  badly  by  the  fine  gentle- 
man, to  whom,  no  doubt,  it  appear- 
ed quite  possible  that  a  budding 
attorney  might  one  day  make  some 
kind  of  dirty  little  fortune.  Poor 
Chatterton,  stinging  and  tingling  in 
every  vein,  yet  keeping  his  temper 
with  a  miraculous  effort,  replied  in 
defence  of  his  MSS.,  upon  which  his 
correspondent  had  thrown  a  doubt. 
"  I  am  not  able  to  dispute  with  a 
person  of  your  character,"  cries  the 
poor  boy,  who,  even  in  this  bitter 
moment,  cannot  refrain  from  some 
circumstantial  fibbing  about  his 
Rowley,  whose  productions  he 
copied,  he  says,  "  from  a  transcript 
in  the  hands  of  a  gentleman  who 
is  assured  of  their  authenticity." 
But  he  concludes  with  a  burst  of 
indignant  but  not  undignified  feel- 
ing. "  Though  I  am  but  sixteen 
years  of  age,  I  have  lived  long 
enough  to  see  that  poverty  attends 
literature.  I  am  obliged  to  you, 
sir,  for  your  advice,  and  will  go  a 
little  beyond  it,  by  destroying  all 
my  useless  lumber  of  literature, 
and  never  using  my  pen  again  but 
in  the  law." 

Poor  hot-headed  disappointed 
boy  !  no  doubt  there  were  bitter 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  wrote  these 
words,  so  full  of  indignant  mean- 
ing, so  real  in  feeling,  and  yet  so 
impossible.  Twice  after  he  had  to 
apply  to  Walpole  for  the  return  of 
his  MSS.,  Horace  having  gone  to 
Paris  to  enjoy  himself  for  six  weeks 
in  the  mean  time,  and  forgotten  all 


1 870.] 


Chatterlon. 


471 


about  his  petitioner.  They  were 
finally  returned  without  a  word  to 
apologise  for  the  delay.  And  thus 
tmded  poor  Chatterton's  dream — 
the  only  project  with  any  real  foun- 
dation to  it  which  had  yet  entered 
his  fertile  brain. 

But  yet  it  would  be  cruel  to  im- 
pute any  serious  blame  to  Walpole. 
Advice  is  an  unpalatable  substitute 
for  warm  support  and  champion- 
ship ;  but  there  was  no  reason  why 
be  should  accept  the  task  of  setting 
up  this  boy  in  the  world,  and  mak- 
ing a  career  for  him.  No  doubt 
he  was  sorry  afterwards  if  it  ever 
occurred  to  him  that  his  repulse 
bad  anything  to  do  with  Chatter- 
ton's  fate.  But  we  cannot  believe 
that  it  had  actually  anything  to  do 
with  it.  The  boy's  energies  were 
quite  fresh  and  unbroken,  and  the 
sting  of  a  great  disappointment  is 
quite  as  often  a  spur  as  a  discour- 
aging blow.  Probably  the  cutting 
off  of  his  hopes  had  something  to 
do  with  the  sharp  and  angry  satires 
produced  during  his  last  year  in 
Bristol,  and  which  seem  to  have 
been  chiefly  directed  against  his 
friends.  One  of  these,  Mr  Catcott 
the  pe wterer,  received  his  castigation 
in  such  a  Christian  spirit,  or  rather 
with  such  unexampled  vanity,  as  to 
annotate  and  preserve  it,  evident- 
ly with  an  idea  that  fame  is  fame, 
and  that  to  be  celebrated  in  satiric 
verse  is  better  than  not  to  be  cele- 
brated at  all.  But  his  brother  the 
clergyman,  with  whom  Chatterton 
had  become  intimate,  received  it 
in  quite  another  fashion,  and  broke 
off  all  intercourse  with  the  rash 
boy — a  fact  which  would  seem  to 
have  startled  him — the  first  pun- 
ishment of  his  unsparing  ridicule. 
By  this  time  he  seems  to  have  be- 
come very  well  known  in  Bristol. 
He  had  a  bowing  acquaintance,  his 
sister  tells  us,  with  almost  all  the 
young  men  ;  and  his  strange  ways, 
his  fits  of  silence,  his  abstruse  occu- 
pations, and  no  doubt  in  such  an 
age  his  unusual  temperance,  made 
him  an  object  of  some  wonder  to 
the  common  crowd.  He  was  like 


nobody  else  in  that  little  world. 
He  was  known  to  be  already  a  man 
of  letters,  contributing  to  the  news- 
papers and  magazines;  and  that  of 
itself  was  foundation  enough  upon 
which  to  attribute  to  him  all  man- 
ner of  oddity.  Wondering  looks 
followed  as  he  went  on  his  dreamy 
way  from  Mr  Lambert's  house  to 
his  office — from  the  office  to  his 
mother's  humble  little  dwelling. 
That  was  the  utmost  extent  of  his 
locomotion  on  week-days  ;  but  on 
Sunday  he  made  expeditions  into 
the  country,  and  would  bring  home 
drawings  of  village  churches  which 
had  taken  his  fancy ;  or  beguiling 
a  half -reluctant  companion  to  the 
river -side,  would  throw  himself 
down  on  the  grass  and  read  to  him, 
probably  to  the  great  bewilderment 
of  his  faculties,  one  of  Rowley's 
poems  ;  or  in  a  gayer  mood  would 
join  the  gay  crowd  in  the  public 
promenade,  where  the  girls  went 
to  show  their  finery.  He  had 
many  friends  among  those  "girls," 
the  pretty  blossoms  of  their  genera- 
tion, who  perhaps  were  less  hard 
upon  him  than  wiser  folk  —  and 
wrote  verses  to  them,  and  promised 
to  write  them  letters  when  he  went 
away ;  but  these  friendships  were 
such  that  he  could  send  his  mes- 
sages to  them  through  his  mother — 
a  harmless  mode  of  correspondence. 
These  are  the  higher  lights  of 
Chatterton' s  life.  But  all  this  time 
it  must  be  remembered  that  the  lad 
who  had  been  permitted  to  discuss 
theology  with  the  clerical  Catcott, 
and  give  information  to  the  anti- 
quarian Barrett — who  had  corre- 
sponded with  Walpole,  and  seen 
himself  in  print  in  a  London  maga- 
zine— and  who  had  formed  a  thou- 
sand dreams  more  splendid  than 
any  reality — was  still  the  bedfellow 
of  Mr  Lambert's  footboy,  eating 
his  spare  meals  in  Mr  Lambert's 
kitchen  with  the  maids,  and  with 
no  place  of  refuge  from  these  com- 
panions except  in  the  office,  where 
sometimes  Mr  Lambert  himself 
would  appear  furious,  seizing  upon 
his  cherished  labours,  and  scatter- 


472 


Chatterton. 


[April 


ing  the  floor  with  the  fragments  of 
his  lost  poetry.  He  was  boarded 
and  clothed  by  this  harsh  employer, 
but  had  not  a  penny  even  to  pro- 
vide himself  with  paper,  except 
the  chance  half-crowns  which  Bar- 
rett or  Catcott  bestowed  upon  him 
for  his  MSS.  If  he  was  "  moody 
and  uneven  in  spirits,"  what  won- 
der? With  such  associates  round 
him  continually,  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  he  had  not  been  subject 
to  "  fits  of  absence."  And  as  he 
grew  and  developed,  the  yoke  be- 
came more  and  more  irksome.  He 
was  apprenticed  to  Mr  Lambert 
for  seven  years,  only  two  of  which 
were  gone,  and  to  get  free  was  the 
object  of  his  constant  longing.  He 
would  run  away,  he  said,  in  despair, 
in  the  evening  hours  which  he 
spent  at  home,  and  which  were 
often  spent,  no  doubt,  in  those  an- 
xious pleadings  with  him  for  pa- 
tience on  the  part  of  the  troubled 
women,  and  wild  complaints  on  his 
side,  which  are  unfortunately  so 
common.  One  knows  the  very 
arguments  the  poor  mother  would 
use,  praying  her  impatient  boy, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  put  up 
with  it  a  little  longer.  What  was 
to  become  of  him] — what  was  to 
become  of  them  all  if  he  threw 
away  this  only  certain  sustenance  2 
There  are  few  of  us  who  have  not 
seen  such  scenes ;  but  not  many 
discontented  boys  nowadays  have 
such  foundation  as  had  poor  Chat- 
terton, thus  beset  on  every  side, 
and  shut  out  from  any  possible 
consolation  or  even  privacy  in  his 
life. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the 
accident  which  cut  short  his  bond- 
age was  the  result  of  careful  ar- 
rangement on  his  part,  or  if  it  was 
simply  chance  ;  probably  a  little  of 
both.  There  is  a  mixture  of  levity 
and  reality  in  the  strange  docu- 
ment called  his  will,  which  seems 
to  bring  before  us  too  clearly  for 
any  artifice  the  workings  of  the 
strange  double  mind — one  all  school- 


boy insolence,  the  other  deepen- 
ing into  a  pathetic  sense  of  all  the 
mysteries  of  life — which  inspired  the 
lad.  This  curious  production  be- 
gins with  satirical  addresses  to  his 
friends  Burgum  and  Catcott  in  verse, 
and  breaking  off  abruptly  with  a 
reference  to  the  usual  burial-place 
of  suicides,  continues  thus: — 

"This  is  the  last  Will  and  Testament 
of  me,  Thomas  Chatterton,  of  the  City 
of  Bristol ;  being  sound  in  body,  or  it 
is  the  fault  of  my  last  surgeon.  The 
soundness  of  my  mind  the  Coroner  and 
Jury  are  to  be  judges  of,  desiring  them 
to  take  notice,  that  the  most  perfect 
masters  of  human  nature  in  Bristol  dis- 
tinguish me  by  the  title  of  the  Mad 
Genius ;  therefore  if  I  do  a  mad  action, 
it  is  conformable  to  every  action  of^my 
life,  which  all  savoured  of  insanity. 

"  Item,  If  after  my  death,  which 
will  happen  to-morrow  night  before 
eight  o'clock,  being  the  Feast  of  the 
Resurrection,  the  Coroner  and  Jury  bring 
it  in  lunacy,  I  will  and  direct  that  Paul 
Farr,  Esq.,  and  Mr  John  Flower,  at 
their  joint  expense,  cause  my  body  to 
be  interred  in  the  tomb  of  my  fathers, 
and  raise  the  monument  over  my  body 
to  the  height  of  four  feet  five  inches, 
placing  the  present  flat  stone  on  the  top, 
and  adding  six  tablets. 

"  On  the  first,  to  be  engraved  in  Old 
English  characters — 

"  Vous  qui  par  ici  passez 
Pur  1'ame  Guateroine  Chatterton  priez ; 
Le  Cors  di  oi  ici  gist, 
L'ame  receyve  Thu  Crist.— MCCX. 

"On  the  second  tablet,  in  Old  Eng- 
lish characters — 

"Orate  pro  animabus  Alanus  Chatter- 
ton,  et  Alicia  Uxeris  ejus,  qui  quidem 
Alanus  obict  X.  die  mensis  Noverab. 
MCCCCXV.,  quorum  animabus  propine- 
tur  Deus.  Amen.* 

"  On  the  third  tablet,  in  Roman  char- 
acters— 

"Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON, 
Subchaunter  of  the  Cathedral  of  this  city, 
whose  ancestors  were  residents  of  St  Mary 
Redcliffe   since  the  year  1140.     He  died 
the  7tli  of  August  1752. 

"On  the  fourth  tablet,  in  Roman 
characters — 


The  French  and  Latin  are  given  as  Chatterton  wrote  them. 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


473 


"  To  the  Memory  of 
THOMAS  CHATTEHTON. 
Reader,  judge  not :  if  thoti  art  a  Chris- 
tian, believe  that  he  shall  be  judged  by  a 
superior  Power  ;   to  that  Power  alone  is 
he  now  answerable." 

This  wonderful  jumble  of  the 
imaginary  and  true,  fictitious  an- 
cestors and  but  too  real  father  and 
son,  is  not  more  remarkable  than 
the  sudden  drop  in  a  moment 
from  the  false  levity  of  all  that  pre- 
cedes it  to  the  touching  and  pathetic 
words  which  have  since  been  in- 
scribed on  Chatterton's  monument 
— a  momentary  gleam  of  the  better 
and  truer  soul.  The  will  then  re- 
lapses into  satire,  as  the  boy  be- 
queaths his  "  vigour  and  fire  of 
youth/'  his  humility,  his  modesty, 
his  spirit  and  disinterestedness,  his 
powers  of  utterance  and  his  free- 
thinking,  to  various  of  his  friends, 
patrons,  and  enemies  in  Bristol. 
Then  he  pauses,  with  once  more  a 
recollection  of  something  better,  to 
make  a  kind  of  apology  to  the  Cat- 
cotts  for  his  sins  against  them.  "  I 
have  an  unlucky  way  of  railing, 
and  when  the  strong  fit  of  satire  is 
upon  me  I  spare  neither  friend  nor 
foe/'  says  the  poor  fool  of  genius, 
divided  between  real  regret  for  his 
cruelties,  and  a  certain  sense  that  it 
is  a  fine  thing  to  have  talents  and 
impulses  which  are  too  strong  to  be 
resisted.  "  I  leave  all  my  debts," 
he  concludes,  "the  whole  not  five 
pounds,  to  the  payment  of  the  gen- 
erous Chamber  of  Bristol.  .  .  . 
I  leave  my  mother  and  sister  to  the 
protection  of  my  friends,  if  I  have 
any.  Executed  in  the  presence  of 
Omniscience,  the  14th  of  April 
1770."  This  wonderful  melange  of 
flippancy  and  solemnity  is  endorsed 
as  follows :  "All  this  wrote  between 
eleven  and  two  o'clock,  Saturday,  in 
the  utmost  distress  of  mind."  Poor 
boy  !  wearing  his  charlatan  habit 
with  such  a  tragic  truthfulness  ! 
He  meant  it  every  word,  and  yet  he 
meant  it  not.  He  was  playing  with 
that  cold-gleaming  remorseless  wea- 
pon of  death;  touching  the  axe 
with  his  finger,  jesting  over  it, 
shooting  sharp  shafts  under  cover 


of  its  presence,  and  laughing  at  the 
twinges  of  his  victims ;  yet  wonder- 
ing, wondering  all  the  time  when 
the  moment  came  how  it  would 
feel. 

He  left  this  composition,  written, 
as  most  of  his  productions  were,  in 
a  copy-book,  upon  his  desk ;  and  by 
chance  or  by  design  it  fell  into  Mr 
Lambert's  hands.  The  attorney 
had  been  already  scared  by  another 
trick  of  the  same  kind,  and  was  too 
much  alarmed  any  longer  to  run  the 
risk  of  finding  a  dead  drudge  in  his 
office  some  day  instead  of  a  living 
one.  His  alarm  was  so  great  that 
we  are  told  the  indentures  were  im- 
mediately cancelled,  and  the  dan- 
gerous apprentice  dismissed.  He 
was  as  glad  to  be  rid  of  Lambert  as 
Lambert  must  have  been  to  get  rid 
of  him;  and  went  back  to  his 
mother,  carrying  trouble  and  con- 
sternation into  the  dressmaker's 
humble  household,  but  full  of  con- 
fidence himself.  "  Would  you  have 
me  stay  here  and  starve  1 "  he  asked, 
when  the  weeping  women  tried  to 
dissuade  him  from  his  project  of 
going  to  London;  and  then  he 
chattered  to  them  of  the  great  fu- 
ture that  was  coming,  and  of  all  the 
grandeur  he  would  surround  them 
with.  He  talked  away  their  fears, 
or  at  least  talked  them  silent — no 
rare  occurrence;  for  here  again  is 
no  exceptional  feature  in  a  poet's 
life, but  one  of  the  perennial  chances 
of  humanity  —  the  confident  boy, 
fearing  nothing,  eager  to  dash  into 
the  fight  and  dare  all  its  perils — the 
older,  sadder  souls  that  have  them- 
selves been  wounded  in  the  battle, 
weeping,  doubting,  deprecating, 
and  yet  not  without  a  feeling  in 
their  hearts  that  for  him  an  excep- 
tion may  be  made  which  goes 
against  all  experience,  and  that  such 
bright  hope  and  courage  and  con- 
fidence cannot  altogether  fail. 

And  in  this  moment  of  necessity 
his  friends  stepped  in  to  help. 
They  made  up  a  purse  for  him  to 
pay  his  expenses  to  London  and 
give  him  a  start  in  his  new  career. 
The  amount  is  not  known,  and  pro- 


474 


Chatterton. 


[April 


bably  was  not  very  great ;  but  it 
was  enough  to  send  the  boy  away 
in  the  highest  spirits,  in  the  basket 
and  afterwards  on  the  top  of  the 
coach,  where  he  "  rid  easy,"  as  he 
writes  to  his  mother.  He  wrote 
the  first  morning  after  his  arrival 
a  long  letter  with  a  complete  itin- 
erary of  his  journey.  He  had  got 
into  London  at  five  in  the  evening 
on  the  25th  of  April,  and  had  at 
once  proceeded  to  visit  the  book- 
sellers with  whom  he  had  already 
some  kind  of  connection,  through 
his  contributions  to  the  Town  and 
Country  and  other  magazines.  He 
had,  he  says,  "  great  encourage- 
ment from  them  all ;  all  approved 
of  my  design."  He  had  seen  vari- 
ous relations  in  London  and  had 
received  a  kindly  welcome ;  and 
altogether  was  in  high  hope  and 
excitement,  feeling  himself  on  the 
verge  of  a  brilliant  fate. 

Chatterton  established  himself 
in  lodgings  in  Shoreditch — a  curi- 
ous locality,  considering  all  the  fine 
company  which  he  immediately 
declared  himself  to  be  keeping.  So 
far  as  personal  comfort  went  he 
would  not  seem  to  have  much  im- 
proved by  the  change,  ior  again  we 
find  he  shared  his  room  with  a 
nephew  of  his  landlady's,  a  young 
plasterer,  whose  peace  must  have 
been  strangely  disturbed  by  his 
new  bedfellow.  "He  used  to  sit 
up  almost  all  night  in  writing  and 
reading,"  says  the  plasterer's  sister; 
"  and  her  brother  said  he  was 
afraid  to  lie  with  him,  for  to  be 
sure  he  was  a  spirit  and  never 
slept ;  for  he  never  came  to  bed 
till  it  was  morning,  and  then,  for 
what  he  saw,  never  closed  his  eyes." 
And,  however  late  he  had  been,  he 
invariably  got  up  when  the  young 
workman  did,  between  five  and  six. 
The  same  feverish  restlessness 
seems  to  have  distinguished  him 
through  all  the  remainder  of  his 
brief  life.  His  letters  are  like  the 
utterance  of  a  man  in  a  breathless 
hurry.  He  is  writing  this  and  that 
• — he  is  sought  for  here  and  there. 
Wilkes  is  anxious  to  see  him ;  Beck- 


ford  the  mayor  is  going  to  make 
his  fortune.  He  knows  all  the  wits 
at  the  coffee-houses  ;  he  meant  to 
have  called  on  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford, but  could  not,  as  he  was  ill. 
All  these  startling  intimations  of 
exalted  fortune  hurry  from  his 
pen  as  if  he  had  no  time  to  take 
breath.  And  he  must  indeed,  dur- 
ing the  first  month  he  spent  in 
London,  have  been  busy  enough, 
though  not  to  much  profit.  He  had 
papers  in  the  '  Middlesex  Journal,' 
the  'Freeholders'  Magazine,'  the 
1  Town  and  Country  Magazine,'  the 
'Annual  Register;7  and  even  the 
'  Gospel  Magazine '  received  contri- 
butions from  him, "  for  a  whim  "  as  he 
tells  the  anxious  watchers  at  home. 
"  I  get  four  guineas  a-month  by  one 
magazine,"  he  wrote  a  fortnight 
after  his  arrival,  "  and  shall  engage 
to  write  a  History  of  England  and 
other  pieces,  which  will  more  than 
double  that  sum.  Occasional  essays 
for  the  daily  papers  will  more  than 
support  me.  What  a  glorious  pros- 
pect ! "  He  promises  his  sister 
"  two  silks  during  the  summer," 
she  has  only  to  choose  the  colours  ; 
and  does  manage  somehow  or  other 
to  send  his  mother  a  box  containing 
a  half-dozen  cups  and  saucers,  two 
fans,  and  some  British  herb  snuff 
for  his  grandmother — a  touching 
proof  of  the  boy's  tender  thought 
of  his  own  people,  the  humble,  sim- 
ple, anxious  family  who  were  re- 
joicing with  trembling  in  the  little 
Bristol  house. 

Amid  all  this  big  talk,  however, 
he  allows  himself  to  complain,  in  a 
letter  to  his  sister,  that  the  political 
essays  or  letters  which  he  had  begun 
to  write  did  not  pay.  It  was  the  age 
of  Junius,  and  the  ambitious  boy 
had  set  himself  up  as  a  kind  of 
rival  to  Junius  under  the  title  of 
Decimus.  But  he  found  that 
"  essays  on  the  patriotic  side  fetch 
no  more  than  what  the  copy  is  sold 
for,"  and  that  on  the  other  side 
they  fetch  nothing  at  all.  "  You 
must  pay  to  have  them  printed,"  he 
says  with  curious  shrewdness,  "  but 
then  you  seldom  lose  by  it."  "  If 


1870.] 


Chatterton. 


475 


money  flowed  as  fast  on  me  as 
honours,"  he  adds,  "  I  would  give 
you  a  portion  of  £5000."  There 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  any 
foundation  for  all  these  boasts  ;  yet 
the  brag  which  was  made  to  keep 
up  the  spirits  of  his  mother  and 
sister,  and  conceal  from  them  his 
privations,  surely  deserves  to  be 
called  at  least  a  pious  fraud,  and 
must  not  be  too  sharply  criticised. 
He  kept  up  the  farce  almost  to  the 
end,  describing  himself  on  the  20th 
July,  only  a  month  before  his 
death,  as  having  "  a  universal  ac- 
quaintance :  my  company  is  courted 
everywhere ;  and  could  I  humble 
myself  to  go  into  a  compter,  could 
have  had  twenty  places  before  now ; 
but  I  must  be  among  the  great : 
State  matters  suit  me  better  than 
commercial,"  says  the  boy,  in  what 
must  have  been  the  half-delirious 
self-assertion  of  a  spirit  approach- 
ing the  final  margin  of  despair.  A 
little  later  he  tries  to  obtain  a  re- 
commendation from  Mr  Barrett  for 
a  situation  as  surgeon  in  a  ship 
going  to  Africa,  a  wonderful  prac- 
tical contradiction  to  his  boasts 
which  must  have  confused  the 
minds  of  his  friends.  Barrett  re- 
fused to  give  it,  as  was  natural. 
And  then  the  darkness  seems  to 
have  closed  in  around  the  unhappy 
lad.  The  last  visible  sign  we  have 
of  him  in  this  world  is  a  letter  to 
Catcott,  mostly  about  the  architec- 
ture of  Redcliffe  Church,  and  the 
improvement  of  the  Bristol  streets. 
"  Heaven  send  you  the  comforts  of 
Christianity ;  I  request  them  not, 
for  I  am  no  Christian,"  he  says. 
These  are  almost  his  last  words  out 
of  the  gathering  shadows.  They 
are  dated  the  12th  August,  but 
twelve  days  before  his  death ;  but 
not  a  word  is  in  them  to  lead  to  the 
inference  that  the  writer's  heart 
and  hopes  were  failing,  that  he  was 
nearly  at  the  end  of  all  his  devices, 
beginning  to  starve  among  stran- 
gers. Shortly  before  this  he  had 
changed  his  lodging,  for  no  reason 
that  is  told  to  us,  but  probably 
that  he  might  hide  his  growing 


poverty,  the  beginning  of  utter  want 
and  destitution,  from  people  who 
knew  him.  A  relative  of  his  own 
lived  in  the  house  in  Shoreditch, 
and  must  have  found  out  his  priva- 
tions— and  the  poor  proud  boy  pre- 
ferred to  hide  his  misery  and  suffer 
alone. 

There  is  little  to  be  learned  about 
his  last  days.  He  had  stolen  away 
like  a  wounded  animal  to  hide  what 
he  had  to  bear.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  had  his  poor  room  to 
himself.  It  was  in  the  dusky 
neighbourhood  of  Holborn,  in  the 
midst  of  the  fullest  din  of  London, 
and  nobody  who  knew  him  was 
near  to  win  the  unhappy  one  back 
to  hope.  He  had  written  night 
and  day,  using  all  his  young  strong 
faculties  to  the  utmost,  dispensing 
with  sleep  and  food  and  all  the 
ordinary  supports  of  mortal  men  ; 
and  this,  no  doubt,  had  undermined 
his  health,  so  that  despair  had  so 
much  the  easier  mastery  of  him 
when,  after  valiantly  fighting  the 
wolf  at  the  door  for  four  long 
months,  it  at  last  broke  in.  The 
publishers,  according  to  his  own 
calculation,  were  owing  him  eleven 
pounds — enough  to  give  so  frugal  a 
being  bread  for  some  time  to  come  ; 
but  he  could  not  get  the  money 
that  was  owing  to  him,  and  that 
bitter  doubt  and  distrust  of  man 
which  lay  in  the  depths  of  his 
nature  broke  forth  in  full  force, 
adding  a  double  pang  to  his  other 
sufferings.  With  that  horrible 
doubt  and  sense  of  wrong  came 
the  pride  which  is  their  natural 
companion.  Humble  overtures  of 
kindness  made  by  the  humble 
people  about  him,  who  saw  that 
the  boy  was  starving,  were  rejected 
with  scorn.  Once  only  the  pre- 
tence of  an  oyster-supper  tempted 
him  to  eat  in  the  house  of  a  kind 
apothecary  in  his  new  neighbour- 
hood. This,  it  is  supposed,  was 
his  last  meal.  When  his  landlady 
begged  him  to  share  her  dinner 
with  her  in  the  last  awful  days, 
the  poor  boy,  mad  with  hunger 
and  despair,  resented  the  Chris- 


476 


Chatterton. 


[April 


tian  charity.  He  kept  himself  all 
alone  "  a  prisoner  in  his  room " 
with  such  thoughts  as  only  the 
eye  of  God  could  see.  Between 
the  unhappy  child  (not  eighteen) 
in  his  despair,  and  those  tenderest, 
most  pitiful,  all-comprehending  eyes 
of  the  Father  in  heaven,  it  is  not 
fit  that  any  man  should  interpose 
his  vain  judgment.  On  the  24th 
of  August  the  boy's  fortitude  or 
his  mind  gave  way.  It  is  possible 
that  he  had  the  poison  in  readiness 
for  some  such  emergency,  or  else 
that  he  staggered  forth,  all  weak 
and  ghastly,  to  get  it  when  nature 
could  bear  no  more.  It  was  arsenic, 
mixed  with  water,  we  are  told, 
which  was  the  means  of  death  he 
chose.  Next  morning,  when  the 
frightened  people  of  the  house 
broke  open  his  door,  he  lay  among 
a  thousand  fragments  of  the  papers 
he  had  torn  up  wildly  before  dying, 
in  all  his  young  beauty,  the  bright 
eyes  dim,  the  strong  limbs  power- 
less, like  a  young  oak-tree  felled, 
while  all  its  strength  was  yet  to 
come.  This  was  the  end  of  his 
struggles,  his  indomitable  courage, 
his  wild  tender  boastings  of  good 
fortune  which  had  *never  been. 
The  sleepless  soul  had  perished  in 
its  pride.  The  great  career  which 
ought  to  have  been  was  annulled 
for  ever. 

We  have  not  attempted  any  criti- 
cism of  Dr  Wilson's  careful  and 
sympathetic  study  of  this  short  sad 
life.  The  ground  has  been  often 
gone  over,  but  never  with  more 
painstaking  labour  or  truer  feeling; 
and  this  book  is  not  burdened,  as 
are  almost  all  others  on  the  same 
subject,  with  elaborate  discussions 
about  the  comparative  wickedness 
of  literary  forgeries,  or  the  forgot- 
ten arguments  of  the  Rowley  con- 
troversy. Dr  Wilson's  interest  is 
with  his  hero — to  whom  he  has  ren- 


dered the  calm  yet  generous  justice 
which  is  scarcely  ever  attained  by 
contemporaries,  or  even  by  critics 
of  the  generation  immediately  fol- 
lowing— and  not  with  mere  literary 
discussions  or  dilettante  arguments. 
We  have  refrained,  too,  from  the 
Rowley  controversy,  and  also  from 
the  Rowley  poems,  as  things  of  in- 
ferior and  temporary  moment  in 
comparison  with  the  story  of  their 
author.  The  first  is  dead,  as  all 
such  absurd  discussions  must  come 
to  be  as  soon  as  remorseless  Time 
has  laid  his  hand  upon  them.  The 
poems,  if  not  dead,  are  sadly  buried 
under  the  rubbish  of  artificial  anti- 
quity with  which  it  pleased  their 
author  to  encumber  them.  Under- 
neath are  to  be  found  rich  tints  of 
beauty  and  power,  the  scatterings 
of  a  splendid  and  prodigal  genius ; 
but  we  have  no  space  to  enter  into 
criticism.  We  are  told,  in  all  Chat- 
terton's  earlier  memoirs,  with  the 
unfailing  set  moral  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  that  had  he  but  waited 
a  while  all  would  have  been  well 
with  him.  Did  not  Dr  Fry  of  St 
John's  College,  Cambridge,  go  to 
Bristol  very  shortly  after  to  inves- 
tigate into  the  Rowley  poems  and 
their  discoverer?  "Poor  Chatter- 
ton  !  he  might  have  grown  to  be  a 
perfect  man,  and  become  a  happy 
poet  and  a  Christian  philosopher," 
says  one  of  his  anonymous  biogra- 
phers. But,  after  all,  there  is  no- 
thing certain  in  Dr  Fry  nor  in 
the  justice  of  the  world;  and  the 
only  conclusion  we  have  the  heart 
to  put  to  this  saddest  chapter  of 
literary  history,  is  that  which  he 
himself  appointed  to  be  placed  over 
his  grave  :  "  Reader,  judge  not.  If 
thou  art  a  Christian,  believe  that 
he  shall  be  judged  by  a  superior 
Power:  to  that  Power  alone  is  he 
now  answerable."  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said. 


1870.] 


Blue  Laws. 


477 


BLUE     LAWS. 


THOUGH  the  world  —  especially 
that  part  of  it  which  speaks  English 
— must,  according  to  all  present  ap- 
pearance, resign  itself,  as  best  it 
may,  to  the  government  of  mere 
numbers,  there  is  no  reason  why 
the  minority  should  worship  the 
majority,  or  extol  its  decrees  as  the 
perfection  of  wisdom.  Vox  populi, 
vox  Dei,  never  was  a  true  saying, 
and  never  will  be,  unless  the  mul- 
titudes become  very  much  wiser 
and  less  selfish  than  they  have 
ever  yet  shown  themselves,  in  any 
part  of  the  world,  since  the  begin- 
ning of  time.  The  voice  of  the  peo- 
ple was  for  Barabbas,  not  for  Jesus. 
'Punch  and  Judy'  is  a  more  attract- 
ive performance  to  our  masters — 
"  the  masses"  —  than  '  Hamlet '  or 
'  Macbeth ';  and  if  the  whole  world 
were  counted,  Christianity  itself 
would  be  found  to  be  in  a  minority 
as  compared  with  Mohammedanism 
or  Buddhism.  There  is  sometimes 
a  chance  under  the  rule  of  a  single 
despot  that  the  many  may  escape 
oppression — for  a  despot  may  be 
mild,  equitable,  and  conscientious ; 
but  mere  majorities,  however  much 
it  may  be  in  our  day  the  fashion  to 
defer  to  them,  are  often  very  virulent 
and  unjust,  and,  worst  defect  of  all, 
are  either  wholly  unendowed  with 
a  conscience,  or,  possessing  a  con- 
science, consider  it  their  duty  to 
consign  to  the  stake  or  the  scaffold 
all  the  wiser  people  who  disagree 
with  them.  And  when  a  minority 
that  has  ever  been  persecuted  or 
savagely  treated  finds  itself,  in  the 
course  of  time  and  by  the  progress 
of  events,  converted  into  a  majority, 
it  is  very  apt  to  better  the  lessons 
which  it  has  been  taught  in  the 
days  of  its  tribulation,  and  do  to 
others  even  worse  than  it  has 
been  done  by.  All  history  is  full 
of  the  struggles  and  sufferings  of 
minorities,  and  of  the  insolent  op- 
pression of  majorities,  and  will  pro- 
bably continue  to  be  so  until  the 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIV. 


happy  days,  which  Dr  Gumming 
expects  to  see  so  soon,  when  the 
lion  shall  lie  down  with  the  lamb, 
and  when  men,  studying  war  no 
more,  shall  turn  their  swords  into 
ploughshares  and  their  spears  into 
pruning-hooks,  and  every  one  shall 
be  as  wise  as  Solomon,  and  as  in- 
nocent as  Adam  on  the  day  of  his 
creation. 

In  England  and  America,  im- 
mediately after  the  Reformation 
had  gone  through  its  first  phases, 
the  tyranny  of  majorities  took  a 
turn  that  was  mainly  religious,  and 
to  a  smaller  extent  political.  The 
Puritans,  at  one  time  in  a  minority, 
suffered,  there  can  be  no  denial  of 
the  fact,  a  great  amount  of  injus- 
tice for  conscience'  sake,  and  made 
the  world  their  debtors  for  very 
much  of  the  subsequent  liberty 
which  it  has  enjoyed ;  but  they 
nevertheless,  when  it  came  to  their 
turn  to  be  in  the  majority,  inflicted 
upon  their  opponents  fully  as  much 
persecution  as  they  themselves  had 
endured.  They  had  their  first  great 
triumph  in  England  and  their 
second  in  America,  and  in  both 
countries  did  their  utmost  to  draw 
upon  themselves  not  only  the 
hatred  but  the  ridicule  of  the  non- 
Puritanic  community.  But  though 
they  might  incur  ridicule,  it  was 
impossible,  in  those  who  suffer- 
ed from  their  ascendancy,  to  de- 
spise people  with  such  fiery  zeal, 
and  such  grim  and  disagreeable 
earnestness  as  they  manifested  in 
all  their  dealings  with  their  oppo- 
nents. Lord  Macaulay,  in  a  well- 
known  passage  of  his  History,  very 
graphically  describes  their  doings 
in  Old  England,  before  New  Eng- 
land was  handed  over  to  their 
mercies : — 

"  Against  the  lighter  vices  the  ruling 
faction  waged  war  with  a  zeal  little 
tempered  by  humanity  or  by  common 
sense.  Sharp  laws  were  passed  against 
betting.  It  was  enacted  that  adultery 
2K 


478 


Blue  Laws. 


[April 


should  be  punished  with  death.  The 
illicit  intercourse  of  the  sexes,  even 
where  neither  violence  nor  seduction 
was  imputed,  where  no  piiblic  scandal 
was  given,  where  no  conjugal  right  was 
violated,  was  made  a  misdemeanour. 
Public  amusements,  from  the  masques 
which  were  exhibited  at  the  mansions 
of  the  great  down  to  the  wrestling 
matches  and  grinning  matches  on  vil- 
lage greens,  were  vigorously  attacked. 
One  ordinance  directed  that  all  the  May- 
poles in  England  should  forthwith  be 
hewn  down.  Another  proscribed  all 
theatrical  diversions.  The  playhouses 
were  to  be  dismantled,  the  spectators 
fined,  the  actors  whipped  at  the  cart's 
tail. "  Rope  -  dancing,  puppet  -  shows, 
bowls,  horse-racing,  were  regarded  with 
no  friendly  eye.  But  bear-baiting,  then 
a  favourite  diversion  of  high  and  low, 
was  the  abomination  which  most  strong- 
ly stirred  the  wrath  of  the  austere  sec- 
taries. It  is  to  be  remarked  that  their 
antipathy  to  this  sport  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  feeling  which  has,  in 
our  own  time,  induced  the  Legislature  to 
interfere  for  the  purpose  of  protecting 
beasts  against  the  wanton  cruelty  of 
men.  The  Puritan  hated  bear-baiting, 
not  because  it  gave  pain  to  the  bear,  but 
because  it  gave  pleasure  to  the  spectators. 
Indeed  he  generally  contrived  to  enjoy 
the  double  pleasure  of  tormenting  both 
spectators  and  bear." 

When  the  reaction  against  Puri- 
tanism in  England  had  set  in  so 
strongly  as  to  threaten  to  bring 
about  the  persecution  of  the  per- 
secutors, these  sturdy  zealots  be- 
thought themselves  of  the  New 
World,  whither  many  of  their  co- 
religionists had  long  preceded  them. 
They  resolved,  when  they  could 
no  longer  have  their  own  way  at 
home,  to  shake  the  dust  of  their 
native  land  from  their  feet,  and 
try  their  fortune  on  that  new 
soil  where  they  were  unlikely  to 
find  any  other  enemies  than  the 
savages  and  the  wild  animals  of  the 
forest.  So,  packing  up  their  worldly 
goods,  and  by  no  means  forgetting 
to  carry  their  intolerance  along  with 
them,  they  settled  in  various  swarms 
upon  the  rugged  shores  of  Massa- 
chusetts, Connecticut,  and  Rhode 
Island,  and  resolved  to  govern 
themselves  on  principles  more  thor- 
oughly theocratic  than  had  ever 
been  brought  into  practice  since 


the  days  when  the  Jews  grew  weary 
of  the  strict  discipline  of  the  pro- 
phet Samuel,  and  resolved  to  have 
a  king  to  rule  over  them  like  other 
nations.  They  applied  the  laws 
given  by  Moses  to  the  Jews  in  the 
wilderness  to  a  people  who  were 
not  Jews,  and  who  were  not  pass- 
ing through  the  wilderness  towards 
a  promised  land,  but  who  already 
possessed  another  Land  of  Promise, 
and  had  been  nurtured  in  a  very 
different  kind  of  civilisation  from 
that  of  the  Pentateuch. 

These  laws,  far  more  Judaical  than 
Christian,  had  been  in  operation, 
socially  more  than  legally,  in  New 
England  for  several  years,  when,  in 
1646,  it  was  resolved  by  the  General 
Court  of  Connecticut,  of  which  the 
jurisdiction  included  a  wider  range 
than  the  present  limits  of  that 
State,  to  make  a  collection  of  all 
the  laws  then  in  force  that  differed 
in  any  respect  from  the  laws  of  Eng- 
land, and  that  they  should  be  re- 
vised, digested,  and  incorporated 
into  one  code.  Mr  Roger  Ludlow 
of  Hartford,  one  of  the  magistrates 
of  the  colony,  was  intrusted  with 
the  task.  He  spent  four  years  over 
it,  laboured  very  industriously,  and 
in  1650  presented  the  code  to  the 
General  Court,  which  approved  of 
it  as  the  Law  of  the  Connecticut 
Colonies.  This  code  remained  in 
operation  until  1686,  when  Sir 
Edward  Andros,  the  new  Governor 
sent  out  by  King  James  II.,  sus- 
pended the  Charter  of  the  Colony, 
as  well  as  the  Puritanic  laws,  and 
for  a  time  re-established  the  laws 
of  England. 

The  laws  so  codified  by  Roger 
Ludlow  were  the  famous  "  Blue 
Laws."  The  Americans,  always 
happy  in  the  bestowal  of  nicknames, 
gave  them  this  appellation  in  deri- 
sion, and  it  has  adhered  to  them 
too  tightly  to  be  ever  shaken  off. 
The  phrase  was  suggested  by  the 
old  English  phrase  of  "the  blues," 
and  "  blue  -  devils,"  and  the  com- 
mon vulgarism  "  to  look  blue," 
under  sorrow,  disappointment,  or 
calamity.  These  Blue  Laws  were 
of  five  kinds — general,  theological, 


1870.] 


Blue  Laws. 


479 


municipal,  commercial,  and  person- 
al. It  is  only  the  latter  that  offer 
any  peculiarity,  or  that  need  any 
description ;  for  the  former  kinds 
were  mainly  of  the  same  character  as 
the  laws  of  all  civilised  countries  of 
the  time,  and  were  closely  founded 
upon  the  written  and  unwritten 
laws  of  England.  Their  whole  gist 
and  purpose  were  summarised  in 
one  significant  paragraph  by  Roger 
Ludlow : — 

"It  is  therefore  ordered  by  this 
courte,  and  by  the  authority  thereof, 
that  noe  man's  life  shall  bee  taken 
away;  that  noe  man's  honor  or  good 
name  shall  be  stained ;  that  noe  man's 
person  shall  be  arrested,  restrained, 
bannished,  dismembered,  nor  in  any 
way  punished  ;  that  noe  man  shall  be 
deprived  of  his  wife  or  children ;  that 
noe  man's  goods  or  estate  shall  be  taken 
away  from  him,  nor  any  ways  endam- 
maged,  under  color  of  law  or  counte- 
nance of  authority,  unless  it  bee  by  the 
virtue  or  equity  of  some  express  law  of 
the  country  warranting  the  same,  estab- 
lished by  a  generall  courte  and  suffici- 
ently published ;  or.  in  case  of  the  defect 
of  a  law  in  any  particular  case,  by  the 
Word  of  God." 

By  "the  Word  of  God"  the 
Puritans  meant  the  Old  Testament 
rather  than  the  New,  as  will  appear 
from  the  sanguinary  severity  of 
their  enactments  against  offences 
which  the  New  Testament  would 
have  treated  more  leniently,  and 
as  contrasted  with  the  charity  and 
mercy  exhibited  by  the  Saviour  to 
the  woman  taken  in  adultery.  The 
adulterer  and  the  adulteress  were 
both  to  be  put  to  death,  and  even 
the  incorrigible  Sabbath  -  breaker 
was  to  be  subjected  to  the  same 
penalty,  though  we  believe  there  is 
no  instance  on  record  of  its  having 
been  inflicted.  A  few  extracts 
from  this  by  no  means  Christian 
code  will  show  alike  the  spirit  of 
the  Blue  Laws  and  the  authority 
upon  which  they  were  founded. 

"  I.  If  any  man,  after  legall  convic- 
tion, shall  have  or  worship  any  other 
god  but  the  Lord  God,  hee  shall  bee  put 
to  death  (Deut.  xiii.  6;  xvii.  2;  Exod. 
xxii.  20)." 

"III.  If  any  man  shall  blaspheme 
the  name  of  God  the  Father,  Sonne,  or 


Holy  Ghost,  with  direct,  express,  pre- 
sumptuous, or  high-handed  blasphemy, 
or  shall  curse  any  one  in  the  like  man- 
ner, hee  shall  bee  put  to  death  (Lev. 
xxiv.  15,  16)."< 

"  VIII.  If  any  person  committeth  adul- 
tery with  a  married  or  espoused  wife, 
the  adulterer  and  the  adulteress  shall  bee 
surely  put  to  death  (Lev.  xx.  10 ;  and 
xviii.  20)." 

"X.  If  any  man  stealeth  a  man  or 
mankinde,  hee  shall  bee  put  to  death 
(Exod.  xxi.  16). 

"  XL  If  any  man  rise  up  by  false 
witnesse,  willingly  and  of  purpose,  to 
take  away  any  man's  life,  he  shall  bee  put 
to  death  (Deut.  xix.  16)." 

"XIII.  If  any  childe  or  children 
above  sixteene  yeares  old,  and  of  suffi- 
cient understanding,  shall  curse  or  smite 
his  or  their  natural!  father  or  mother, 
hee  or  they  shall  bee  put  to  death,  unless 
it  can  bee  sufficiently  testified  that  the 
parents  have  beene  very  unchristianly 
negligent  in  the  education  of  such  chil- 
dren, as  to  provoke  them  by  extreme 
and  cruell  correction,  that  they  have 
been  forced  thereunto  to  preserve  them- 
selves from  death  (or)  maiming  (Exod. 
xxi.  17-25;  Lev.) 

' '  XIV.  If  any  man  have  a  stubborn 
and  rebellious  sonne  of  sufficient  yeares 
and  understanding — viz.,  sixteene  years 
of  age — which  will  not  obey  the  voice 
of  his  father,  or  the  voice  of  his  mother, 
and  that,  when  they  have  chastened 
him,  will  not  hearken  unto  them,  then 
may  his  father  and  mother,  being  his 
natural!  parents,  lay  hold  on  him,  and 
bring  him  to  the  magistrates  assembled 
in  courte,  and  testifie  there  that  their 
sonne  is  stubborn  and  rebellious,  and 
will  not  obey  their  voice  and  chastise- 
ment, but  lives  in  sundry  notorious 
crimes,  such  a  sonne  shall  bee  put  to  death 
(Deut.  xx.)" 

As  regards  penalties  that  were 
not  capital,  for  minor  offences  the 
Blue  Laws  pressed  very  heavily  on 
the  right  of  private  judgment.  The 
Old  Puritans,  though  enemies  of 
drunkenness  and  excess,  were  by  no 
means  disinclined  to  allow  either  a 
rich  man  or  a  poor  man  a  fair  modi- 
cum of  good  liquor,  if  his  head  were 
hard  enough  and  his  stomach  capa- 
cious enough  to  bear  it.  It  was 
ordered,  for  instance,  that  no  inn- 
keeper should  allow  any  of  his 
guests  or  customers  to  drink  ex- 
cessively; that  is  to  say,  above  half 
a  pint  of  wine  for  one  person  at  one 
time ;  or,  to  continue  tippling  for 


480 


Blue  Laws. 


[April 


above  half  an  hour  together ;  or 
tippling  at  all,  "  after  nine  of  the 
clock  in  the  evening."  The  penalty 
for  drunkenness  was  ten  shillings — 
a  large  sum  in  those  days.  If  a  per- 
son were  thrice  fined  for  drunken- 
ness, a  whipping  was  to  be  substi- 
tuted for  the  fine  on  all  subsequent 
occasions,  accompanied  by  a  public 
exhibition  in  the  stocks. 

Lying,  as  distinguished  from 
perjury,  was  punished  severely  in 
all  persons  above  the  age  of  four- 
teen years,  especially  if  the  lies  they 
told  were  injurious  to  the  public 
weal,  or  to  the  character  of  any 
particular  person.  A  fine  of  ten 
shillings  was  imposed  for  the  first 
offence ;  for  the  second,  twenty 
shillings,  or  a  whipping  on  the 
naked  body ;  for  the  third,  forty 
shillings,  or  an  extra  allowance  of 
stripes;  and  so  on  in  a  continu- 
ally increasing  proportion,  both  of 
money  penalty  and  physical  pain. 

Smoking  was  not  in  favour 
among  the  Blue  Law  givers.  It 
was  ordered  that  noperson  under  the 
age  of  twenty-one  years,  nor  any 
other  (however  old)  who  had  not 
already  accustomed  himself  to  the 
use  of  tobacco,  should  be  permitted 
to  smoke  or  snuff  or  chew,  unless 
he  brought  a  certificate  from  a 
physician  that  it  was  useful  for  his 
health.  Any  one  who  smoked  either 
in  his  own  house  or  publicly  on  the 
streets,  was  to  be  fined  sixpence  for 
each  offence  on  the  testimony  of  a 
single  witness.  It  was  ordered  also 
that  "  such  fines  should  be  paid 
without  gainsaying." 

This  law  remained  in  operation, 
so  far  as  it  applied  to  smoking  in 
the  public  streets,  until  within  liv- 
ing memory  in  the  city  of  Boston 
and  elsewhere,  the  fine  for  dis- 
obedience having  been  raised  from 
sixpence  to  a  dollar. 

Slander  was  punished  by  fine, 
whipping,  and  imprisonment.  Un- 
chastity  in  man  or  woman  was 
punished  by  whipping  through 
eleven  towns.  After  a  time,  when 
it  was  found  that  the  penalty  of- 
fended the  conscience  of  the  people 
as  being  too  severe,  it  was  reduced 


to  whipping  through  three  towns 
only.  The  Scottish  vagrant  of  a 
more  recent  time,  who  had  been 
whipped  through  all  the  towns  of 
Scotland  at  one  period  or  other 
of  his  life,  was  never  whipped  in 
more  than  one  town  at  a  time,  and 
objected  most  of  all  to  the  "lang 
toon  o'  Kirkcaldy."  Had  he  added 
slander  to  vagrancy  in  Connecticut, 
the  "  lang  toon  o'  Kirkcaldy  "  might 
have  seemed  a  desirable  place  in 
comparison. 

Burglary  and  highway  robbery 
were  treated  in  a  peculiar  manner. 
Any  person  who  committed  these 
crimes  was  for  the  first  offence  to 
be  branded  on  the  forehead  with 
the  letter  B.  For  the  second  offence 
he  was  to  have  a  second  letter  B 
imprinted  indelibly  on  his  front, 
and  to  be  severely  whipped.  If  he 
fell  into  the  offence  a  third  time,  he 
was  to  be  put  to  death  as  incor- 
rigible. If  the  first  offence  were 
committed  on  the  Lord's  Day,  the 
offender,  in  addition  to  the  brand- 
ing, was  to  have  one  of  his  ears  cut 
off.  If  the  second  offence  were  in 
like  manner  committed  on  the  "Sab- 
bath," the  remaining  ear  was  to  be 
cut  off. 

Contempt  of  court  is  an  offence 
in  all  civilised  countries,  but  it  was 
left  to  the  Puritans  to  make  con- 
tempt of  a  preacher,  or  of  his  ser- 
mon, a  crime  to  be  severely  dealt 
with.  It  was  ordered  in  the  Blue 
Laws  that  if  any  one  within  the 
jurisdiction  of  Connecticut  "should 
beare  himself  contemptuously  to- 
wards the  word  preached,"  or  to- 
wards "  the  messengers  (ministers) 
that  are  called  to  dispense  the  same, 
he  should  for  the  first  offence  be 
publicly  and  severely  reprimanded 
by  the  magistrates,  and  bound 
over  for  his  good  behaviour ;  and 
for  the  second  or  any  subsequent 
offence,  he  should  either  pay  a  fine 
of  £5  to  the  public  treasury,  or  in 
default  "stand  for  two  hours  openly 
upon  a  block  or  stoole  foure  foot 
high,  with  a  paper  fixed  upon  his 
breast,  written  with  capital  letters, 
1  an  open  and  obstinate  contemnerof 
God's  holy  ordinance,'  in  order  that 


1870.] 


Slue  Laws. 


481 


others  might  feare  and  bee  asham- 
ed of  breaking  out  into  the  like 
wickedness."  Under  the  same 
clause  it  was  ordered  that  any  per- 
son who,  without  just  and  neces- 
sary cause,  withdrew  himself  from 
attendance  at  public  worship,  should 
be  fined  five  shillings  for  every  such 
offence. 

The  denial  of  the  authenticity  or 
authority  of  either  of  the  books  of 
the  Old  or  the  New  Testament — all 
of  which  were  set  forth  and  enu- 
merated— or  the  throwing  of  doubt 
upon  them  as  the  true  and  infallible 
word  of  God,  was  punishable  with 
banishment  for  a  first,  and  with 
death  for  a  second,  offence.  A 
Colenso  in  New  England  would 
have  suffered  martyrdom. 

Profane  swearing,  or  the  use  of 
imprecations  against  one's  self  or  any 
other  person,  was  punishable  by  a 
fine  of  ten  shillings.  This  has  been 
cited  as  a  remarkable  instance  of 
lenity  on  the  part  of  the  Puritans, 
inasmuch  as  in  England  the  penalty 
was  more  severe  ;  and  any  irrever- 
ent allusion  to  the  Deity  in  a  play 
was  punished  by  a  fine  of  .£10. 
Possibly  the  Puritans,  had  they  per- 
mitted stage  plays,  would  have 
judged  such  irreverent  allusion  to 
be  as  fully  deserving  of  death  as 
filial  disobedience  or  other  crimes 
and  offences  to  which  they  adjudged 
the  same  penalty. 

The  records  of  many  convictions 
under  these  laws  are  still  preserved 
in  Connecticut ;  and  in  Massachu- 
setts, where  a  very  similar,  if  not 
in  all  respects  identical,  code  was 
adopted.  The  worthy  Justice  Lud- 
low,  to  whom  was  intrusted  the 
task  of  codification,  was  shortly 
after  its  completion  publicly  called 
"  Justass  Ludlow,"  by  one  Captain 
Stone,  to  whose  taste  the  laws  were 
too  "blue"  to  be  agreeable.  For 
this  offence  the  Captain  was  fined 
£100,  banished  from  the  colony, 
and  prohibited  to  return  without 
the  Governor's  permission,  under 
pain  of  death. 

Among  other  convictions,  the  fol- 
lowing that  took  place  before  the 
arrival  of  Sir  Edward  Andros  and 


the  establishment  of  a  milder  code 
of  government,  may  serve  as  speci- 
mens of  Blue  justice  : — 

Nicholas  Taner,  servant  to  Mr 
Perry,  was  publicly  whipped  for 
being  drunk  and  abusing  his  mas- 
ter. 

Isaiah,  Captain  Turner's  son,  was 
fined  £5  for  being  drunk  on  the 
Lord's  Day. 

William  Bromfield  was  set  in  the 
stocks  for  profaning  the  Lord's  Day, 
and  stealing  the  wine  of  Mr  Malbon, 
his  master. 

David  Anderson  was  publicly 
whipped  for  being  drunk;  and 
Goodman  Leone  was  whipped  and 
sent  out  of  the  plantation,  being 
not  only  a  disorderly  person  him- 
self, but  an  encourager  of  others  to 
be  drunk. 

George  Spenser  being  profane  and 
disorderly  in  his  whole  conversa- 
tion, and  an  abettor  of  others  to 
sin,  was  whipped  and  sent  out  of 
the  plantation ;  and  John  Proute, 
Henry  Brazier,  and  William  Brom- 
field, for  joining  in  a  conspiracy 
with  the  said  Spenser  "  to  carry 
away  the  Cock  to  Virginia,"  were 
also  sentenced  to  be  whipped,  but 
not  banished.  Bromfield,  being 
an  old  offender,  was  sentenced  to 
"  weare  irons  during  the  magis- 
trate's pleasure." 

Thomas  Parsons,  servant  to  Elias 
Parkmore,  was  whipped  for  his  sin- 
ful 1  dalliance  and  folly  with  Lydia 
Browne. 

John  Lobell,  the  miller,  for  sin- 
ful dalliance  with  a  little  wench  of 
Goodman  Hall's,  was  whipped. 

Kuth  Acie,  a  covenant  servant  to 
Mr  Malbon,  was  whipped  for  stub- 
bornness, lying,  stealing  from  her 
mistress,  and  yielding  to  dalliance 
with  William  Harding. 

Martha  Malbon  (daughter  of  Mr 
Malbon),  for  consenting  to  go  in 
the  night  to  a  venison-feast  with 
William  Harding,  and  yielding  to 
dalliance  with  the  said  Harding, 
was  whipped. 

Goodman  Hunt  and  his  wife,  for 
keeping  the  counsels  of  the  said 
William  Harding,  baking  him  a 
pasty  and  a  plum-cake,  and  keep- 


482 


Blue  Laws. 


[April 


ing  company  with  him  on  the  Lord's 
Day,  and  she  suffering  Harding  to 
kiss  her,  were  ordered  to  be  sent 
out  of  the  town  within  one  month 
— "yea,  in  a  shorter  time  if  any 
miscarriage  (misbehaviour)  be  found 
in  them/'  It  would  be  interesting 
to  learn  what  was  the  ultimate  fate 
of  this  Don  Giovanni  Harding,  but 
the  records  of  the  colony  are  silent 
on  the  subject. 

Josias  Plaistowe,  for  stealing 
four  baskets  of  corn  from  the  In- 
dians, was  ordered  to  return  them 
eight  baskets,  to  be  fined  £5, 
and  hereafter  to  be  called  Josias 
Plaistowe,  and  not  Mr  Josias  Plais- 
towe as  heretofore. 

Philip  Ratcliffe,  a  servant  to  Mr 
Craddock,  being  convict  of  most 
foul  and  scandalous  tenets  against 
the  Church  and  the  Government, 
\vas  sentenced  to  be  "  whipped,  to 
have  both  his  eats  cut  off,  to  be 
fined  £40,  and  to  be  banished  the 
plantation."  "All  of  which  were 
forthwith  executed." 

Thomas  Petit,  for  suspicion  of 
slander,  idleness,  and  stubbornness, 
was  ordered  to  be  severely  whipped, 
and  to  be  kept  in  hold. 

John  Wedge  wood,  for  being  in  the 
company  of  drunkards  (sic),  was 
ordered  to  be  set  in  the  stocks. 

John  Kitchen,  for  showing  books 
which  he  was  commanded  to  bring 
to  the  governor,  and  forbidden  to 
show  to  any  other,  was  fined  ten 
shillings. 

In  the  matter  of  dress — although 
in  this  respect  the  Puritans  were  by 
no  means  peculiar,  and  might  have 
found  abundant  precedents  in  the 
practice  of  the  English  sovereigns 
up  to  and  during  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth— they  objected  to  the  ex- 
travagance of  servants,  and  forbade 
them  to  attire  themselves  like  their 
masters  and  mistresses.  A  New 
England  ordinance  of  the  year  1651 
declared, — 

' '  That  intolerable  excesse  and  bravery 
hath  crept  in  upon  us,  and  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  detestation  and  dislike  that 
men  of  mean  conditions  and  callings 
should  take  upon  them  the  garb  of 
gentlemen  by  wearing  gold  or  silver  lace, 


or  buttons,  or  points  at  their  knees,  to 
walk  in  great  boots  ;  or  women  of  the 
same  ranke,  to  wear  silk  or  tiffany 
hoods  or  scarfs ;  which,  though  allowable 
to  persons  of  greater  estates  or  more  libe- 
ral education,  was  intolerable  in  persons 
of  suchlike  condition." 

In  the  Blue  Laws  of  New  Haven, 
which  were  not,  however,  drawn 
up  or  codified  by  the  State  of  Con- 
necticut, it  was  ordered  that  no 
one  should  "  travel,  cook  victuals, 
make  beds,  sweep  house,  cut  hair, 
or  shave  on  the  Sabbath-day;  that 
no  woman  should  kiss  her  child  on 
the  Sabbath  or  Fasting-day;  that 
no  one  should  keep  Christmas  or 
Saint  days;  and  that  every  male 
should  have  his  hair  cut  round  ac- 
cording to  a  cap."  To  "  make  any 
motion  of  marriage  to  any  man's 
daughter  or  maid-servant,  not  hav- 
ing first  obtained  leave  and  consent 
of  the  parents  or  masters  so  to  do." 
was  made  punishable  "either  by 
fine  or  whipping,  or  both,  at  the 
discretion  of  the  bench,"  and  ac- 
cording to  the  gravity  or  aggrava- 
tion of  the  offence. 

Such  were  the  Blue  Laws.  They 
disappeared  long  ago  from  America, 
as  they  had  previously  disappeared 
from  England  and  Scotland ;  not, 
however,  without  leaving  behind 
them,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
some  traces  of  the  ancient  spirit — 
some  embers,  as  it  were,  of  the  old 
fire  of  intolerance,  that  might  on  oc- 
casion be  fanned  into  a  blaze.  The 
"  unco  guid  and  the  rigidly  right- 
eous"— "the  wise  in  their  own 
conceit" — the  "holier  than  thou" 
people — the  well-meaning  humani- 
tarians, doctrinaires,  and  theory- 
mongers,  who  would  rule  the  world 
as  they  would  rule  a  school  or  a 
nursery,  and  who  would  thrust  the 
action  of  government  into  the  do- 
main of  private  life,  and  make 
everybody  good,  virtuous,  temper- 
ate, and  well-behaved  by  Act  of 
Parliament, — never  seem  to  fail 
among  the  English-speaking  races, 
under  whatever  sky  they  may  estab- 
lish their  homes.  The  progress  of 
civilisation,  and  the  happy  removal 
of  theological  unbelief  and  every 


1870.] 


Blue  Laws. 


483 


form  of  religious  dissent  from  the 
category  of  offences  which  it  is  the 
duty  of  the  State  to  punish,  have 
greatly  circumscribed  the  sphere  of 
action  left  to  those  uneasy  spirits 
who  would  reform  the  world  on 
the  principle  that  because  they 
are  virtuous,  or  claim  to  be  so,  there 
shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale. 
But  there  is  still  a  wide  domain 
left  to  them ;  and  within  that  do- 
main they  are  as  active,  as  restless, 
as  insatiable,  and  as  conceited,  as 
their  Puritan  predecessors. 

The  forms  which  the  old  intoler- 
ance assumes  in  our  day  are  princi- 
pally confined  to  what  is  wrongly 
called  "  Sabbath  "  observance  and 
to  total  abstinence  from  fermented 
liquors,  both  of  which  it  is  sought 
to  enforce  by  the  action  of  the  Le- 
gislature and  the  hand  of  the  civil 
magistrate.  There  are,  it  is  true, 
some  minor  armies  of  coercion  in 
the  field.  One  of  these  hates  to- 
bacco-smoke as  much  as  others 
dislike  Sunday  recreation,  and  an- 
other would  wage  as  fierce  a  war- 
fare against  the  consumption  of 
animal  food  as  their  fellow-intoler- 
ants  wage  against  the  abuse,  and 
even  the  use.  of  wine,  beer,  and 
spirits.  But  the  anti-nicotian  cru- 
saders, and,  more  especially,  the 
vegetarians,  who  see  nothing  but 
a  vice  in  beef  and  mutton,  and 
nothing  but  virtue  in  cabbage  and 
potatoes,  are  in  such  woeful  minori- 
ties, and  so  little  able  to  make  head 
against  "le  ridicule  qui  tue"  as 
scarcely  to  need  even  this  passing 
notice  of  their  little  eccentricities. 
The  Blue- Law  Sabbatarians  and 
Total  Abstainers  are,  however,  a 
much  more  formidable  class.  They 
have  got  law  and  custom  partially 
on  their  side,  and  are  continu- 
ally striving  to  make  the  law  more 
Blue,  and  the  custom  more  imper- 
ative. In  the  case  of  Sabbath  ob- 
servance, the  very  name  of  which 
is  Jewish  and  not  Christian,  it  is 
the  old  Puritanic  idea  revived  in 
non  -  Puritanic  days,  and  the  old 
Puritanic  spirit  waxing  fierce  to 
wrath  —  a  spirit  that,  not  con- 
tented with  the  liberty  to  do  as 


it  pleases  in  the  matter  in  dispute 
between  itself  and  society,  makes 
itself  miserable  because  it  cannot 
compel  others  to  wear  sackcloth 
who  would  prefer  fine  linen,  or  to 
eat  thistles  and  hay  when  bread 
and  grapes  would  be  more  agree- 
able. The  ultra-Sabbatarians  talk 
and  act  as  if  they  would,  if  they 
could,  prevent  the  sun  from  shin- 
ing, the  birds  from  singing,  and  the 
streams  from  flowing,  on  their  fa- 
vourite day.  But  failing  the  power 
to  stop  the  great  timepiece  of  Na- 
ture altogether,  they  do  their  best 
to  convert  the  day,  which  should  be 
one  of  peace  on  earth,  goodwill  to 
men,  rest  from  unnecessary  toil, 
and  innocent  enjoying  of  God's 
beautiful  world,  into  a  day  of  gloom, 
acerbity,  and  bitterness,  and  shut 
up  the  poor  and  the  suffering  in 
the  fetid  alleys  and  pestilent  lanes 
of  over-crowded  cities,  rather  than 
allow  a  railway  train  to  start  upon 
the  land,  or  a  steamer  to  run  upon 
the  rivers,  to  convey  them  to  the 
fresh  air  that  our  modern  civilisa- 
tion denies  them  in  their  homes. 
Public  opinion,  however,  within  the 
last  few  years,  has  ceased  to  favour 
the  "  bitter  "  observance  of  the  Sab- 
bath, and  to  content  itself  with 
striving  for  the  "  better"  observance 
of  the  Lord's  Day  ;  and  a  vast  in- 
terval of  time,  if  measured  by  the 
progress  of  thought  rather  than  by 
years,  has  passed  since  the  days,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, when  a  magistrate  of  Glasgow 
was  fined  for  walking  on  the  "Green" 
on  the  "  Sabbath' '  with  some  London 
visitors,  and  showing  them  the 
lions  of  the  city,  instead  of  going 
quietly  to  the  kirk.  The  English- 
speaking  race  has,  ever  since  the 
Reformation,  been  greatly  inclined 
to  favour  Blue  legislation  on  the 
subject  of  the  day  of  rest ;  but  the 
Blueness  is  no  longer  so  Blue  as  it 
used  to  be,  and  has  received  such  a 
tinge  of  yellow  sunlight,  that  a  ver- 
dure of  increased  life  and  joy  has 
been  the  result  of  the  admixture. 
Yet  the  old  intolerance  dies  hard ; 
and  though  the  law  allows  the  classes 
who  have  no  day  to  call  their  own 


484 


Slue  Laws. 


[April 


but  one  in  seven,  to  look  at  the  pic- 
tures in  Hampton  Court  Palace  on 
Sunday,  it  will  not  allow  them  to 
look  at  the  better  pictures  belong- 
ing to  the  nation  in  the  National 
Gallery,  or  the  wonders  of  art  and 
nature  in  the  British  Museum.  The 
distinction  partakes  far  too  much 
of  the  old  Blue  spirit  to  be  logi- 
cally, or  even  morally,  defensible  ; 
yet  the  ultra-Sabbatarians  seem  wil- 
ling to  fight  to  the  death  rather  than 
make  this  small  concession  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age. 

But  while  the  Sabbatarians  are 
growing  weak  in  numbers,  though 
pugnacious  as  ever  in  temper, 
the  Total  Abstainers,  the  friends 
of  Permissive  Compulsion  in  the 
matter  of  the  poor  man's  drink, 
are  growing  numerically  strong, 
and  besieging  the  doors  of  Par- 
liament with  their  Maine  Liquor 
Laws  and  their  Licensing  Bills. 
They  advocate  measures  such  as 
these,  not  for  the  sake  of  mak- 
ing us  all  temperate,  which  is  a 
consummation  very  devoutly  to  be 
wished,  if  law  could  bring  it  about, 
but  for  the  sake  of  preventing  all 
but  those  prosperous  people  who 
can  stock  their  wine-cellars  at  will, 
from  procuring  any  drink  but  water, 
not  only  on  Sunday,  but  on  every 
other  day  of  the  week,  if  a  majority 
of  householders  and  rate -payers, 
composed  of  the  comparatively  rich 
and  comfortable,  shall  in  any  city, 
borough,  or  town,  take  it  into  their 
heads  that  nobody  shall  procure 
wine,  beer,  or  spirits  within  the 
limits  of  the  same  who  cannot  for 
lack  of  money  and  household 
conveniency  buy  their  liquor  by 
wholesale  and  store  it  for  daily  use. 
This,  stripped  of  verbiage,  and  re- 
duced to  the  bare  skeleton  of  their 
purpose,  is  the  true  and  ultimate 
meaning  of  their  Permissive  Bills 
and  Maine  Liquor  Laws,  and  the 
object  of  all  the  machinery  which 
they  strive  to  set  in  motion  for 
wholly  preventing  or  greatly  re- 
stricting the  sale  of  the  beer  or 
spirits,  which  are  the  only  stimu- 
lants within  the  reach  of  the  great 
bulk  of  the  people  in  the  British 


Isles,  as  in  all  countries  that  pro- 
duce no  wine. 

Is  it  right  to  deprive  poor  people 
of  their  beer  ]  is  an  old  and  very 
pertinent  question  on  a  very  sore 
subject.  Some  well-meaning  philo- 
sophers, who  perhaps  drink  Chateau 
Margaux,  Veuve  Clicquot,  or  old 
Port,  answer  "  Yes !  because  the 
poor  never  know  when  they  have 
enough,  and  are  not  to  be  safely 
trusted  with  the  means  of  intoxi- 
cation." Other  philosophers,  who 
perhaps  reconcile  practice  with 
theory,  and  confine  their  potations 
to  tea  or  to  water,  also  reply  in  the 
affirmative,  because,  with  the  strong 
faith  of  zealots,  they  are  intolerant 
of  all  difference  of  opinion,  and 
would  without  hesitation  enforce 
by  the  strong  arm  of  authority 
wherever  they  failed  to  persuade. 
But  the  people  most  interested — 
the  multitude  of  hard-working  men 
and  women,  not  only  in  Great  Bri- 
tain, but  in  all  northern  countries 
— indignantly  deny  the  right  of  Gov- 
ernments, municipal  or  general,  or 
of  any  body  of  their  fellow-citizens, 
to  dictate  to  them  what  they  shall 
eat  or  drink,  or  what  they  shall 
avoid.  They  insist  that  beer  is 
necessary  to  their  health,  not  only 
as  a  wholesome  stimulant,  but  as 
an  article  of  diet ;  and  as  medical 
science,  as  well  as  experience,  proves 
that  it  is  the  abuse  and  not  the  use 
of  stimulating  liquors  that  does  the 
mischief,  the  poor  claim  that  they 
have  as  much  legal  and  moral  right 
as  the  rich  to  drink  what  they  can 
afford,  in  such  quantities  as  suits 
their  health  and  fancy — paying  the 
penalty  of  excess  exactly  as  the  rich 
do,  and  which  outraged  nature 
exacts  with  merciless  impartial- 
ity. The  truth  is,  that  the  aposto- 
lic recommendation,  "  Let  every 
man  be  fully  persuaded  in  his  own 
mind,"  applies  as  thoroughly  to 
this  question  as  to  all  other  points 
of  social  or  religious  practice  and 
belief  in  a  land  of  civil  and  reli- 
gious liberty,  and  is  not  to  be 
weakened  in  its  relevancy  or  autho- 
rity by  the  assertion  that  drunken- 
ness is  an  evil  or  a  crime  from 


1370.] 


Blue  Laws. 


485 


which  the  mass  of  mankind  re- 
quires to  be  guarded.  Gluttony  is 
an  evil,  if  not  a  crime ;  but  who 
would  make  a  Blue  Law  against 
over-indulgence  in  turtle  or  veni- 
son, or  any  other  edible  that  gour- 
mands or  gourmets  love  ?  Habitual 
uncleanliness  and  filthiness  of  per- 
son is  an  offence  of  the  individual 
against  himself,  as  drunkenness 
is.  It  is  also  an  offence  against 
society,  inasmuch  as  it  may  tend 
to  spread  contagious  diseases  j  but 
are  we  to  have  a  Blue  Law 
against  dirt  on  the  person,  and 
compel  every  man  to  bathe  himself 
every  day,  or  to  be  thrown  into  a 
tank  or  into  a  river  by  the  police 
in  the  interest  of  public  safety  ? 
The  evils  of  intemperance  in  drink 
are  not  to  be  disputed.  We  have 
all  heard  the  stale  old  arguments 
a  thousand  times.  We  have  all 
been  bored  and  dosed  ad  nauseam 
with  the  incontrovertible  but  weary 
statistics,  which  prove  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  stolidest  amongst  us 
that  drunkenness  fills  our  jails,  our 
workhouses,  and  our  lunatic  asy- 
lums, and  that  it  is  the  cause  of 
infinite  private  misery,  as  well  as 
of  public  disgrace  and  cost.  To 
set  forth  all  these  things  is  but  to 
slay  the  slain.  We  all  know  them, 
and  we  all  deplore  them ;  and  if 
the  total  abstainer  pins  us  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  shouts  in  our  ears  that 
drunkenness  is  an  impoverishing, 
selfish,  degrading,  brutalising,  and 
maddening  vice,  we  admit  the  fact, 
and  decline  to  argue  further  with 
him  until  he  suggests  the  remedy. 
But  when  Parliament  is  asked  to 
support  or  to  consent  to  a  Blue 
Law  either  to  punish  the  fools  who 
drink  too  much,  or  to  prevent  peo- 
ple who  are  not  fools  from  drink- 
ing in  moderation,  it  becomes  the 
duty  of  every  friend  of  liberty  to 
take  care  that  wrong  is  not  done, 
and  that  laws  are  not  passed  which 
it  will  be  impossible  to  enforce, 
even  if  they  do  not  tend  to  increase 
the  very  evils  which  they  are  in- 
tended to  remove. 

A  hundred  years  ago,  and  even 
much  more  recently,  drunkenness 


was  the  especial  vice  of  the  upper 
classes  in  this  country.  It  was  the 
fashion  to  be  ultra-convivial.  The 
man  who  could  not  carry  "  a  proper 
skinful  of  wine  "  was  considered  a 
poor  mean  creature,  and  he  lost 
caste  accordingly.  The  three-bottle 
man  was  a  hero,  the  six-bottle  man 
all  but  a  demigod,  in  the  estimation 
of  such  roystering  bacchanalians  as 
our  grandfathers  and  great-grand- 
fathers. It  was,  doubtless,  very 
shocking  and  very  degrading — and 
had  there  been  any  professional 
philanthropists  in  those  days — any 
dealers  in  "  isms,"  and  any  preach- 
ers and  spouters  of  " progress" — it 
would  have  been  very  easy  to  have 
got  up  a  striking  case  for  Parlia- 
mentary interference  with  the  rich 
and  the  aristocratic  in  their  favour- 
ite indulgence.  It  might  have 
been  shown — in  the  words  which 
we  proceed  to  borrow  from  the  Re- 
port of  a  Committee  of  Clergymen 
of  the  Church  of  England,  pre- 
sented to  the  Lower  House  of  Con- 
vocation of  the  province  of  Canter- 
bury, in  February  1869  —  "that 
loss  of  health  and  intellect,  decay 
of  strength,  disease  in  its  most 
frightful  forms,  and  premature 
death,  were  the  usual  products  of 
intemperance  " — "  that  the  temper 
was  soured,  the  passions  inflamed, 
the  whole  nature  brutalised  by  it ; 
in  short,  that  there  was  no  enor- 
mity of  blasphemy  in  language  and 
cruelty  in  action  of  which  even 
persons  naturally  gentle  and  well 
conducted  were  not  capable,  and 
to  which  they  were  not  impelled, 
when  under  the  influence  of  drink. 
The  family  affections  were  blunted 
or  obliterated,  the  tenderest  rela- 
tions were  outraged  and  set  at 
nought — husbands  were  neglected 
by  their  wives,  wives  were  sub- 
jected to  revolting  cruelty  and  vio- 
lence by  their  husbands — and  the 
sin  of  the  parent  was  visited  on  a 
stunted,  sickly,  and  debilitated  off- 
spring." 

These  eloquent  words  were  ap- 
plied by  their  reverend  authors 
to  the  drinking  habits  of  the  poor 
a  year  ago;  but  they  would  have 


486 


Slue  Laws. 


[April 


equally  well  applied  to  the  drink- 
ing habits  of  the  rich  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  had  legislation  been 
attempted  at  that  day  with  the  view 
of  enforcing  sobriety  on  the  offend- 
ing upper  classes.  Nothing  was 
done,  however — nothing  was  pro- 
posed ;  no  impediments  were  put 
in  the  way  of  the  squire  or  the  rec- 
tor, or  the  wealthy  landowner,  mer- 
chant, or  professional  man,  to  pre- 
vent him  from  buying  wine  and 
brandy,  or  from  making  a  beast 
of  himself.  "  To  be  as  drunk  as  a 
lord,"  became  at  last  the  common 
remark  of  the  poor  when  one  of  their 
own  class  fell  into  the  vice  which 
afflicted  those  above  them.  Yet 
without  the  aid  of  law — without 
repression  —  without  interference 
with  the  trade  of  the  wine -mer- 
chant— without  even  the  denuncia- 
tions of  the  pulpit, — for  the  parson 
of  the  olden  time  loved  his  bottle 
quite  as  well  as  the  squire, — this 
disgusting  vice  became  unfashion- 
able, and  died  out  among  the  rich. 
It  died  out  so  thoroughly,  that  a 
drunken  man  in  the  position  and 
rank  of  a  gentleman  is  a  spectacle 
rarely  seen ;  and,  when  seen,  marked 
by  the  reprobation  of  every  one 
among  whom  the  offender  is  wont 
to  find  his  friends  and  companions. 
The  reverend  gentlemen,  from 
whose  Report  to  Convocation  in 
1869  we  have  already  quoted,  ad- 
mit this  improvement  in  the  man- 
ners of  the  rich.  They  state, — 

' '  That  while  the  evil  of  social  intemper- 
ance has  of  late  years  greatly  diminished 
in  the  upper  and  middle  ranks  of  society, 
no  proportionate  improvement  has  taken 
place,  amongst  the  labouring  classes  of 
our  people  ;  on  the  contrary,  that  drink- 
ing prevails  amongst  them  in  onr  com- 
mercial, manufacturing,  and  agricultu- 
ral districts,  and  in  both  the  army  and 
navy,  to  a  frightful  extent,  —  and  this 
notwithstanding  the  multiplied  efforts 
of  religion  and  philanthropy,  and  the 
many  agencies  employed  during  the  last 
quarter  of  a  century  to  counteract  this 
baneful  habit.  It  would  also  appear 
that  the  vice  of  intemperance  is  not 
confined  to  the  male  population,  or  to 
persons  of  mature  age,  but  is  spreading 
to  an  alarming  degree  among  women 


and  the  young.  Indeed,  it  appears  that 
in  many  parts  of  the  country  the  evil  be- 
gins at  the  earliest  age,  and  that  youths 
and  children  may  be  found  amongst  its 
victims ;  and  thus  the  physical,  moral, 
and  spiritual  life  of  our  people  becomes 
infected  at  its  source." 

Do  not  these  facts,  for  facts  they 
unfortunately  are,  warrant  the  true 
friends  of  temperance — who  com- 
prise millions  of  people — who  are 
neither  total  abstainers  nor  advo- 
cates of  a  Maine  Liquor  or  any  other 
Blue  Law,  in  doubting — whether 
perfect  liberty,  together  with  educa- 
tion of  the  mind  and  morals,  are  not 
the  only  adequate  remedies  for  ha- 
bitual intemperance  1  The  rich  have 
not  been  molested  by  law,  or  by 
the  intermeddling  of  organised  phi- 
lanthropy, but  have  been  converted 
from  gross  intemperance  into  decor- 
ous sobriety  by  their  own  sense  of 
right  and  propriety.  The  poor,  on 
the  contrary,  have  been  lectured  at 
and  preached  at,  and  prevented  by 
the  law — as  far  as  the  law  was  able 
— from  obtaining,  more  especially 
on  Sundays,  the  drink  they  re- 
quired, and  to  which  they  were 
accustomed  like  their  ancestors  be- 
fore them ;  and  the  result  has  been 
an  increase  of  drunkenness !  It 
seems  to  follow,  as  a  logical  deduc- 
tion from  these  facts,  that  the  less 
the  law  meddles  with  the  rich,  the 
less  the  rich  drink;  and  that  the 
more  the  law  meddles  with  the 
poor,  the  more  the  poor  drink. 
Such  are  the  facts,  let  the  true  ex- 
planation of  them  be  what  it  may. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  increase  of  intemperance  among 
the  poorer  classes  is  by  no  means 
peculiar  to  the  British  Isles,  that 
it  prevails  among  the  Americans 
quite  as  much  as  among  ourselves, 
and  that  the  Americans,  like  us,  are 
afflicted  with  two  evils— the  want 
of  cheap,  good,  nourishing  and  un- 
intoxicating  wine  ;  and  that,  like 
us  also,  they  are  seriously  afflicted 
with  the  fussy  intermeddlesome- 
ness  of  well-meaning  but  imperti- 
nent philanthropists,  who,  seeing 
nothing  but  the  abuse  of  God's 


1870.] 


Blue  Laws. 


487 


bounty,  seek  by  Blue  Laws  and 
otherwise  to  prohibit  or  to  punish 
its  use.  The  tone  of  American 
society  has  not  universally  attained 
that  high  pitch  which  it  has  as- 
sumed in  Great  Britain,  and  which 
ostracises  habitual  offenders  against 
sobriety  from  the  company  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  and  sends  them  to 
Coventry.  And  all  the  efforts  of 
the  Blue  Law  givers,  where  such 
laws  have  been  introduced,  with  a 
majority  at  their  back,  have  only 
resulted  in  transferring  the  public 
sale  of  small  quantities  of  intoxicat- 
ing liquors  from  the  wine  and  spirit 
merchant  to  the  apothecary,  leaving 
the  wholesale  trade  to  the  free  use 
of  all  who  are  wealthy  enough  to 
keep  the  keys  of  their  own  wine- 
cellars.  People  will  drink  beer  and 
spirits  both  in  Great  Britain  and 
in  America,  where  wine  is  scarce  ; 
and  will  not  drink  to  excess  in 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  and  other 
southern  countries,  where  wine  is 
cheap,  and  as  much  a  necessary  of 
life  as  bread,  and  no  one  thinks  of 
unnecessary  indulgence  in  either 
the  one  or  the  other. 

A  comparison  and  study  of  all 
these  facts  lead  to  the  conclusion 
that  law,  Blue  or  otherwise,  is  of 
no  efficacy  in  the  enforcement  of 
sobriety,  and  that  the  real  remedies 
for  intemperance  are  to  be  found 
in  a  totally  different  direction  from 
that  recommended  by  the  weak 
people  who,  afraid  that  their  own 
moderation  and  that  of  the  poor, 
whom  they  treat  as  babes  and  suck- 
lings, is  not  to  be  depended  upon, 
think  it  wiser  and  safer  altogether 
to  avoid  the  temptation,  which  they 
might  not  be  able  to  resist,  and  to 
prevent  everybody  else,  including 
people  of  stronger  will  and  sense 
than  their  own,  from  running  into  it. 
The  true  remedies  are  to  be  sought 
by  the  poor,  and  the  friends  of  the 
poor,  where  they  have  been  found 
by  the  rich — first,  in  social  efforts 
for  raising  the  standard  of  moral- 
ity, so  that  the  poor  labourer's 
wife  as  well  as  the  duchess  shall 
set  herself  against  drunkenness  in 


her  lover,  husband,  son,  or  brother, 
as  the  one  degrading  vice  and  sin 
which  she  will  neither  forgive  nor 
tolerate  ;  and,  second,  in  providing 
for  people  of  small  means  really 
genuine  and  wholesome  liquor, 
which  they  may  drink  at  their 
meals  with  their  families,  without 
running  any  more  risk  of  intoxica- 
tion than  the  richer  man  does  when 
he  drinks  his  pale  ale  or  his  claret 
in  moderation,  and  consumes  them 
not  for  the  sake  of  stimulating 
hilarity,  but  as  articles  of  diet,  as 
healthful  as  his  bread  or  his  beef. 

In  one  great  and  essential  respect 
the  poor  have  not  the  same  means 
for  protecting  themselves  against 
knavish  dealers  and  retailers  as  the 
rich  have.  The  rich  man  has  the 
pick  of  the  market,  as  well  as  some 
knowledge  of  the  purity  and  gen- 
uineness of  the  article  which  he 
desires  to  purchase.  The  poor  man 
must  deal  where  he  can,  not  always 
where  he  would — and  is,  to  an  in- 
finitely greater  extent  than  the 
rich,  the  victim  of  the  fraudulent 
traders,  who  first  put  water  in  his 
ale  or  beer  to  increase  its  quantity, 
and  afterwards,  to  disguise  its  con- 
sequent weakness,  infuse  tobacco- 
juice,  cocculus  indicus,  and  other 
noxious  drugs  in  it,  to  make  it 
strong  again.  It  is  this  stuff  which 
poisons  and  sometimes  maddens 
the  poor ;  and  it  is  against  the  rob- 
bers and  the  assassins — for  they  are 
no  better  —  who  resort  to  such 
practices  in  order  to  grow  rich  the 
sooner,  that  the  terrors,  not  of 
Blue  Laws,  but  of  rational  and 
well-considered  enactments  which 
it  is  possible  to  enforce,  should  be 
relentlessly  invoked.  The  penal- 
ties against  this  and  other  kindred 
crimes  committed  by  small  retail- 
dealers  in  the  food  and  drink  of  the 
helpless  multitude  are  far  too  leni- 
ent. An  occasional  fine  of  twenty 
shillings  to  a  man  who  plunders 
to  the  extent,  perhaps,  of  double 
that  amount  per  diem  —  to  say 
nothing  of  the  superadded  poison- 
ing, is  but  a  small  matter — a  mere 
feather's  touch  on  the  mangy  back 


488 


Blue  Laws. 


[April 


of  a  scurvy  scoundrel,  instead  of 
the  forty  lashes  with  the  cat-o'-nine- 
tails, which  would  be  his  more  ap- 
propriate punishment. 

To  elevate  the  tone  of  moral  feel- 
ing among  the  poor;  to  teach  the 
young  girls  who  are  afterwards  to 
be  the  wives  and  mothers  of  poor 
men  how  to  cook  the  poor  man's 
food,  so  that  one  shilling  in  their 
instructed  hands  may  go  as  far  as 
two  shillings  in  the  hands  of  the 
ignorant, — so  that  the  wives  of  Eng- 
lish working  men  may  be  as  good 
housewives  and  cooks  as  the  wives 
of  the  working  men  in  France, 
Belgium,  Holland,  Germany,  and 
other  countries — which  they  cer- 
tainly are  not,  and  never  have  been ; 
to  give  the  poor  equal  facilities 
with  the  rich  for  procuring  unadul- 
terated liquors,  and  to  wage  a  war 
of  extermination  against  the  rapa- 
cious villains  who,  to  disguise  their 
robbery,  do  not  hesitate  to  poison  ; 
• — these,  and  such  diffusion  of  edu- 
cation among  the  very  humblest 
as  would  teach  them  that  drunken- 
ness is  a  greater  crime  against  them- 
selves than  it  is  against  society, 
would  be  far  more  efficacious  in  the 
disinebriation  of  the  people  than 
all  the  Blue  Laws  and  Maine 
Liquor  Laws  that  the  wit  of  man 
can  devise.  And  it  is  a  cheering 
fact  for  the  consideration  of  those 
who  think  that  "  a  bumper  of  good 
liquor  will  end  a  contest  quicker 
than  jury,  judge,  or  vicar/'  and 
who  are  of  opinion  with  some  of  the 
wisest,  best,  and  most  temperate 
men  who  ever  lived,  that  the  mode- 
rate use  of  wine  and  beer  is  condu- 
cive to  health  of  body  and  of  mind, 
that  intemperance  does  not  keep 
pace  with  the  increase  of  popula- 
tion, but  that  it  is  steadily  on  the 
decline  among  the  industrious  poor. 
Intemperance,  though  it  is  a  vice  th  at 
forces  itself  upon  notice  wherever 
it  exists,  is  not  the  vice  par  excellence 
of  our  age,  our  people,  or  our  coun- 
try ;  and  possibly  might  be  even  less 
so  than  it  is,  if  the  law  interfered 
as  little  with  the  poor  man's  liquor 


as  it  does  with  his  beef  or  bread. 
The  great  vice  of  our  age  is  one  of 
which  the  poor  are  the  victims,  and 
not  the  agents — the  vice,  or  rather 
the  crime,  which  eats  into  the  heart 
of  modern  commerce,  both  whole- 
sale and  retail,  but  especially  the 
latter,  and  which  leads  the  dealers, 
in  almost  every  imaginable  article 
that  the  necessity  or  the  luxury  of 
man  requires,  to  defraud  the  pur- 
chaser, either  by  short  weight  or  mea- 
sure, or  by  deleterious,  scandalous, 
and  often  murderous  adulteration. 
Wine,  beer,  spirits,  bread,  butter, 
tea,  coffee,  sugar,  are  but  a  few  of 
the  articles  in  the  purchase  of  which 
the  poor  and  the  middle  classes  are 
shamelessly  defrauded  by  many 
villains  who  would  invoke  all  the 
terrors  of  the  law  against  any  one 
who  should  lay  violent  hands  upon 
their  tills,  or  pick  their  pockets  of 
sixpence  or  a  handkerchief,  and  who 
do  not  seem  to  know  that  the  rob- 
beries which  they  themselves  com- 
mit are  among  the  worst  and  most 
cowardly  of  all,  inasmuch  as  they 
are  treacherously  committed  upon 
the  helpless,  and  sometimes  not 
only  involve  the  loss  of  substance, 
but  of  health,  and  even  of  reason. 
The  burglar  or  the  highwayman 
risks  his  own  carcass  when  he 
commits  his  crimes;  but  the  sys- 
tematic adulterator  of  the  poor 
man's  food  and  drink  runs  no 
risk  to  his  person,  and  very  little 
to  his  purse.  If  Blue  Laws,  after 
the  fashion  of  those  of  Connec- 
ticut, could  ever  be  reintroduced 
into  a  civilised  community  at  the 
present  day,  we  think  they  might 
be  very  fairly  and  wholesomely  tried 
upon  offenders  such  as  these  ;  and 
that  the  prevention  or  condign  pun- 
ishment of  such  crimes  would  be 
truer  philanthropy,  and  far  more 
conducive  to  the  greatest  happiness 
of  the  greatest  number,  than  the 
stopping  of  Sunday  locomotion,  and 
the  depriving  the  poor  man  of  his 
beer  from  the  public-house,  while 
allowing  the  rich  man  his  wine  in 
his  own  club  or  dining-room. 


1870.] 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


489 


ON   THE  GOVERNMENT   SCHEME   OF  ARMY  REFORM. 


THE  oracle  has  spoken.  After 
twelve  months'  incubation,  Mr 
Cardweli  has  produced  his  long- 
promised  army  egg ;  but  we  are  not 
quite  sure  if  he  is  doing  "  as  well 
as  could  be  expected." 

In  a  speech  of  considerable  length, 
lucidity,  and  power,  but  of  great 
dulness,  the  War  Minister  has  un- 
folded his  scheme  for  the  regener- 
ation of  the  army.  He  promises 
a  reduction  of  £1, 069,000  in  the 
estimates,  and  of  12,000  men  in  the 
force  of  the  regulars ;  but  this,  he 
says,  is  to  be  accompanied  by  an 
increase,  not  a  decrease,  in  effective 
power.  He  brings  forward  the  first 
part  of  a  measure  evidently  intended 
as  a  feeler  on  the  path  to  the  aboli- 
tion of  purchase.  He  sweeps  away 
our  existing  depot  system,  and  in- 
troduces a  new  one  in  its  place. 
He  has  united  all  the  civil  depart- 
ments under  the  heads  of  Control 
and  Finance.  He  proposes  to  bring 
together  the  disjointed  fragments 
of  our  regular  and  reserve  forces  in 
remoulded  military  districts.  In  a 
gentle,  timid,  and  hesitating  way,  he 
has  even  had  the  courage  to  ask  our 
Volunteers  to  be  so  very  good  as — if 
it  would  be  quite  agreeable  to  them 
— to  become  a  little  more  efficient 
(a  proposal  for  which  they  have 
snubbed  him  in  the  most  unmerci- 
ful manner);  and  he  has  brought 
forward  a  new  scheme  of  enlist- 
ment, which,  if  carried  out,  will 
wholly  revolutionise  our  army. 

There  is  enough  here  to  deserve 
some  passing  attention  even  from 
those  who  take  no  particular  inte- 
rest in  the  army,  but  regard  it 
merely  as  one  of  the  great  branches 
of  the  public  service. 

I.  It  is  always  more  pleasant  to 
praise  than  to  blame,  and  we  has- 
ten to  express  our  agreement  with 
Mr  Cardwell's  scheme  of  recasting 
the  whole  of  the  army  service  into 
the  three  great  departments  of  the 


Commander-in-Chief  for  all  execu- 
tive duties ;  of  the  Control  depart- 
ment for  all  administrative  ones; 
and  of  Finance  for  all  monetary 
ones.  If  these  great  divisions  can 
each  be  represented  in  Parliament, 
the  service  will  gain,  and  the  hands 
of  the  War  Minister  be  lightened. 
His  desire  to  get  quit  of  the  double 
set  of  establishments,  now  kept  up 
by  a  system  of  mutual  distrust  as 
a  check  upon  each  other,  and  to 
substitute  for  it  a  system  resting 
on  the  principle  of  a  fair  division 
of  the  work  to  be  done,  under  a 
single  direction,  amongst  the  neces- 
sary departments,  who  are  to  work 
together  with  mutual  confidence, 
under  the  check  of  real  but  undivid- 
ed responsibility,  we  regard  as  de- 
serving of  all  praise  as  a  real  and 
great  step  in  administrative  pro- 
gress. 

II.  In  regard  to  the  new  depart- 
ment of  Control,  much  difference 
of  opinion  exists  amongst  military 
men.  We  have  always  strenuously 
supported  it,  on  the  ground  that  the 
fusing  of  all  the  disunited,  semi- 
hostile  branches  of  our  civil  ad- 
ministrative system  into  one  must 
be  attended,  if  properly  executed, 
with  a  great  economy  of  time, 
labour,  and  money.  And  such  we 
still  believe  has  been  the  result. 
Of  course  the  transfer  from  one 
system  to  another  cannot  be  effect- 
ed without  difficulty,  jars,  and 
heartburnings;  but  time  will  di- 
minish these.  There  is,  however, 
one  rock  ahead  upon  which  we  fear 
that  the  Control  department  is  in 
much  danger  of  striking — and  that 
is,  the  desire  of  extending  its  power 
beyond  its  own  proper  purely  civil 
and  administrative  functions,  to  tJie 
executive  and  military  ones  of  the 
army.  There  seems  to  be  an 
inclination  in  it  to  emancipate 
itself  from  military  control,  and 
to  absorb  within  itself  the  whole 


490 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  A  rmy  Reform. 


[April 


of  the  executive  duties  of  the 
Quartermaster-  General's  depart- 
ment. A  more  fatal  mistake,  and 
one  more  certain  to  bring  ruin  on 
a  force  on  the  field,  could  not  be 
made.  In  peace  the  Adjutant- 
General's,  in  war  the  Quartermaster- 
General's  department,  is  the  most 
important  of  the  executive  branches 
of  the  service.  Strategy  is  the  art 
of  moving  troops,  and  on  skill  in  it 
depends  the  fate  of  war.  Now  any 
attempt,  however  disguised,  to  take 
the  direction  of  this  out  of  military 
and  put  it  into  civilian  hands,  would 
be  simple  ruin  to  a  force.  It  is  the 
first  and  most  important  duty  of  the 
military  Staff  to  arrange  in  all  its 
details  the  whole  movement  of  the 
troops  on  the  theatre  of  war ;  it  is 
the  equally  important  but  entirely 
subordinate  duty  of  the  Control 
department  to  see  that  they  are  pro- 
perly supplied  with  every  necessary 
during  the  movements  thus  arrang- 
ed and  ordered  by  the  military  Staff. 
But  for  this  purpose  the  whole  or- 
ders of  the  army  in  the  field,  of  every 
kind,  must  pass  from  the  general 
commanding,  through  his  chief  of 
the  Stajf,  to  the  two  subordinate  de- 
partments of  the  Army  Staff  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  Control  Staff 
on  the  other.  Any  attempt  to 
break  through  this  chain  of  re- 
sponsibility by  putting  the  head 
controller  of  the  army  in  the  field 
in  direct  personal  relations  with 
the  general  commanding,  and  so 
rendering  the  chief  of  the  Staff 
irresponsible  for  the  due  execution 
of  military  movements,  would  entail 
nothing  but  certain  destruction 
upon  any  force  handled  on  princi- 
ples so  fatal.  We  trust  that  the 
reported  tendency  of  the  Control 
regulations  in  this  direction  has 
been  either  misstated  or  exaggerat- 
ed. In  so  far  as  the  Control  depart- 
ment has  consolidated  the  existing 
civil  departments,  it  has  done  un- 
mixed good  ;  in  so  far  as  it  may 
encroach  upon  the  military  duties 
of  the  executive  Staff,  it  will  cause 
unmixed  evil. 


III.  Mr  Cardwell's  plan  of  di- 
viding the  country  into  tolerably 
equal  military  districts,  and  plac- 
ing the  whole  forces — line  and  re- 
serve, regulars,  pensioners,  militia, 
yeomanry,  and  volunteers — in  each 
entirely  under  the  supervision  of 
the  general  commanding,  is  a  great 
step  in  administrative  progress, 
and  one  which  will  add  much  to 
the  war-strength  of  the  country. 
It  will  tend  to  unite  the  different 
branches  of  the  land -service  to- 
gether, and  will  cause  the  warlike 
resources  of  the  State  to  be  organ- 
ised on  somewhat  of  a  uniform  sys- 
tem, and  with  a  uniform  end  in 
view. 

IV.  "We  wish  we  could  give  as 
unqualified  a  support  to  Mr  Card- 
well's  proposal  to  reduce  the  army 
by  12,000  men.  Last  year  about 
the  same  number  were  reduced. 
It  is  easy  to  calculate  at  this  rate 
when  all  anxiety  about  the  army 
estimates  will  cease  from  the  army 
itself  having  vanished  away.  No- 
thing is  more  simple  than  to  show 
a  decreasing  estimate  by  a  steady 
perseverance  in  disbanding  troops. 
But  this  is  not  what  Mr  Cardwell 
professes  to  do.  He  says  our  dis- 
posable force  at  home  will  (includ- 
ing our  reserves)  be  stronger  in 
the  regular  army  than  ever.  We 
fear  this  assertion  rests  upon  a  very 
transparent  fallacy.  He  ignores 
the  fact  that  ( I )  the  troops  in  the 
colonies,  though  not  so  quickly  got 
at,  were  just  as  really  useful  as 
those  at  home ;  and  (2)  that  our 
colonies  are  now  left  utterly  unde- 
fended. Had  we  simply  withdrawn 
the  regular  troops  from  the  col- 
onies, and  not  reduced  them,  then 
our  force  would  really  have  been 
greater,  because,  though  only  the 
same  in  numbers,  our  army  would 
have  been  in  a  more  concen- 
trated and  handy  position.  But 
to  bring  regiments  home  from 
the  colonies,  or  break  up  regi- 
ments in  the  colonies,  and  then 
reduce  our  numbers  at  home  by 
an  equivalent  amount,  is  simply 


1870.] 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  A  rmy  Reform. 


491 


to  weaken  by  so  much  our  regular 
army.*  For  it  must  be  clearly  borne 
in  mind,  that  since  we  have  adopt- 
ed the  principle  of  leaving  all  our 
colonies  (properly  so  called,  as  con- 
tradistinguished from  military  for- 
eign stations)  undefended,  and  con- 
centrating our  force  in  these  islands, 
the  moment  a  war  breaks  out  a 
much  greater  demand  than  former- 
ly will  fall  upon  the  home-force. 
It  will  have  to  provide  at  once  for 
( 1 )  a  defensive  army  to  hold  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland ;  (2)  an  offen- 
sive army  to  be  able  to  strike  any 
required  blow ;  and  (3)  for  the 
military  reoccupation  of  such  of 
our  colonies  as  may  be  in  danger. 
It  is  perfectly  absurd  to  say 
that  because  the  home-force  is 
not  diminished,  our  war-power  is 
therefore  not  decreased ;  when  the 
real  fact  is,  that  we  have  brought 
this  result  about  by  simply  dis- 
banding numbers  equivalent  to  all 
the  troops  by  which  we  formerly 
held  military  possession  of  our 
colonies,  and  leaving  them  utterly 
defenceless — a  prize  to  whoever  will 
put  out  his  hand  to  take  them. 

Again,  in  the  matter  of  the  exist- 
ing reserve  there  is  a  complete  fal- 
lacy. The  reserve  consists  of  two 
parts — a  real  bond  fide  reserve  of 
2000  men,  and  a  nominal  reserve  of 
10,000  militiamen  who  have  be- 
come bound  to  transfer  their  ser- 
vices to  the  line  when  called  on. 
These  Mr  Cardwell  hopes  to  raise 
this  year  to  3000  and  20,000  men 
respectively.  Take  them  at  these 
hoped-for  but  not  realised  numbers, 
and  you  will  find  that  the  only  real 
addition  to  your  effective  force  con- 
sists of  the  3000  men  of  the  first 
reserve — trained  soldiers  ready  to 
resume  their  places  in  the  ranks. 
The  20,000  of  the  militia  reserve 


are  a  mere  myth,  as  they  are  obtain- 
ed simply  by  taking  that  number  of 
their  very  best  men  away  from  the 
militia,  and  by  utterly  emasculating 
that  force.  In  other  words,  you 
will  paralyse  80,000  tolerable  mili- 
tia to  get  20,000  not  very  good 
half-drilled  recruits  for  the  line. 

The  real  practical  result  of  Mr 
Cardwell's  reform  is,  that  in  two 
years  you  have  reduced  the  regular 
forces  by  24,000  men,  to  balance 
whom  you  will  have  a  real  reserve 
of  3000  ;  in  other  words,  you  have 
diminished  your  force  by  21,000 
good  soldiers.  We  do  not  object 
to  this  result  if  it  is  what  the 
country  wishes,  only  let  there  be  no 
mistake  about  it.  Let  the  country 
know  that  it  is  diminishing  expense 
and  efficiency  at  the  same  time. 

V.  Mr  Cardwell  proposes  to  re- 
duce our  regular  regiments  at  home 
to  500  rank  and  file  each — that  is, 
to  one-half  their  present  strength. 
They  will  therefore  be  in  fact  mere 
skeletons,  not  battalions  capable  of 
taking  the  field  themselves.  But 
this  cadre,  he  says,  we  can  at  once 
raise  to  its  full  war-force  and  put 
in  the  field  by  filling  up  the  vacan- 
cies by  500  men  from  the  militia 
reserve.  Now  let  the  nation  dis- 
tinctly understand  this.  A  regi- 
ment so  composed  will  for  a  year 
to  come  be  utterly  untrustworthy 
as  an  instrument  of  war.  Could 
you,  like  the  Prussians,  reinforce  it 
by  500  thoroughly-trained  soldiers, 
who  had  been  embodied  for  three 
years  continuously,  who  had  not 
been  for  more  than  that  time  absent 
from  the  ranks,  and  who  had  all 
been  trained  in  that  very  regiment, 
then  you  would  have  at  once  a 
powerful  battalion.  But  what  you 
will  really  have  will  be  a  cadre  of 
500  men,  one-half  of  whom,  at  the 


*  In  the  year  1869-70,  the  number  of  troops  in  the  colonies  was  34,502,  in  the 
year  1870-71,  the  number  in  them  will  be  23,561 — the  reduction  in  the  numbers 
stationed  in  the  colonies  will  therefore  be  for  this  year  about  11,000  (see  Mr 
Cardwell's  speech  in  bringing  forward  the  Army  Estimates).  But  the  numbers 
proposed  to  be  reduced  for  this  year  are  12,308.— See  Army  Estimates  for 
1870-71,  p.  3. 


492 


On  the  Government  Sclieme  of  Army  Reform. 


[April 


least,  will  be  very  young  soldiers  ; 
and  amongst  these  you  will  thrust 
a  rabble  of  500  raw  militiamen, 
taken  from  different  regiments, 
knowing  nothing  of  one  another 
or  of  the  corps  to  which  they  come, 
never  having  even  seen  before  the 
officers  and  non-commissioned  of- 
ficers under  whom  they  are  to 
serve,  and  whose  sole  training  can 
have  been  only  about,  on  an  aver- 
age, three  months'  drill  spread 
over  as  many  years.  Will  any  sane 
man  who  has  ever  seen  men  con- 
tend together  in  battle  venture  to 
assert  that  a  regiment  so  composed 
could  be  trusted  to  engage  with 
anything  but  a  corps  in  an  equally 
lamentable  state  of  inefficiency1?  It 
would  take  at  least  a  year's  em- 
bodiment and  steady  drill  to  trans- 
form such  a  heterogeneous  mob 
into  a  battalion  of  trustworthy  dis- 
ciplined soldiers. 

VI.  But  one  of  the  most  fatal  of 
all  Mr  Cardwell's  economies  has 
been  the  destruction  of  our  depot- 
battalion  system,  and  the  substitu- 
tion for  it  of  a  mode  of  affiliation 
of  depots  with  regiments,  of  which 
it  can  only.be  said,  that  if  it  had 
been  devised  by  the  worst  enemy 
of  Britain  for  the  express  purpose 
of  destroying  its  regimental  system, 
it  could  not  have  been  done  more 
successfully.  Under  the  present 
arrangement,  the  depots  of  regi- 
ments were  kept  united  in  depot- 
battalions  in  fixed  quiet  quarters, 
where  they  were  employed  exclu- 
sively in  training  the  recruits  for 
the  service-companies  under  a  staff 
of  officers  selected  for  their  special 
aptitude  for  this  purpose.  Now 
this  whole  system  is  to  be  broken 
up.  Only  one  depot-battalion  is  to 
be  retained,  and  every  depot  be- 
yond what  it  can  contain  is  to  be 
tied  like  a  millstone  round  the  neck 
of  some  unfortunate  corps  at  home, 
which  is  to  go  through  its  period  of 
home-service  dragging  this  incubus 
about  with  it  wherever  it  goes, — 
loathing  it,  of  course,  as  Sinbad 
loathed  the  old  man  of  the  moun- 
tains. 


Now  the  power  of  an  army  de- 
pends upon  its  regimental  system- 
destroy  that,  and  you  destroy  all; 
and  how  can  you  expect  the  recruits 
of  a  corps  to  be  cared  for,  to  be 
drilled,  to  be  trained,  to  be  disci- 
plined, to  have  that  anxious  careful 
watch  kept  over  them  by  which 
alone  the  feeling  and  spirit  of  sol- 
diers can  be  instilled,  if  they  are  to 
be  attached  to  a  strange  corps,  and 
dragged  about  with  it  in  all  its 
ceaseless  changes,  like  a  heavy  shot 
chained  to  a  convict's  leg?  Will 
the  colonel  and  staff  of  a  regiment 
devote  themselves  to  the  interests 
not  of  their  own  but  of  an  alien 
battalion  ?  Will  they  take  a  per- 
petual charge  of  its  records,  a  never- 
ending  care  of  its  drill,  an  untir- 
ing interest  in  its  interior  econo- 
my 1  The  question  is  so  ridicu- 
lous that  it  requires  merely  to  be 
stated  to  be  answered.  There 
is  only  one  point  about  it  which 
consoles  us.  It  is  in  itself  so  utterly 
absurd,  and  is  freighted  with  con- 
sequences so  fatal,  that  we  are  per- 
fectly certain  that,  unless  it  is  in- 
tended deliberately  to  destroy  the 
army,  it  must  be  abandoned  ere 
eighteen  months  elapse.  We  were 
perfectly  petrified  when  we  heard 
that  such  a  proposal  had  received 
the  sanction  of  military  authority. 
We  have  heard  it  hinted,  we  know 
not  with  what  truth,  that  matters 
had  come  to  this  alternative,  that 
a  choice  was  given  either  to  disband 
a  number  of  regiments,  or  to  reduce 
the  depot-battalions.  If  this  was 
so,  it  may  have  been  on  the  whole 
the  wisest  policy  to  retain  the 
cadres  of  the  regiments ;  but  heavy, 
indeed,  must  be  the  responsibility 
which  the  War  Minister  took  upon 
himself  when  he  laid  such  an  alter- 
native on  the  military  authorities — 
when  he  called  upon  them  to  choose 
between  the  ruin  of  regiments  or 
of  a  system  !  between  destroying 
our  strength  in  the  present,  or 
dooming  it  to  destruction  in  the 
future ! 

VII.  On  Mr  Cardwell's  scheme 
for  the  fusion  of  the  ranks  of  lieu- 


1870.] 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


493 


i  enant  and  ensign,  with  a  compen- 
sation for  the  regulation  value  of 
the  lieutenancy  only,  and  a  decided 
non-recognition  of  the  claims  of 
officers  to  the  over-regulation  price 
actually  paid,  we  had  intended  to 
*,ay  much,  but  we  will  now  say 
nothing.  In  obedience  to  the 
clearly-marked  sense  of  the  House, 
«ind  the  unanimous  feeling  of  the 
c.rmy,  he  has  withdrawn  his  pro- 
posal, and  announced  the  intention 
of  Government  to  submit  the  whole 
question  to  the  investigation  of  a 
lloyal  Commission.  The  House  of 
Commons  has  shown  itself  to  be 
not  yet  advanced  enough  in  demo- 
cratic injustice  to  sanction  a  proposal 
for  the  pure  and  simple  confiscation 
of  the  property  of  British  officers. 

VIII.  But  by  far  the  most  import- 
ant of  all  Mr  Card  well's  proposals 
i.i  the  change  which  he  desires  to 
make  in  the  mode  of  enlistment  in 
the  army.  This  in  reality  amounts 
to  a  complete  revolution  in  it ;  and 
iu  is  well  that  the  country  should 
clearly  understand  what  is  demand- 
ed of  it  before  it  finally  sanctions 
tliis  scheme.  What  Mr  Cardwell 
soems  to  propose  is,  to  give  up  a 
professional  army,  and  to  substitute 
for  it  a  force  composed  of  young 
men  who  come  to  amuse  themselves 
by  playing  at  soldiers  for  a  few 
years  in  the  ranks. 

This  is  a  great  and  momentous 
change,  and  not  one  to  be  taken 
lightly  and  without  a  full  considera- 
tion of  all  its  consequences.  The 
old  professional  army  of  Brit- 
ain which  carried  it  successfully 
through  the  wars  of  Marlborough 
aad  Wellington,  through  the  long, 
hard,  fitful  struggle  in  the  Penin- 
sula, through  the  great  duel  of 
Waterloo,  through  the  doubtful 
chances  of  the  Crimean  contest, 
tli rough  the  deadly  peril  of  the 
Indian  mutiny,  is  not  a  reed  to  be 
lightly  cast  aside. 

But  we  wish  to  be  perfectly  fair 
to  Mr  Cardwell ;  and  we  will  there- 
fore quote  his  own  words  in  expla- 
nation of,  and  in  justification  for, 
the  changes  he  desires  to  make  : — 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIV. 


"I  pass  from  our  regular  forces  to 
another  subject,  on  which  I  know  that 
many  of  those  who  hear  me  take  a 
greater  interest  than  they  do  in  even  the 
regular  forces.  I  speak  of  the  reserves. 
Last  year  we  had  a  good  deal  of  con- 
versation in  this  House  about  the  best 
method  of  concentrating  our  reserve 
forces,  and  I  think  it  was  agreed  that 
the  mode  by  which  we  could  best  ac- 
complish that  object  was  getting  men 
to  enter  the  army  for  a  short  service 
and  then  passing  them  back  into  the 
community  of  civilians,  with  the  under- 
standing that  they  should  be  ready  to 
assist  in  defending  the  country  in  case 
of  emergency.  This  is  not  an  easy  sub- 
ject, it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  it  is  a 
very  difficult  subject,  and  I  will  not 
conceal  from  the  Committee  that  some 
of  the  most  experienced  soldiers  do  not 
expect  such  a  plan  to  succeed.  Their 
reason  for  that  opinion  was  this,  — they 
thought  that  when  persons  of  the  hum- 
ble condition  in  life  of  ordinary  recruits 
entered  the  army,  they  did  so  with  the 
view  of  spending  the  best  part  of  their 
life  in  it,  and  of  acquiring  a  pension  for 
their  old  age.  We  have  no  conscription, 
and  therefore  anything  we  do  in  this 
way  must  be  done  with  the  consent  of 
the  recruit.  I  have  a  great  respect  for 
the  opinion  of  the  experienced  men  to 
whom  I  have  alluded ;  but  my  answer 
to  this  objection  is,  that  I  hope  for 
better  things.  I  look  forward  to  seeing 
the  broad  line  of  demarcation  between 
the  army  and  civil  life  in  some  way 
diminished.  We  have  adopted  the 
system  of  allowing  soldiers  to  learn 
trades,  of  permitting  them  to  spend 
their  spare  time  in  some  useful  labour, 
and  I  think  we  may  expect  to  see  many 
of  the  young  men  of  this  country  pass- 
ing through  the  army,  learning  trades 
in  it,  and  afterwards  returning  into 
civil  life,  to  be  ornaments  and  advan- 
tages to  those  around  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  be  ready  to  contribute 
to  the  defence  of  the  country  in  case  of 
emergency.  Our  plan  is  this, — that  the 
enlistment  should  be  for  tivelve  years,  but 
that  if  the  regiment  be  about  to  go  abroad 
— to  India,  for  instance  —  the  actual 
period  of  service  with  the  standards 
should  be  for  six  years.  In  the  case  of 
regiments  likely  to  remain  at  home — say 
regiments  just  returned  from  India — - 
the  period  of  actual  service  with  the  stan- 
dards might  be  still  further  reduced.  I 
think  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in 
reducing  it  to  three  years.  We  propose 
that  after  the  period  of  service  with  his 
regiment  the  soldier  should  be  permitted 

2L 


494 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Refo 


[April 


to  re-enter  civil  life,  but  to  be  called 
out  as  the  Royal  Naval  Reserve  men 
and  the  men  of  our  present  Army  Re- 
serve are  called  out.  While  under  this 
obligation  he  will  receive  a  payment 
of  4d.  a-day,  which  is  about  as  much 
as  the  soldier  serving  in  the  army  re- 
ceives of  money  paid  direct.  There 
may  be  re-engagement,  but  that  will  be 
optional  on  both  sides.  There  will  be 
no  claim  to  re -engagement,  but  it  will 
not  be  prohibited.  There  are  constitu- 
tions which  cannot  stand  the  climate 
of  India  for  more  than  a  short  period, 
but  there  are  constitutions  for  which  a 
long  period  of  service  in  that  country 
is  suitable,  so  that  in  all  probability  we 
shall  have  men  anxious  to  re-engage  for 
service  in  India.  Soldiers  would  not, 
of  course,  have  any  claim  to  pension  for 
the  short  engagement  that  we  propose, 
but  we  think  this  engagement  from  its 
nature  will  be  the  means,  if  it  succeed 
at  all,  of  drawing  into  the  army  a  large 
number  of  men  who  otherwise  would 
never  join  it.  We  do  not  propose, 
after  their  period  of  service  with 
the  standard,  to  have  them  drilled  in 
the  manner  regular  troops  are  drilled. 
During  six  years  of  actual  service  in  the 
army  they  will  have  learnt  sufficient  to 
do  them  for  the  remaining  six  years  of 
their  engagement.  We  propose  that 
after  leaving  their  regiments  they  shall 
have  the  same  sort  of  training  as  the 
Volunteers  —  drill  in  the  evening  — 
which  will  not  oblige  them  to  leave 
their  ordinary  employment.  While 
proposing  this  plan,  we,  do  not  pretend 
to  altogether  give  up  our  present  mode  of 
enlistment,  because,  as  we  cannot  be  cer- 
tain that  we  shall  succeed,  we  must  have 
the  means  of  falling  back  on  the  existing 
system.  But  to  the  experienced  soldiers 
who  say  that  we  shall  not  get  recruits 
under  our  new  plan,  because  the  recruit 
joins  the  army  with  the  intention  of 
spending  most  of  his  life  in  it  and  of 
looking  to  a  pension,  I  make  this  an- 
swer :  '  You  and  I  are  talking  of  two 
different  persons.  You  are  speaking  of 
the  man  who  now  joins  the  army.  I 
admit  that  he  wants  a  longer  service 
and  a  pension ;  but  7  speak  of  the  man 
who  does  not  now  join  the  army,  but 
whom  we  wish  to  induce  to  join  it ;  of 
the  young  man  who  is  reluctant  to  spend 
all  his  life  away  from  his  own  village ; 
who  may  wish  to  contract  marriage,  but 
who  would  give  a  good  deal  for  the  ad- 
vantages of  training  in  the  army  for  a 
few  years. '  There  must  be  inducements 


to  men  of  that  kind  to  enter  the  army, 
for  they  do  not  enter  it  now.  The  plan 
I  have  described  does  not  apply  to  the 
cavalry  or  the  artillery."  * 

Mr  Cardwell  is  plain  and  frank 
here.  He  wishes  to  get  quit  of  the 
professional  soldier,  and  to  substi- 
tute in  his  place  the  young  man 
who  wants  to  marry  ^  and  is  reluc- 
tant to  spend  his  life  away  from  his 
oivn  village;  to  get  quit  of  the 
man  who  would  live  and  die  for 
his  profession,  to  obtain  in  his 
place  one  whose  heart  will  never 
be  in  it,  who  will  look  on  it  only 
as  a  means  to  an  end,  who  will 
come  to  it  not  as  the  object  of  a 
life,  but  as  the  plaything  of  an 
hour.  And  that  profession  to  be 
so  treated  is  war — war,  the  most 
earnest,  the  most  engrossing  of  all 
professions  ;  for  in  all  others  a  man 
is  only  called  on  to  give  his  time, 
his  labour,  his  thought :  in  it  he 
must  give,  without  stint,  all  that 
he  holds  most  dear — his  life. 

It  seems  almost  like  irony  to  talk 
thus  of  the  soldier's  bloody  trade — 
to  imagine  you  will  find  a  willing 
food  for  cannon  in  the  respectable 
young  man  of  the  middle  classes, 
careful  of  his  life,  prudent  of  his 
means,  looking  back  on  his  village 
home,  looking  on  to  his  peaceful 
wedding. 

Were  these,  could  these  be,  the 
ideas  of  the  stern  ruthless  men  who 
carried  with  a  devoted  faith  the 
name  and  the  glory  of  England  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth — 
who  planted  her  standards  on  the 
green  mounds  of  Torres  Vedras, 
and  bore  them  in  triumph  through 
the  hills  of  Spain — to  the  tread  of 
whose  conquering  footsteps  the 
streets  of  Paris  and  the  capitol  of 
Washington,  the  palaces  of  Luck- 
now  and  the  Bala  Hissar  of  Caubul, 
the  ramparts  of  Pekin  and  the 
rocky  summits  of  Magdala,  have 
rung  H  Were  these  the  men  who 
went  forth  to  the  wild  storm  of 
Badajos,  and  when  the  breach  ran 
red  with  gore,  rather  than  give 


Times '  of  4th  March  1870. 


1870.] 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


495 


back,  sank  on  the  chained  sword- 
blades,  and  there  died  ]  Were  these 
the  men  who,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
stood,  few,  wounded,  and  victorious, 
on  Albuera's  fatal  hill  1  Were  these 
the  iron  veterans  of  the  light  divi- 
sion, who,  rather  than  see  their  ene- 
mies escape,  marched  through  the 
lonely  valleys  of  the  Pyrenees  till 
"  they  frothed  at  the  mouth  and 
died'"?  Were  these  the  men  who 
gave  their  souls  to  God,  that  the 
star  of  England  should  not  sink 
beneath  the  hug  of  the  Russian 
bear  on  the  misty  neck  of  Inker- 
man1?  And  they  are  the  men  you 
would  reject  for  the  careful,  cau- 
tious, prudent,  well-behaved  sons 
of  the  middle  classes — thinking  of 
their  marriage  and  their  fortunes, 
and  of  the  happiness  of  their  homes 
to  come ! 

The  enfants  perdus  of  the  world 
are  your  best  soldiers — the  men 
who  have  lost  all  taste  for  civil  life, 
who  are  no  loss  to  civil  society, 
who  have  weighed  life  in  the  bal- 
ance and  found  it  wanting — men 
of  wrecked  prospects  and  ruined 
hopes — men  who  seek  in  the  wild 
excitement  of  the  strife  an  escape 
from  the  memory  of  bright  days  gone 
by — from  the  thought  of  fortunes 
once  fair,  now  fallen  and  blasted — 
from  the  broken  dream  of  faith  in  a 
woman's  love.  Such  men  filled  the 
ranks  of  the  Zouave  battalions  of 
France  during  the  Crimean  war — 
such  men  were  to  be  found  in  num- 
bers in  the  European  regiments  of 
the  Old  Company's  service  in  India, 
— men  very  hard  to  hold  in  peace, 
but  harder  still  to  fight  in  war.* 

Apart,  however,  altogether  from 
the  fault  which  we  think  Mr  Card- 
well  makes  in  seeking  to  recruit  the 
army  exclusively  from  a  class  not 
suited  to  its  requirements,  we  are 
convinced  that  his  scheme  will 


break  down  from  not  being  adapt- 
ed to  the  conditions  under  which 
alone  you  can  hope  to  attract  re- 
cruits in  our  complicated  state  of 
society. 

We  are  quite  as  anxious  as  Mr 
Cardwell  for  the  formation  of  a 
really  powerful  and  efficient  reserve; 
but  we  do  not  wish  to  ruin  the 
regular  army  in  the  pursuit  of  that 
object.  We  desire  to  see  at  once  a 
regular  army  of  real  soldiers  and  a 
strong  reserve  of  thoroughly-drilled 
men  in  the  prime  of  life ;  and  we  are 
convinced  that  there  is  only  one  way 
in  which  you  can  obtain  this  result, 
and  that  is,  by  giving  to  the  enlisted 
soldier  the  option  either  of  continu- 
ing on  in  his  trade  as  a  profession 
for  life,  or  of  quitting  it,  after  a  few 
years'  training,  to  pass  into  the  re- 
serve. By  this  means  you  will  at 
once  secure  the  present  class  of  pro- 
fessional soldiers,  and  also  attract 
the  young  men  of  the  middle  classes, 
who  are  so  much  the  object  of  Mr 
Cardwell's  aspirations. 

As  we  have  elsewhere  fully 
stated,t  we  do  not  believe  that  you 
will  ever  get  men  voluntarily  to 
engage  in  an  occupation  in  which 
they  are  expected  to  spend  the  first 
and  most  valuable  years  of  their 
lives,  and  then  to  be  turned  out  in- 
to the  cold  to  begin  the  battle  of 
life  again.  They  will  only,  on  the 
one  hand,  join  a  profession  in  which 
they  can  remain  if  they  like  it,  and 
from  which  they  can  derive  a 
livelihood  ;  and,  on  the  other,  they 
are  unwilling  to  bind  themselves 
by  an  engagement  from  which  they 
cannot  recede.  What  they  desid- 
erate is,  the  power  of  remaining  in 
their  trade  if  they  like  it,  combined 
with  the  possibility  of  quitting  it 
if  they  do  not  do  so. 

In  other  words,  "  You  must,  on 
the  one  hand,  attract  the  soldier  by 


*  This  view,  on  the  one  hand,  is  as  much  an  extreme  one  as  Mr  Cardwell's 
"moral  young  man  about  to  marry"  is  on  the  other.  The  average  quality  of 
good  recruits  are  those  who,  having  no  turn  for  the  hard  continuous  labour  of 
civil  life,  prefer  to  take,  instead  of  its  chances  to  rise,  the  certainty  of  a  life  of 
comparative  ease,  devoid  of  care,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  excitement. 

t  "On  the  Limitation  of  Enlistment  and  Army  Reserves,"  in  '  Black  wood's 
Magazine '  for  September  1869,  p.  282-89. 


496 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


[April 


holding  out  to  him,  as  the  reward 
of  good  and  long  service,  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  pension.  You  must, 
on  the  other,  give  him  every  facil- 
ity to  quit  the  regular  army,  on 
condition  of  joining  the  reserve, 
should  he  be  so  inclined,  after  he 
has  been  once  thoroughly  drilled 
and  disciplined.  These  are  the  two 
corner-stones  on  which  the  system 
should  rest."* 

This  will  show  how  very  nearly 
we  coincide  with  Mr  Cardwell's 
scheme,  and  yet  how  completely 
in  principle  we  differ  from  it. 

Mr  Cardwell  proposes  to  enlist 
the  men  for  twelve  years ;  to  that 
we  cordially  agree.  He  next  pro- 
poses— and  here  is  the  gist  of  the 
whole  scheme — to  turn  tliem  out  of 
the  regular  army  after  about  three 
years'  service  if  in  a  regiment  at 
home,  or  six  years  if  in  one  abroad, 
and  pass  them  into  the  reserve, — 
that  is,  back  into  civil  life,  with  a 
reserve-pay  of  4d.  a-day.  Now,  had 
Mr  Cardwell,  instead  of  making 
it  compulsory  for  the  men  to  quit 
the  regular  army  and  pass  into  the 
reserve,  given  them  the  option  and 
every  encouragement  so  to  do,  we 
should  have  given  it  our  most  cordial 
support.  It  is  the  fatal  mistake  of 
compelling  the  men  to  give  up  the 
army  whether  they  like  it  or  noty  and 
go  back  into  civil  life,  that  seems 
to  us  the  decisive  objection  to  his 
plan,  and  that  because,  if  univer- 
sally enforced,  it  would  at  one  blow 
destroy  the  army  as  a  profession — 
cast  forth  from  its  ranks  all  those 
who  are  most  valuable  in  them, 
and  would  try  to  replace  them  by 
the  prudent,  thoughtful  young  men 
anxious  to  marry,  and  dreaming 
of  their  homes,  who  form  Mr  Card- 
well's  beau  ideal  of  the  soldier  of  the 
future.  It  is  evident  that  what 
Mr  Cardwell  desiderates  is  an  army 
pleasant  to  command  in  quarters  : 
unluckily,  what  war  requires  is  one 
that  will  die  hard  in  the  field. 

But    the    prudent    young   men 


will  never  come.  They  know  too 
well  how  hard  a  thing  it  is  to  get 
on  in  any  trade  even  with  the  con- 
stant earnest  devotion  of  a  life. 
They  will  never  consent  to  throw 
away  the  best  and  most  valuable 
years  of  their  existence  in  an  un- 
remunerative  profession.  To  talk 
as  Mr  Cardwell  does  of  the  advan- 
tages which  a  training  in  the  army 
confers  on  a  man  about  to  enter  life 
is  absurd.  In  civil  life  a  man  above 
all  things  requires  self-dependence 
— he  has  to  think  of  everything  for 
himself,  to  do  everything  by  him- 
self. In  the  army  he  is  entirely 
dependent  on  others  —  everything 
is  provided  for  him,  everything  is 
prearranged  for  him.  "  What  ser- 
vice in  the  army  develops  is  reli- 
ance on  others:  what  civil  life  re- 
quires is  dependence  on  one's  self." 

Were  it  not  for  the  power  which 
the  War  Minister  retains  in  his  own 
hands  to  fall  back  upon  our  present 
mode  of  enlistment,  in  the  event  of 
his  new  method  failing,  we  should 
look  upon  his  proposal  with  undis- 
guised alarm.  As  it  is,  we  are 
happy  he  has  brought  it  forward, 
because  it  will  bring,  once  for  all, 
to  the  test  of  actual  experience  the 
vexed  question  of  what  the  wishes 
really  are  of  those  classes  from 
whom  our  recruits  must  be  drawn. 
And  that  is  the  all-important  point 
to  decide  in  a  community  where 
the  conscription  does  not  and  can- 
not exist. 

If  Mr  Cardwell's  new  plan  suc- 
ceeds, we  shall  willingly  confess  we 
have  been  wrong.  If  it  fails,  we 
trust  those  whom  we  have  opposed 
so  strongly  on  this  point  will 
equally  frankly  confess  their  error. 

We  regret  Mr  Cardwell's  propo- 
sal for  one  reason  only,  and  that  is, 
because  we  think  it  will  hinder  the 
speedy  formation  of  a  good  reserve. 
Unless  we  are  much  mistaken,  the 
result  will  be  that  so  few  men  will 
come  forward  to  enlist  under  the 
new  rules,  that  the  old  mode  of  en- 


*  "On  the  Limitation  of  Enlistment  and  Army  Reserves,"  in 
Magazine '  for  September  1869,  p.  286. 


Black-wood's 


1870.] 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


497 


listment  will  have  to  be  almost  at 
once  reopened.  You  will  thus 
practically  come  to  have  two  sys- 
tems of  enlistment  going  on  at 
the  same  time,  and  the  recruit 
will  have  to  choose  under  which 
one  he  will  join  the  army  ;  but 
his  choice,  once  made,  will  be  irrevoc- 
able. 

This  we  regard  as  a  great  mis- 
fortune. It  will  keep  many  from 
coming  to  the  army  who  would 
very  willingly  do  so  if  they  thought 
that  after  three  or  six  years  they 
would  be  at  liberty  to  choose  whe- 
ther they  would  go  on  with  a  mili- 
tary life  or  return  to  civil  life  under 
the  obligation  of  reserve  -  service. 
A  man  is  in  a  better  position  to 
judge  of  a  matter  which  he  has 
tried  than  of  one  of  which  he  is 
ignorant,  and  it  will  discourage 
many  to  be  forced  to  make  their 
final  election  before  trying  the  ser- 
vice at  all.* 

To  sum  up  our  opinion  of  Mr 
Card  well's  proposed  reforms  in  a 
few  words.  In  so  far  as  he  pro- 
poses to  unite  under  one  system 
and  under  one  head  the  regular  and 
reserve  forces,  and  to  place  them  all 
in  military  divisions  under  military 
command,  we  entirely  agree  with 
him ;  and  we  regard  this  determi- 
nation as  one  conferring  increased 
strength  and  additional  warlike 
power  upon  the  country.  In  so  far 
as  he  proposes  to  get  quit  of  that 
system  of  distrust  which  has  created 


double  establishments  to  be  a  check 
upon  one  another,  and  to  substitute 
for  it  one  of  "  well-defined  respon- 
sibility, simplicity,  and  reasonable 
confidence/'  by  recasting  them 
into  the  three  great  divisions  of 
military  administration,  supply, 
and  finance,  we  cordially  go  along 
with  him. 

But  here  our  agreement  ceases. 
1.  We  regard  his  new  depot  sys- 
tem as  one  of  the  very  worst  ever 
devised — so  bad,  indeed,  that,  if 
persevered  in,  it  will  sap  at  its 
foundation  our  whole  regimental 
system.  2.  We  look  upon  every 
attempt  to  extend  the  power  of  the 
Control  department  from  the  purely 
civil  administration  to  the  military 
executive  duties  of  the  army  as 
unmixed  evil — as  certain  to  entail 
ruin  on  real  service.  3.  We  object 
in  the  strongest  way  to  his  reducing 
the  regular  regiments  to  mere  cadres 
of  500  strong,  so  long  as  no  real 
reserve  of  trained  soldiers  (and  no 
man  who  has  not  served  continu- 
ously for  three  years  in  the  ranks 
can  be  called  such)  is  provided 
wherewith  to  raise  them  in  time  of 
need  to  the  war-strength.  4.  We 
regard  his  plan  of  a  militia  reserve 
as  a  bad  makeshift.  Taking  it  at 
the  very  best,  it  will  provide  20,000 
not  very  good  recruits  for  the  line 
by  depriving  the  militia  of  its  very 
best  men ;  for  it  cannot  be  too 
much  insisted  on  that  the  value  of 
these  men  will  be  much  greater  in 


*  Whilst  these  lines  were  passing  through  the  press,  the  following  explanation 
and  modification  of  his  original  scheme  (see  the  'Times  '  of  the  19th  March)  has 
been  given  by  Mr  Cardwell  in  answer  to  a  question  from  Colonel  Lindsay  : — "It 
is  proposed  that  the  engagement  shall  be  for  12  years,  of  which  a  fixed  number  in 
each  case  will  be  with  the  standards  and  the  remainder  in  the  reserve.  If,  when 
the  short  service  is  coming  to  an  end,  the  soldier  is  willing  to  re-engage,  and  her 
Majesty's  Government  are  willing  to  accept  his  services,  he  may  re-engage  for  the 
rest  of  the  12  years,  and  similarly  afterwards  again  for  nine,  making  in  all  21. 
It  will  be  a  reciprocal  choice  on  the  part  of  the  authorities  and  the  soldier,  and 
not  an  option  on  the  part  of  the  soldier  alone.  It  is  proposed  to  have  only  a  certain 
proportion  of  men  of  longer  service  in  the  army.  The  object  of  training  these  men 
is  to  incorporate  them,  when  an  emergency  arises,  into  battalions  already  exist- 
ing. "  From  this  it  is  evident  that  the  Minister  at  War  still  adheres  to  what  we 
look  on  as  the  objectionable  part  of  his  proposal — that  of  not  giving  to  the  soldier, 
in  good  health  and  of  good  character,  the  option  of  making  the  army  his  profes- 
sion. Also,  that  he  is  desirous  of  reducing  to  a  small  number  the  proportion  of 
real  soldiers,  even  in  the  wasted  ranks  of  the  existing  cadres. 


493 


On  the  Government  Scheme  of  Army  Reform. 


[April 


their  own  regiments  of  militia  where 
they  know  and  are  known,  than  in 
the  line  battalions  to  which  they 
will  come  as  strangers.*  5.  We 
are  reconciled  to  his  proposal  to 
turn  men  compulsorily  out  of  the 
service  after  three  or  six  years' 
training,  solely  because  we  believe 
it  will  prove  so  unworkable  that  it 
will  necessitate  a  recurrence  to  our 
present  mode  of  enlistment.  Were 
it  a  positive,  not  an  alternative 
scheme,  we  should  regard  it  as  the 
destruction  of  our  old  professional 
army,  and  as  an  attempt  to  recon- 
struct a  new  one  on  a  principle 
which  is  impracticable  without  a 
conscription. 

We  would  have  the  country 
clearly  understand  the  real  drift  of 
the  army  scheme  now  before  it.  It 
proposes  large  reductions  in  money 
and  in  numbers,  and  the  one  is 
nearly  proportional  to  the  other.  If 
the  country  desires  a  cheap  and  a 
weak  army,  it  will  have  it.  In  two 
years  it  will  have  reduced  the  esti- 
mates by  over  £-2,000,000,  and  the 
regular  army  by  over  20,000  men. 
That  result  is  clear  and  intelligi- 
ble, and  we  have  nothing  to  say 
against  it  if  the  country  so  will. 
All  we  desire  is,  let  there  be  no 
deception  about  the  matter — no 
mocking  delusion  that  you  have 
reduced  expenditure  and  gained 
strength.  Let  the  country  clearly 
understand  that  we  have  not  now 
a  single  regiment  of  infantry  which 
could  be  raised  to  the  war  footing 
and  with  safety  trusted  in  the  field, 


under,  at  the  very  least,  nine 
months'  assiduous  drill;  and  that 
we  have  not  a  battery  or  a  squadron 
fit  in  numbers  for  immediate  ser- 
vice. And  let  no  fanciful  idea  that 
we  have  a  mighty  army  of  volun- 
teers behind,  upon  whom  we  can 
rely  as  on  a  tower  of  strength,  be 
hugged  with  flattering  unction  to 
the  soul.  There  is  no  one  who 
really  knows  the  composition  of 
our  volunteers,  and  who  has  studied 
the  necessities  of  the  class  from 
whom  they  come,  who  will  suppose 
that  it  would  be  possible  to  put 
into  the  field  and  keep  there  for 
six  weeks  40,000  of  them.  It  is 
good  sometimes  to  look  realities 
in  the  face,  and  not  to  sleep  on  in 
the  happy  ignorance  induced  by 
pretty  tables  of  military  statistics 
neatly  drawn  up. 

We  have  no  idea  that  anything 
we  can  say  will  produce  the  least 
impression  on  the  public.  We  are 
well  aware  that  their  one  idea  is 
that  a  man  clothed,  armed,  and  in- 
structed in  the  goose-step,  is  a  per- 
fect warrior,  and  that  so  long  as 
we  have  a  goodly  array  of  these  we 
are  fit  for  the  strain  of  war.  It  is 
those  only  whom  bitter  experience 
in  the  hour  of  trial  has  taught,  who 
know  the  true  value  of  a  disciplined 
soldier,  and  of  how  difficult  and 
slow  a  growth  he  is.  May  the  time 
never  come  when  this  country  will 
awake  from  its  delusion ;  for  if  it 
does,  it  will  be  when  it  is  too  late 
— amidst  the  ruin  of  a  people  and 
the  crash  of  a  falling  empire  ! 


*  Many  will  say  Waterloo  was  fought  with  regiments  hastily  filled  up  Avith 
militiamen — and  this  is  true ;  but  they  were  filled  up  with  militiamen  who  came 
from  regiments  which  had  been  almost  continually  embodied  for  nearly  fifteen  years. 
In  other  words,  in  all  except  actual  experience  in  the  field,  they  had  had  longer  and 
more  careful  training  than  the  linesmen  amongst  whom  they  went.  The  militia- 
men who  form  our  reserve  are  men  who  have  gone  through  two  or  three  trainings  of 
a  month  each.  Now  a  good  regiment  of  disciplined  soldiers  would  easily  receive  a 
couple  of  hundred  such  men  into  its  ranks  without  losing  efficiency ;  but  a  weak 
cadre  of  500  would  be  overwhelmed  by  an  equal  force  of  such  recruits  being  poured 
into  it. 


1870.] 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


499 


CORNELIUS     ODOWD. 


THE      TIPPER  A  RY      ANSWER. 


THE  persistence  of  certain  Irish 
politicians  in  returning  as  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Commons  a  person 
declared  by  the  law  to  be  ineligible, 
is  one  of  those  instances  in  which 
logical  force  has  had  to  give  way 
before  the  power  of  a  strong  senti- 
ment. The  men  of  Tipperary  never 
imagined  for  a  moment  that  O'Don- 
ovan  Rossa  was  to  be  summoned 
from  his  "  bit  of  oakum,"  as  he 
calls  it,  to  take  his  place  in  the 
House.  They  did  not  suppose  that 
the  writ  to  serve  as  a  Knight  of 
the  Shire  could  efface  the  sentence 
of  a  solemn  tribunal,  or  that  the 
emergency  which  called  for  his  ser- 
vices in  Parliament  could  obliterate 
the  memory  of  his  conviction.  No- 
thing of  the  kind.  These  dwellers 
on  the  slopes  of  the  "  Galtees  "  are 
very  shrewd-witted  and  clever  fel- 
lows. They  meant  simply  to  make 
a  protest  against  the  representation 
of  their  country  being  committed 
to  the  hackneyed  hands  of  a  trad- 
ing politician.  What  they  desired 
to  assert  was  this :  "  Kather  let  us 
declare  for  a  man  whose  extreme 
opinions  have  cost  him  his  liberty, 
than  take  some  lawyer  of  the  law- 
yers, who  pronounces  for  us  to-day 
that  he  may  prosecute  us  to-mor- 
row." 

It  was  firing  blank-cartridge,  it 
is  true.  No  matter  for  that.  The 
aim  was  steady,  and  the  direction 
showed  what  would  have  happened 
had  there  been  a  bullet  in  the  bar- 
rel. I  don't  expect  Englishmen  to 
see  the  thing  in  this  wise.  They 
will  doubtless  set  the  whole  down 
as  an  Irish  blunder,  one  of  those 
bulls  like  that  of  the  people,  who, 
in '98,used  to  burn  Beresford's  notes 
by  way  of  breaking  his  Bank — a 
great  mistake,  doubtless,  financi- 
ally ;  but,  testing  it  on  the  score  of 
feeling,  it  is  well  to  remember  that 
the  men  who  did  this  knew  that 


they  were  destroying  what  could 
have  enriched  themselves,  but  who 
in  their  patriotism  preferred  to  ruin 
an  enemy  to  Ireland. 

As  I  have  just  said,  this  will  not 
be  the  English  judgment  in  the 
matter.  They  will  say,  "Pat  has 
been  making  another  bull  :  he  has 
elected  a  man  who  cannot  sit,  and 
he  has  had  his  trouble  for  nothing." 
Had  0' Donovan  Rossa,  however, 
been  free  to  enter  the  House  and 
take  his  place  below  the  gangway, 
is  it  quite  certain  that  any  measure 
he  might  have  moved,  or  any  bill  he 
might  have  initiated,  should  have 
become  a  law  1  Is  it  quite  sure  that 
he  could  have  carried  a  confiscation 
bill  or  a  repeal  of  the  Union,  or  any 
other  great  national  boon,  in  the 
same  sense  1  Would  not  the  very 
utmost  that  could  be  expected  from 
him  be  some  protest,  angry  and  in- 
dignant if  you  like,  against  the 
cruelty  and  injustice  of  English 
rule  in  Ireland,  and  the  avowal 
that,  though  not  actually  able  at 
the  moment  to  resent  it,  the  Irish 
people  would  continue  to  treasure 
up  the  score  of  their  wrongs,  wait- 
ing for  the  day  and  the  hour  to 
acquit  the  debt  of  their  vengeance  1 
and  when  he  had  done  this,  ably 
and  powerfully,  as  some  think,  he 
could  have  done  it,  he  would  sit 
down,  the  world  no  more  influenced 
by  the  declamation  than  if  he  had 
been  passing  his  time  in  the  tea- 
room. The  "protest,"  however, 
would  have  been  made. 

In  exactly  the  same  spirit  has 
Tipperary  acted.  What  they  have 
declared  amounts  to  this  :  Rather 
than  any  more  Whig-Radical  jobbery 
for  Ireland,  give  us — the  impossible  ! 
They  have  had  more  than  enough 
of  what  Mr  Bright  calls  "tinkering  " 
— a  trade,  by  the  way,  for  which  he 
himself  has  of  late  shown  some 
aptitude.  They  desire  to  be  dealt 


500 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[April 


with  as  a  national  party,  not  the 
following  of  a  priesthood — men  far 
more  imbued  with  patriotism  than 
Popery. 

I  know  well  this  announcement 
does  not  represent  them  as  more 
manageable  as  a  party;  and  I  can 
imagine  the  dismay  of  the  Chief 
Secretary  for  Ireland  if  called  upon 
to  treat  with  these  men  of  strong 
convictions  and  unswerving  pur- 
pose, in  lieu  of  those  mitred 
Macchiavellis  whose  demands  will 
always  be  tempered  by  the  spirit 
of  the  hour  they  are  made  in, 
and  whose  nice  tact  teaches  them 
to  appreciate  the  difficulties  of  a 
friendly  administration. 

The  people  of  Ireland  have  taken 
to  Fenianisin  pretty  much  as  a  man 
takes  to  quackery,  when  he  suspects 
that  the  regular  doctors  have  been 
destroying  his  constitution.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  they  were  right,  but 
I  feel  that  what  they  have  done 
was  logical.  They  know  well  that 
they  and  their  grievances  were  never 
thought  of  by  any  section  in  the 
State  till  some  exigency  of  party 
called  for  the  aid  of  Irish  mem- 
bers ;  and  that  then  the  English 
mind  took  no  other  measure  of 
Irishmen  than  some  boon  to  the 
Catholic  Church — some  concession 
or  some  flattery  to  Romanism. 

If  the  Pope  can  help  you  to  go- 
vern Ireland,  engage  him  by  all 
means.  I  know  there  are  certain 
bargains  where  the  benefit  to  be 
acquired  is  dearly  bought.  The 
Whigs,  however,  are  well  accus- 
tomed to  these  dealings,  and  they 
are  skilful  in  drawing  up  their  con- 
tracts, and  need  no  hints  of  mine  as 
to  evasive  clauses.  The  question, 
however,  is  :  Can  the  Pope  do  now 
what  he  might  have  done  fifty  years 
ago1?  Is  Ireland  as  priest-ridden 
to-day  as  it  was  at  the  beginning  of 
the  century  1 

He  can  condemn  secret  societies, 
it  is  true;  he  can  anathematise 
Fenians,  and  refuse  them  the  rites 
of  the  Church  ;  but  for  the  matter 
of  that  he  has  been  cursing  all  Italy 
since  the  day  of  the  Sicardi  laws, 


and  I  have  not  heard  that  any  one 
has  advised  their  repeal ;  and  it  was 
only  when  Victor  Emmanuel  caught 
a  fever  the  other  day  that  he  re- 
membered he  was  excommunicated. 
In  the  fasting  regulations  for 
Lent,  read  out  a  few  Sundays  back 
in  all  the  chapels  of  Ireland,  there 
was  inserted  a  clause  that  ran 
thus : — 

"  9.  As  secret  societies  are  the  cause 
of  great  evils,  tend  to  promote  impiety 
and  infidelity,  and  are  injurious  to  the 
public  good,  the  Roman  Pontiffs,  Bene- 
dict XIV.,  Pius  VII.,  Leo  XII.,  and 
others,  have  excommunicated  all  who 
engage  in  them.  Hence,  Catholics,  if 
Freemasons,  Ribbonmen,  or  Fenians, 
cannot  be  admitted  to  the  sacraments. 
Our  beloved  Holy  Father  Pius  IX.,  by 
a  decree  of  the  Holy  Office  of  the  12th 
January  of  this  year,  has  expressly  de- 
clared that  the  Fenians  are  subject  to 
the  same  censures  which  have  been  en- 
acted by  his  predecessors  against  Free- 
masons ;  so  that  no  Fenian  can  be  ab- 
solved or  receive  the  sacraments  of  the 
Church  until  he  shall  have  renounced 
all  connection  with  the  Fenian  organ- 
isation, and  abandoned  all  attempts  to 
promote  or  assist  it.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  all  who  are  engaged  in  secret  so- 
cieties, availing  themselves  of  the  facil- 
ities afforded  by  the  present  jubilee, 
will  abandon  their  evil  connections  and 
reconcile  themselves  with  the  Church 
of  God,  out  of  which  they  cannot  be 
saved." 

The  reply  to  this  was  given  at 
Waterford  and  Tipperary.  The 
answer  of  the  people  has  been  in 
Ireland  what  it  has  been  in  Italy. 
We  are  heart-sick  of  priestly  dom- 
ination, and  though  it  is  possible 
we  may  be  coerced  into  submis- 
sion, we  refuse  to  be  cursed  into  it. 

I  would  meanwhile  ask  of  Eng- 
lishmen to  distinguish  between 
Fenians  and  those  who  are  the 
authors  of  what  is  called  "  agrarian 
outrage."  People  never  confounded 
Garibaldians  with  brigands  in  Italy, 
and  why  should  there  be  any  diffi- 
culty in  making  the  distinction  in 
Ireland  1  I  am  no  apologist  for  re- 
bellion— I  want  to  make  no  case 
for  those  who  plotted  the  scheme 
of  insurrection  in  Ireland, — all  I 
would  say  is,  arraign  them  on  the 


1870.] 


On  some  Rash  Investments. 


501 


indictment  that  applies  to  them, 
and  do  not  confound  the  men  who 
are  traitors  to  England  with  those 
who  are  traitors  to  all  humanity. 

The  Catholic  priesthood  in  Ire- 
land are  either  able  to  put  down 
landlord -murder  or  they  are  not. 
If  the  former,  and  if  they  will  do 
so,  they  are  worth  all  the  conces- 
sions you  can  make  them.  As  re- 
gards rebellion,  England  is  surely 
able  to  deal  with  that,  and  needs 
neither  the  Cardinal's  curses  nor 
censures  ;  and  as  to  Freemasons, 
the  perils  to  be  apprehended  from 
them  are  not  so  appalling  or  so 
proximate  as  to  affright  us.  What 
we  do  not  see  our  way  to  suppress — 
what  our  judges  declare  to  be  on  the 
increase,  and  what  our  police  admit 
to  be  beyond  their  power  of  detec- 
tion— are  threatening  notices  and 
murder.  These  crimes,  carried  on 
with  a  secrecy  and  a  uniformity  that 
imply  organisation,  have  made  Ire- 
land a  land  of  terror  to  live  in.  They 
are  all  more  or  less  concerned  with 
the  question  of  land-tenure.  The 
idea  of  what  can  be  done  by  menace 
has  got  a  fatal  hold  on  the  peasant 
mind  of  Ireland.  It  is  full  time  to 
disabuse  men  of  this  impression. 
None  could  lend  abler  assistance 
to  this  work  of  undeception  than 
the  Catholic  priest,  but  he  has  not 
yet  offered  you  his  aid  in  this  di- 


rection. He  has  denounced  Free- 
masons and  Fenians,  it  is  true; 
but  it  would  conduce  more  to  the 
peace  of  Ireland  if  he  would  censure 
the  threatening  letter-writer,  and  aid 
in  bringing  the  assassin  to  justice. 
Once  more  then  I  say,  do  not  con- 
found together  two  things  essenti- 
ally different.  You  would  not  blend 
up  an  action  on  a  bill  of  exchange 
with  a  breach  of  the  Game-laws; 
and  do  not  confuse  Fenianism  with 
"  land  murder."  They  are  by  no 
means  identical,  and  this  "  Tippe- 
rary  answer"  might  help  you  so 
far  to  the  distinction  as  to  show 
that  Romanism  only  guides  you  in 
Ireland,  where  you  know  the  way 
yourself ;  but  where  the  path  be- 
comes difficult,  and  the  track  un- 
certain, it  extinguishes  the  lantern, 
and  leaves  you  to  grope  on  how 
you  can  !  To  tell  a  man  with  a 
fractured  thigh-bone,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  put  splints  on  your  femur, 
or  '  set '  your  limb,  but  I  am  about 
to  present  your  domestic  chaplain 
with  a  new  set  of  vestments/' 
is  poor  comfort  after  all,  and  yet 
it  is  very  like  Whig  rule  in  Ire- 
land ;  and  it  is  to  such  quackery 
Tipperary  has  replied;  so  that  if 
you  say,  "  I'll  give  you  something 
you  don't  want,"  Tipperary  answers, 
"I'll  send  you  somebody  that  can't 
go  to  you." 


ON  SOME  RASH  INVESTMENTS. 


A  certain  Ruffo  Scilla  has  been 
swindling  his  countrymen  at  Naples 
to  pretty  purpose.  This  man  con- 
trived to  persuade  a  number  of 
simple-minded  people  that  capital 
might  be  so  advantageously  em- 
ployed as  to  yield  a  safe  return 
of  nearly  cent  per  cent;  and  by 
this  bribe  induced  many  persons 
of  limited  means  to  trust  him  with 
their  little  hoards,  legacies,  be- 
quests, or  savings,  on  the  faith  of 
his  being  able  to  give  them  this 
liberal  interest.  For  a  while  all 
seemed  to  go  on  prosperously.  The 
lenders  not  only  received  their  large 


dividends  with  punctuality,  but 
when  minded  to  withdraw  their 
capital,  experienced  neither  diffi- 
culty nor  delay.  The  regularity 
and  exactitude  of  his  dealings  so 
far  succeeded  in  silencing  all  the 
objections  and  warnings  of  the  press, 
that  gradually  the  class  of  lenders 
extended  from  the  humble  people 
who  at  first  embraced  this  hope  of 
gain,  to  small  shopkeepers  and  clerks, 
till  it  reached  a  more  well-to-do 
order  of  men  in  professions  and 
high  employ,  and  finally  engaged 
a  large  number  of  titled  persons, 
whose  fortunes,  though  unhappily 


502 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[April 


not  their  desires,  might  have  ex- 
empted them  from  this  pursuit  of 
gain.  In  fact  "Society" — since 
that  is  the  name  for  it — entered  as 
eagerly  into  this  wild  lottery  as  the 
very  neediest  beggar  who  deposited 
his  copper  investment  in  weekly  in- 
stalments. 

M.  Scilla  was  never  called  on  to 
explain  by  what  employment  of 
capital  such  interest  could  be  re- 
turned. No  one  presumed  to  ask 
in  what  industry,  or  to  what  specu- 
lation, the  sums  he  borrowed  were 
devoted.  His  theory,  so  far  as  he 
gave  it  to  the  world,  was  :  The  bank- 
ers, who  yield  you  some  three  or  four 
per  cent  for  your  money,  are  rogues 
and  swindlers ;  they  grow  rich  upon 
your  foolish  trustfulness,  or  your 
ignorance  of  financial  operations. 
Money  has  a  far  more  rapid  growth 
than  they  like  to  own  to,  and  I  am 
here  to  prove  it.  Give  me  your 
ten  carlini,  and  in  a  year  you 
shall  have  back  twenty.  He  point- 
ed to  Rothschild,  Galliera,  or  Sala- 
manca, and  asked,  Who  has  enrich- 
ed these  men,  if  not  that  credulous 
public,  who,  satisfied  with  a  mere 
fraction  of  what  was  their  own, 
have  consigned  the  bulk  of  their 
profits  to  these  crafty  financiers  1 

It  was  a  pleasant  theory  ;  and 
when  only  once  satisfied  that  it  was 
a  safe  one,  who  could  doubt  that  it 
would  be  popular  1  Such  was  the 
success  in  the  present  case,  that  the 
discoverer  was  regarded  as  the 
benefactor  of  his  country. 

Now  there  is  this  peculiarity 
about  delusions,  that  if  they  only 
endure  for  a  certain  time  they  be- 
come respectable,  whereas  if  they 
be  short-lived  they  are  swindles. 
The  fallacy  that  has  come  down 
to  us  mellowed  by  time  and  tradi- 
tion, we  can  afford  to  treat  ten- 
derly, and  when  we  refute  it,  we 
do  so  without  passion  or  exaggera- 
tion, but  calmly,  decently,  and  de- 
corously ;  whereas,  if  the  trick  be 
discovered  at  once,  we  have  no 
language  strong  enough  in  which 
to  denounce  and  decry  it.  M. 
Scilla's  roguery  was  a  "  short-time 


bargain;"  could  he  have  insured 
it  a  life  of  years,  he  might  have 
rested  under  a  monument  raised 
by  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen. 
His  balloon,  however,  was  only  a 
soap-bubble,  and  it  burst  almost 
as  it  was  blown. 

One  fine  morning  it  was  discov- 
ered that  the  bank  had  disappeared. 
M.  Scilla  had  fled.  All  Naples 
had  been  cheated,  and  three  mil- 
lions sterling  abstracted  from,  in  a 
great  degree,  the  most  indigent  class 
of  a  very  pauperised  capital. 

Of  course  there  is  much  and 
well-merited  condemnation  of  his 
dishonesty.  The  newspapers  are 
filled  with  piteous  tales  of  the  ruin 
he  has  caused ;  and  a  number  of 
suicides  bear  witness  to  the  despair 
that  has  befallen  his  victims.  On 
such  sad  occasions,  that  large  class 
who  may  be  known  as  the  "  I-told- 
you-so  people"  reap  a  rich  harvest ; 
and  every  possible  warning  that 
could  come  after  an  event  is  par- 
aded with  an  amount  of  force  and 
circumstance  actually  overwhelm- 
ing. If  I  desired  to  speak  of  M. 
Scilla,  I  should  give  him  as  many 
hard  names  as  my  neighbours  are 
doing.  Indeed  I  do  not  know 
what  language  can  compass  the 
almost  infinite  baseness  of  such 
deliberate  rascality.  It  is  not, 
however,  of  him  I  am  thinking  : 
I  am  rather  directing  my  thoughts 
to  those  poor  deluded  people,  who, 
with  all  the  pity  bestowed  on  their 
misfortunes,  are  not  escaping  some 
very  pungent  little  sarcasms  on 
their  ignorant  credulity,  their  in- 
ordinate lust  for  profit,  and  their 
covetousness. 

Not  that  I  am  prepared  to  rebut 
a  single  item  of  these  allegations. 
They  were  as  greedy  and  as  credul- 
ous as  you  like  to  make  them.  It 
is  the  old  story,  however — the 
"populus  vult  decipi"  experience 
that  none  of  us  need  look  surprised 
at.  All  that  I  would  say  on  this 
head  is,  that  money  is  not  the  only 
investment  in  which  men  dream  of 
centuple  profits ;  that  even  in  our 
own  hard-headed  thrifty  land,  men 


1870.] 


On  some  Rash  Investments. 


503 


are  lending  out  their  beliefs  on  just 
as  slight  security  as  these  poor 
lazzaroni  did  their  coin,  and  cal- 
culating on  inordinate  returns  for 
the  investment,  with  this  important 
difference,  however,  that  as  the  de- 
lusion will  last  longer,  it  will  be 
eminently  respectable. 

Take,  for  instance,  one  of  our 
latest  delusions — that,  by  what  is 
called  "  fixity  of  tenure,"  the  Irish 
peasant  was  to  be  established  in 
the  place  of  the  landlord,  and  be 
endowed  with  all  the  rights  of  pro- 
prietorship :  a  dissolving  view  that 
is  already  dispelled,  though  with 
what  consequences  from  the  dis- 
enchantment we  have  yet  to  see. 

For  my  own  part,  I'd  rather  face 
the  most  savage  Neapolitan  with 
the  explanation  of  the  fraud  prac- 
tised on  him,  than  meet  Paddy  with 
this  tale  of  disappointment. 

I  will  not  say  that  the  Govern- 
ment Land  Bill  is  not  generous  or 
just.  I  will  not  say  that  it  has  not 
considered  the  case  of  the  tenant 
with  all  the  leniency  that  is  due  to 
the  poor  man.  I  will  not  deny  the 
evident  anxiety  to  give  everything 
to  the  tiller,  save  the  absolute  rights 
of  property  that  belong  to  the  owner 
of  the  soil.  I  will  enter  into  no 
question  whether  it  were  possible 
to  have  screwed  another,  and  what, 
privilege  out  of  the  landlord.  I 
will  only  say  that  Pat  has  not  got 
that  cent  percent  the  Ruffo Scillas  of 
politics  had  promised  him,  and  that 
all  the  cash  he  has  invested  in  ball- 
cartridge  has  gone  for  nothing ;  and 
for  any  thing  the  Cabinet  have  done 
for  him,  he  need  never  have  shot  a 
landlord  nor  "  peppered"  an  agent. 

M.  Scilla  would  have  had  but 
few  followers  had  he  limited  him- 
self to  offering  legal  interest  on 
loans  ;  and  the  present  Administra- 
tion would  not  have  received  such 
an  accession  of  Irish  votes  to  their 
party,  had  they  frankly  admitted 
that  they  did  not  mean  to  con- 
fiscate Irish  property,  but  only,  by 
frightening  the  landlords,  make 
them  amenable  to  moderate  conces- 
sions, and  accustom  them  to  think 


themselves  lucky  if  their  estates 
were  left  to  them.  The  "  cent  per 
cent  "  was,  however,  held  forth  in 
the  speeches  of  agitators  and  the 
letters  of  placemen.  "  Ireland  was 
to  be  ruled  in  an  Irish  spirit." 
"  Landlord  felonies  "  —  whatever 
they  were — "were  to  be  suppres- 
sed ; "  "  the  poor  man  was  to  be 
secured  in  the  fruits  of  his  labour." 
A  number  of  other  very  vague 
pledges  were  given — all  to  be  re- 
deemed by  what  1  by  some  con- 
temptible assurance  that  the  tenant 
must  riot  expect  to  hold  land  with- 
out paying  the  rent,  and  that  for 
all  the  purposes  of  property  the 
landlord  was  nearly  where  he  was 
before.  To  be  sure  there  was  a 
grand  field  for  litigation  to  be 
opened.  There  were  to  be  cases  for 
quarter  sessions  and  arbitration, 
and  valuations  of  improvements,  and 
fierce  disputes — to  end,  doubtless, 
occasionally,  as  such  disputes  do  in 
Ireland,  in  the  suppression  of  one 
of  the  disputants ;  but  all  this, 
though  gratifying  in  its  way,  and 
probably  in  what  the  Cabinet  would 
call  "  an  Irish  spirit,"  is  still  very 
far  from  confiscation,  and  from  that 
"  cent-per-cent  interest "  the  invest- 
ors bargained  for. 

We  are  told  that  the  exceptional 
tenderness  with  which  the  Irish  ten- 
ant-farmer is  to  be  treated  is  al- 
ready exciting  the  jealousy  of  the 
English  and  Scotch  farmers,  who 
grumblingly  ask,  Why  are  they  to 
be  denied  the  benefits  of  this  pro- 
fitable legislation  1  Do  these  dull 
men  not  perceive  that  discontent 
is  not  sufficient  1  They  must  do 
more  than  murmur  if  they  want 
relief.  They  must  have  what  the 
French  call  "  the  courage  of  their 
opinion,"  even  to  the  extent  of  a 
capital  felony,  if  they  want  any 
confidence  in  their  sincerity. 

When  the  benevolent  lady,  who 
had  once  established  a  Magdalene 
Asylum  in  Dublin  for  repentant 
"  unfortunates,"  was  once  applied  to 
for  admission  by  a  simple-looking 
young  woman  of  modest  air  and 
decent  appearance,  the  patroness 


504 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[April 


asked  some  particulars  of^her  fall, 
and  heard  with  astonishment  that 
she  had  not  lapsed  from  virtue. 
"In  that  case,"  said  she,  "  you  have 
no  claim  for  admission  here.  If  you 
want  to  be  received,  you  must  go 
and  qualify."  This  is  what  we  say 
now  to  the  Scotch  and  English  til- 
lers of  the  soil.  How  many  of  you 
have  shot  your  landlords  ?  Let  us 
see  the  man  amongst  you  who  has 
put  slugs  in  a  bailiff.  What  a 
sneaking  set  of  petty  larceny  knaves 


they  will  exhibit  themselves,  skulk- 
ing from  crime,  and  actually  tremb- 
ling at  the  thought  of  transportation ! 
Who  wonders,  then,  if  Ireland  be 
discontented,  and  that  Tipperary  is 
as  indignant  as  Naples  ?  There  is 
to  be  no  confiscation  after  all.  It 
is  only  the  Irish  Church  is  to  be 
ruined ;  the  landlords  are  to  be 
merely  put  upon  half-pay,  and  this 
is  what  is  called  a  message  of  peace ! 
All  I  can  say  is,  I  don't  envy  the 
man  that  brings  it ! 


DULL  AS  DITCHWATEK. 


The  world  is  very  dull  just  now. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  Prince 
Pierre  Buonaparte,  and  a  celebrated 
trial  in  England,  we  should  really 
have  nothing  to  talk  of ;  and  now 
that  we  have  said  all  the  possible 
things  on  these  two  subjects,  we 
are  thrown  back  upon  ourselves, 
with  nothing  to  interest,  nothing 
to  stir  us.  I  take  it  that  these  sea- 
sons of  especial  dreariness  for  the 
world  at  large  are  the  blissful  pe- 
riods of  life  for  those  in  power. 
The  happiness  of  the  nations  that 
have  no  history  is  a  proverb ;  and 
from  such  data  we  may  in  a  meas- 
ure compute  the  enjoyment  of 
those  rulers  of  men  who  see  the 
machine  of  Government  do  its  work 
at  half -boiler  power,  with  little 
friction  and  scarcely  any  wear. 

On  the  Continent  of  Europe  there 
is  a  quiet  almost  like  a  lethargy. 
The  alarms  of  war  have  subsided, 
not  exactly  because  a  better  under- 
standing has  succeeded,  but  that 
each  feels  that  he  who  should  be 
the  first  to  break  the  peace  must 
array  the  public  opinion  of  Europe 
against  him ;  and  now  that  the 
newspapers  repeat  themselves  so  ex- 
actly that  the  press  of  Prussia  is 
reproduced  in  Spain,  and  that  the 
same  sort  of  appeal  is  heard  on  the 
Neva  and  on  the  Tiber,  there  is  a 
uniformity  in  the  popular  judg- 
ments of  Europe  that  has  never 
been  seen  heretofore. 

In  France,  perhaps,  the  state  of 


insecurity  still  prevails.  The  ex- 
periment of  constitutional  govern- 
ment is  yet  on  its  trial ;  or  rather 
it  is  still  to  be  seen  how  far  the 
Emperor  will  continue  his  experi- 
ment. The  great  question  being, 
Will  he  so  replace  the  old  machin- 
ery by  the  new,  as  to  make  a  re- 
turn to  the  old  mode  of  progres- 
sion impossible1?  or  is  he  merely 
using  the  Ollivier  Ministry  as  an 
auxiliary  screw,  to  be  lifted  and 
stowed  away  when  he  has  worked 
off  from  the  ugly  lee-shore  of  a 
revolution,  and  is  M.  Rouher  only 
waiting  for  ample  sea-room  to  take 
the  helm  and  command  the  ship  1 
Of  the  two  courses  I  should  not  call 
the  latter  the  less  probable.  To 
carry  on  the  government  of  France 
without  official  candidates  seems 
like  abrogating  the  empire,  where 
the  first  of  official  candidates  is  the 
head  of  the  State.  In  the  present 
temper  of  France  there  are  few 
Imperialists  would  like  to  subject 
the  Emperor  to  the  hazard  of  a  re- 
election; and  yet  to  abolish"  official 
candidature"  is  going  a  very  long 
way  in  this  direction.  To  withdraw 
from  the  conduct  of  affairs  the  will 
of  him  who  has  hitherto  directed 
the  State,  and  to  accept  the  not 
very  well  defined  or  clearly  express- 
ed wishes  of  dissatisfied  millions 
as  to  how  they  would  like  to  be 
ruled,  is  an  experiment  of  unques- 
tionable danger. 

The  French  Emperor,  however, 


1870.] 


Dull  as  Dilckwater. 


505 


has  a  taste  for  "  surprises,"  as  strong 
as  though  he  were  a  popular  drama- 
tist ;  and  he  loves  "  a  transformation 
scene  "  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  pan- 
tomimist;  and  although  a  coup  d'etat 
is  not  always  sure  of  full  success  on 
repetition,  he  is  too  clever  a  mech- 
anist not  to  vary  the  machinery  and 
present  totally  new  effects  at  the 
fall  of  the  curtain ;  and  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  lay  heavy  odds  that 
M.  Daru  might  not  yet  make  a 
sea -voyage  in  company  with  M. 
Rochefort,  or  that  M.  Ollivier  him- 
self might  not  be  the  daily  compan- 
ion and  associate  of  Ledru  Rollin, 
linked  to  him  by  ties  even  stronger 
than  those  of  party.  In  Prussia 
all  is  expectancy.  M.  Bismark  is 
said  to  be  "  waiting/'  He  is  wait- 
ing for  South  Germany  to  pronounce 
— waiting  for  Russia  to  declare  her 
policy — waiting  for  the  completion 
of  a  Prussian  fleet  —  waiting  for 
France  to  be  embroiled  with  the 
Imperials — waiting  for  Italy  to  lose 
patience  about  Rome,  and  treat  de- 
fiantly with  the  Tuileries  —  and 
waiting  for  Austria  to  be  so  terri- 
fied about  her  Slavac  population, 
that  she  will  consent  to  forget  the 
treaty  of  Prague,  and  only  bargain 
for  a  little  present  succour. 

If  Prussia  is  waiting  for  much, 
Austria  is  waiting  for  everything. 
All  her  reforms  have  come  so 
rapidly  and  unexpectedly,  that  the 
Minister  of  Justice  does  not  well 
know  what  is  law;  nor  can  the 
Minister  of  War  determine  whether 
there  is  or  is  not  an  army  :  while 
as  to  the  Church,  there  is  not  a 
member  of  the  Cabinet  could  tell 
you  whether  they  have  or  have  not 
thrown  off  the  Pope,  or  how  far  the 
Concordat  is  a  law  or  a  lie  in  the 
empire  ! 

As  for  Italy,  she  waits  "  for  Rome." 
For  many  years  she  waited  for 
Venice — sighed  for  it — sung  for  it 
— imposed  fresh  taxes,  and  went  to 
war  for  it ;  and  yet  when  she  got 
it,  what  has  she  done  for  it,  or  done 
with  it  1  If  it  was  ruinous  under 
the  Austrians,  what  is  it  now  ?  Did 
it  ever  present  an  aspect  more 


desolate  and  deserted ;  was  its 
poverty  ever  greater,  its  wretched- 
ness more  pitiable  ?  Its  crumbling 
palaces  are  covered  over  with  bills, 
"To  belet ;"  and  the  only  movement 
in  the  thoroughfares  is  the  passage 
of  some  American  tourists  ! 

In  England,  too,  we  are  waiting — 
waiting  for  almost  all  that  a  nation 
can  want  or  wish  for.  Waiting  to 
be  educated — to  be  fed  at  home  or 
sent  abroad — waiting  for  an  army 
and  a  fleet — waiting  for  the  ballot 
— waiting  for  a  Tory  leader  in  the 
Lords,  and  a  little  obedience  to 
law  in  Ireland.  This  attitude  of 
expectancy,  to  which  anxiety  im- 
parts no  zeal  nor  eagerness  lends 
any  interest,  seems  the  especial 
temper  of  the  time.  There  is  no 
excitement,  but  there  is  no  ease. 
There  is  not  the  warmth  and  glow 
of  contest,  nor  is  there  the  peaceful 
sense  of  tranquillity  and  repose. 
The  dulness  of  Europe  is  like  the 
d  ulness  of  old  age — the  gradual  in- 
disposition to  be  amused  as  we  once 
were  amused — to  take  pleasure  in 
the  objects  that  interested  us  of  old. 
Even  the  old  alarm-cries  no  longer 
excite  us  !  We  hear  without  terror 
that  Russia  is  creeping  on  towards 
northern  India;  and  we  listen  to 
Dr  Cumming's  predictions  about 
the  seventh  vial  with  something  of 
the  same  indifference. 

In  fact  the  world  is  dull  as  — 
a  dinner-party !  and  with  the  self- 
same dulness ;  for  in  our  epide- 
mic dreariness  we  are  all  labouring 
with  the  same  symptoms,  and  each 
of  us  experiences  in  himself  the 
apathetic  weariness  he  sees  in  his 
neighbour.  And  is  this  your  experi- 
ence of  dinner-parties,  Mr  O'Dowd1? 
I  think  I  hear  you  ask;  and  I  an- 
swer frankly,  I  am  afraid  it  is. 
There  is  a  dreary  cloud  over  the 
world  just  now,  and  even  the  pleas- 
ant people  seem  so  conscious  of  its 
influence  that  they  no  more  try  to 
dispel  "it  by  any  effort  of  agreea- 
bility  than  would  a  pyrotechnist 
attempt  a  display  of  fireworks  in 
a  fog. 

Were   I   composing  a  prophetic 


506 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[April 


almanac  at  this  moment,  I  should 
certainly  say,  "Expect  nothing  live- 
ly about  this  time.  There  will  be 
few  jokes  current.  A  new  edition 


of  '  Proverbial  Philosophy'  will  be 
announced,  and  there  will  be  a 
petition  against  Bernal  Osborne's 
return  for  Waterford." 


A  PROTESTANT   RELIEF   BILL. 


If  I  were  disposed  to  turn  agita- 
tor— a  line  of  life  for  which  I  feel 
little  vocation — I  should  certainly 
seize  the  present  opportunity  to 
endeavour  to  raise  a  cry  in  favour 
of  Protestant  Emancipation  in  Ire- 
land. 

I  know  well  that  'the  moment 
is  not  propitious.  I  feel  that  the 
sympathies  of  Englishmen  are  not 
just  now  strongly  enlisted  on  their 
side ;  and  I  can  see  that  amongst 
the  needs  of  the  party  at  present 
in  power,  is  the  great  necessity  of 
petting  Romanism,  and  discourag- 
ing, if  not  disparaging,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Reformed  Church. 

It  is  not,  certainly,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  a  Government  is  hourly 
weakening  the  ties  of  connection  be- 
tween the  two  countries,  that  the 
merits  of  those  who  were  strenuous 
to  maintain  the  union  could  be 
advantageously  insisted  on.  Nor 
is  it  a  time  when  one  of  the  difficul- 
ties of  a  Cabinet  consists  in  how  far 
they  may  weaken  the  Queen's  rule 
in  Ireland  without  absolutely  con- 
fessing that  country  to  be  ungov- 
ernable, that  one  would  reasonably 
hope  for  merciful  consideration  for 
those  who,  insulted,  neglected,  or 
outraged,  still  professed  to  believe 
that  there  were  benefits  in  the  con- 
nection with  England.  But  yet  I 
do  think  some  at  least  of  the  preju- 
dices entertained  against  Protest- 
ants might  be  fairly  met ;  and  that, 
looking  to  the  patient  submission 
they  have  shown  under  the  dis- 
favour they  have  incurred,  the  un- 
complaining spirit  in  which  they 
have  seen  themselves  passed  over  in 
promotion,  their  religious  disability 
being  used  as  the  means  of  exclud- 
ing them  from  office  or  advance- 
ment— I  say  I  do  think  that  the 
natural  kind-heartedness  of  Eng- 


lishmen, and  their  love  of  fair-play 
together,  would  dispose  them  to  in- 
quire, at  least,  what  there  is  in  the 
Reformed  Faith  that  should  shut 
men  out  from  the  high  rewards  of 
public  life  1  why  a  Protestant  should 
not  be  a  judge  or  a  magistrate?  or 
what  peculiarity  in  his  belief  should 
suggest  distrust  of  his  loyalty,  or  a 
doubt  of  the  undivided  allegiance  he 
offers  to  his  Sovereign  1  It  was  not 
till  after  a  very  long  struggle,  main- 
tained by  some  of  the  ablest  men  of 
the  age,  that  the  Catholic  Relief  Bill 
was  carried.  The  measure  confess- 
edly was  yielded  at  last  rather  from 
the  difficulty  of  further  opposing  it, 
than  from  any  distinct  admission 
that  the  claim  had  been  made  out. 
Let  us,  then,  take  the  points  alleged 
against  the  Romanists,  and  see  if 
they  do  not  admit  of  the  same 
honest  construction  when  applied 
to  Protestants,  and  let  ns  see  if 
there  would  be  a  real  peril  to  the 
Crown  or  the  Constitution  in  ad- 
mitting the  followers  of  the  Estab- 
lished— or  rather  disestablished — 
Church,  to  places  of  honour  or  trust 
under  the  monarchy.  First  of  all, 
we  are  told  that  by  concessions  to 
the  "  Protestants  "  we  are  endanger- 
ing the  condition  of  the  Catholic 
Church;  and  I  at  once  fall  back 
upon  Lord  Plunkett,  and  ask.  What 
is  this  apprehended  danger?  Is 
it  in  Parliament  or  out  of  Parlia- 
ment ?  Do  you  believe  that  any 
number  of  persons  let  in  would  be 
strong  enough  to  overrule  the  Cath- 
olics, and  pull  down  their  Church  ? 
"  These  apprehensions,"  he  adds, 
"  are  not  the  fruits  of  wholesome 
caution,  but  the  reveries  of  dis- 
ordered brains."  I  conscientiously 
believe  this  to  be  true.  The  most 
ardent  propagandist  of  Protestant- 
ism no  longer  speculates  on  the  con- 


1870.] 


A  Protestant  Relief  Bill 


507 


version  of  his  Roman  Catholic  coun- 
trymen ;  and  I  believe  that  Cardinal 
Cullen  might  travel  in  Dr  Tresham 
Gregg's  company  from  Fairhead  to 
Valentia  without  any  attempt  on 
his  theological  virtue. 

The  next  argument  after  this  was, 
that  "  the  people  of  England  were 
against  the  measure  ;"  and  here 
Lord  Plunkett  says,  that  by  the  Act 
of  Union  the  Catholics  of  Ireland 
were  led  to  expect  that  greater  fa- 
cilities would  be  accorded  to  them. 
This  is  just  my  case  for  the  Pro- 
testants ;  for  they  were  not  only  led 
to  expect,  but  taught  to  believe 
and  to  rely  on  the  assurances  of 
England,  that  they  should  not  be 
deserted,  nor  left  in  the  minority  to 
struggle  against  the  overwhelming 
force  of  a  tyrant  majority. 

One  of  Pitt's  arguments  for 
the  Union  was,  that  an  English, 
because  a  Protestant  Parliament, 
would  have  less  difficulty  in  deal- 
ing with  the  Catholic  claims  than 
an  Irish  Parliament,  where  the 
nation  was  Catholic,  and  only  the 
governing  class  Protestant.  Even 
Pitt,  however,  did  not  foresee  the 
time  when  both  the  numbers  and 
the  ruling  power  should  stand  on 
one  and  the  same  side. 

The  conduct  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olics was  resorted  to  as  a  reason 
against  concessions.  So,  too,  have 
we  heard  how  certain  humble  men 
walking  in  procession — some  reviv- 
al of  a  memory,  where  their  fathers' 
gallantry  had  signalised  their  devo- 
tion to  the  Crown  of  England — 
have  been  adduced  as  grounds  for 
their  repression,  and  sufficient  argu- 
ment to  show  how  dangerous  might 
be  such  loyalty ;  and,  of  course,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  these  men 
are  but  little  attentive  to  the  signs 
of  the  times — that  they  are  but  care- 
less observers  of  the  altered  spirit 
of  England  towards  them,  and 
rather  live  in  the  memories  of  what 
their  forefathers  had  achieved,  than 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  neglect 
into  which  they  themselves  have  fal- 
len. Good  taste  and  moderation  are 
not  the  invariable  characteristics  of 


popular  demands ;  and  these  poor 
people — once  petted  and  pampered, 
now  slighted  and  insulted — may 
have  occasionally  given  way  to  ex- 
pressions more  consonant  with  in- 
jured pride  and  outraged  feeling 
than  with  consummate  state-craft ; 
but  then,  as  Lord  Plunkett  observed 
before,  "  All  these  things  are  im- 
putable  to  the  conduct  of  the  Go- 
vernment ;  you  have  compelled 
these  men  to  rally  round  constitu- 
tional privileges,  and  make  common 
cause."  "  If  this  measure,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  be  utterly  inadmissible, 
you  are  bound  to  say  so  " — bound,  I 
would  add,  not  to  amuse  the  Pro- 
testants with  the  idea  that  they  are 
to  be  longer  tolerated,  or  that  their 
Church,  crippled  and  maimed  as  it 
is,  will  be  supported  even  with  that 
modified  subsidy  which,  like  the  di- 
vidend in  a  bankruptcy,  only  serves 
to  furnish  materials  for  calculating 
the  original  debt.  You  are  bound 
to  suppress  that  fever  of  the  public 
mind  that  comes  of  alternate  hope 
and  fear,  and  let  them  know  that 
by  governing  Ireland  according  to 
Irish  ideas  you  understand  the 
ignoring  of  all  that  is  not  Roman- 
ist, or  that  attaches  any  value  to 
English  connection,  or  any  love 
or  affection  for  England. 

Once  more  my  Lord  Plunkett  : 
"  This  is  no  subject  for  compromise. 
Either  this  claim  is  forbidden  by 
some  principle  too  sacred  to  be 
tampered  with,  or  it  is  enjoined  by 
a  law  of  justice  which  it  is  oppres- 
sion to  resist."  I  repeat  it :  the 
Irish  Catholics — I  mean  the  Irish 
Protestants — have  not  been  fairly 
dealt  with.  The  Government  has 
not  in  any  instance  come  into 
amicable  contact  with  them.  It 
has  not  consulted,  soothed,  nor 
directed  them.  It  has  addressed 
them  only  in  the  stern  language  of 
the  law,  in  State  prosecution,  and 
charged  them  with  the  anger  which 
has  been  kindled  by  such  treat- 
ment. It  has  confiscated  their 
Church,  accused  their  once  ascend- 
ancy—  in  other  words,  their  loy- 
alty— as  the  bane  of  Ireland,  de- 


508 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[April 


nounced  their  fidelity  as  an  aggres- 
sion, and  called  their  influence  an 
insult  to  national  feeling.  Is  it 
likely,  said  the  great  advocate  of 
the  Catholic  claims,  that  these  men 
should  exercise  any  fastidious  deli- 
cacy in  the  selection  of  their  friends  ? 
And  so  do  I  ask,  Why  wonder  if 
you  have  such  men  as  Mr  Johnston 
as  the  representative  of  an  Orange 
constituency  1  Is  not  the  very 
choice  a  wild  cry  of  angry  defiance 
— a  passionate  shriek  from  the  brave 
crew  you  have  deserted  and  aban- 
doned, and  who  prefer  any  chances 
rather  than  those  of  trusting  to 
your  mercy  1 

All  that  was  once  imputed  to  the 
Roman  Catholic,  on  the  ground 
of  his  allegiance  to  the  Pope,  is 
now  ascribed  to  the  Protestant 
on  the  supposed  plea  of  "  ascend- 
ancy." It  is  this  ascendancy  that 
has  insulted  the  Church  of  the  ma- 
jority, rack-rented  the  peasantry, 
excited  them  to  acts  of  crime  and 
vengeance,  and  finally  driven  them 
to  rebellion.  Of  course  this  is  not 
very  difficult  to  assert,  nor  very 
hard  to  dilate  upon.  Still,  if  the 
allegation  were  as  true  and  well 
founded  as  it  is  notoriously  false, 
the  thing  exists  no  longer.  Every- 
thing that  claimed  to  be  Protestant 
in  the  land  has  been  placed  under 
proscription  :  the  Church  abolish- 
ed ;  the  rights  of  property,  largely 
Protestant,  invaded ;  the  University 
founded  under  a  Protestant  charter, 
and  maintained  chiefly  by  grants  of 
Protestant  donors,  menaced  with 
confiscation.  Where,  then,  is  there 
any  remnant  of  that  terrible  ascend- 
ancy which  has  haunted  the  dreams 
of  Romanist  bishops  and  made  the 
Irish  peasant  a  Fenian  1 

We  were  often  warned  of  the  dan- 
gerous discontent  of  those  who  saw 
not  alone  themselves,  but  also  the 
"  nati  natorum  et  qui  nascuntur  ab 
illis,"  stigmatised  as  a  caste,  and 
to  be  for  ever  excluded  from  hon- 
our, station,  and  confidence — surely 
we  might  recognise  some  peril  for 
those  who  have  been  deposed  from 
their  places  of  honour  and  trust,  and 


told  to  "  stand  by  "  as  persons  at- 
tainted and  discredited,  and  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  their  loyalty 
has  become  offensive  to  men  who 
give  fewer  guarantees  for  their 
fidelity,  and  who  only  acknowledge 
"a  conditional  attachment"  to  Eng- 
lish rule. 

I  dc  propose,  and  I  have  no  more 
eloquent  words  than  Plunkett's  to 
do  it  in,  to  "  take  the  brand  from 
these  men's  foreheads,  and  the  bit- 
terness from  their  hearts,  and  the 
debasement  from  their  minds.  Do 
not  drive  your  Protestant  brother 
from  the  bar  as  a  sulky  discontented 
outcast."  I  do  not  claim  for  him 
the  highest  offices  of  the  State.  I 
am  not  vain  enough  to  hope  he 
may  be  a  Lord  Chancellor,  nor  have 
I  the  pretension  to  expect  that  he 
will  be  chosen  by  any  constituency 
as  their  representative.  To  take 
Sydney  Smith's  words  :  "  Keep 
them  from  Parliament  if  you  think 
it  right,  but  do  not  therefore  ex- 
clude them  from  everything  else 
to  which  you  think  they  might  be 
admitted  without  danger ;  and  as 
to  their  discontent,  there  is  no  sort 
of  reason  why  it  should  not  be  les- 
sened, though  it  cannot  be  re- 
moved." And  again  :  "  A  distinc- 
tion is  taken  by  one  of  the  most 
feeble  noblemen  in  Great  Britain 
between  persecution  and  the  depri- 
vation of  political  power,  whereas 
there  is  no  more  distinction  between 
these  two  things  than  there  is  be- 
tween him  who  makes  the  distinc- 
tion and  a  booby.  What  nonsense 
is  this !  Degradation  is  as  great 
an  evil  as  bodily  pain,  or  as  severe 
poverty."  It  is  by  no  means  im- 
possible that  to  be  deprived  of  his 
office  as  a  sheriff,  and  to  be  removed 
from  the  bench  as  a  magistrate, 
may  be  regarded  by  a  country  gen- 
tleman as  a  degradation,  and  all 
for  no  graver  reason  than  the  ex- 
pression of  his  opinion  on  the  wis- 
dom of  certain  acts  of  the  Govern- 
ment. Surely  in  a  country  like 
ours,  where  so  much  is  conceded  to 
the  press,  some  little  latitude  might 
be  permitted  to  spoken  opinion ; 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


509 


not  to  say  that  where  the  fierce 
language  of  the  '  Nation '  and  the 
Irishman  '  are  tolerated  and  en- 
dured, a  little  forgiveness  might  be 
extended  to  the  warmth  of  one 
whose  greatest  error  was  to  have 
forgotten  that  his  loyalty  had  grown 
old-fashioned.  After  all,  it  will 
take  some  time  to  convince  the 
province  of  Ulster  that  "  The  Boyne 
Water  "  is  not  a  rebel  ballad. 

I  ask  for  leniency  in  dealing 
with  these  men's  derelictions,  be- 
cause they  are  foolish  enough  still 
to  fancy  themselves  the  friends  of 
British  connection,  and  supporters 
of  the  monarchy  !  A  little  time 
will  of  course  teach  them  their 
error.  Meanwhile,  if  the  Protest- 
ant is  neither  to  be  raised  to  the 
Bench  nor  promoted  to  high  place 
at  the  Bar — if  he  is  to  be  sparingly 
chosen  for  the  Legislature,  and 
grudgingly  selected  for  any  posi- 
tion of  trust — let  the  profession 


of  medicine,  at  least,  be  open  since 
law  is  closed  and  divinity  sup- 
pressed ;  and,  in  the  humble  walk 
of  a  dispensary  doctor,  let  not  his 
belief  in  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles 
be  a  bar  to  his  dealing  with  the 
pharmacopoeia  ! 

I  know  that  there  are  prejudices 
against  these  concessions,  and  I  can 
feel  all  the  force  of  those  who  ar- 
gue against  the  impolicy  of  disturb- 
ing that  blessed  peacefulness  that 
now  pervades  Ireland,  and  shaking 
the  confidence  of  those  who  are 
with  such  heartfelt  sincerity  recip- 
rocating "  our  message  of  peace." 
Still  I  would  say,  in  your  present 
treatment  of  what  you  call  ascend- 
ancy, you  are  simply  "  flogging  a 
dead  horse  ;  "  and  it  is  but  a  sorry 
reason  to  insult  the  Protestants  of 
Ireland,  that  they  cared  so  much 
for  British  connection  that  they 
actually  quarrelled  with  their  own 
countrymen  to  maintain  it. 


THE  STATE,  THE  POOR,  AND  THE  COUNTRY. 


THE  British  nation  has  entered 
upon  a  new  political  era.  And 
every  such  period,  ere  it  passes 
away,  leaves  a  memorable  record  of 
its  existence  in  new,  important, 
and  it  may  be  startling  acts  of  legis- 
lation. A  new  power  has  been  in- 
troduced into  our  political  system, 
— new  forces  are  at  work  within  the 
pale  of  the  Constitution.  The  Gov- 
ernment has  become  National  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  word ;  and, 
with  the  change,  a  new  breath  of 
life  is  stirring  Society.  New  views 
are  rapidly  forming ;  new  hopes 
and  aspirations  are  entering  into 
the  heart  of  the  masses.  The  rule 
of  the  Middle  Classes,  established 
by  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  has 
come  to  an  end ;  and  the  doctrines 
which  regulated  the  legislation  of 
that  period  are  now  being  tested 
and  considered  from  a  different, 
indeed  opposite,  point  of  view.  For 
nearly  forty  years  the  prime  object 

VOL.  CVTI. — NO.  DCLIV. 


of  our  legislation  has  been  the  inte- 
rests of  the  Consumers;  now,  we 
shall  soon  have  the  masses  advocat- 
ing their  own  interests  as  Produ- 
cers. What  is  more,  the  State  has 
now  become  simply  the  Nation  it- 
self, acting  through  a  chosen  body 
of  administrators ;  and  it  is  easy  to 
discern  that  under  the  new  regime 
the  Government  will  be  called  upon 
to  adopt  a  very  different  policy  in 
domestic  affairs  from  that  repre- 
sented by  the  principle  of  the 
Whigs  and  Doctrinaires,  which 
has  been  paramount  since  1832. 
That  principle  well  suited  the  in- 
terests of  the  wealthy  and  com- 
paratively fortunate  classes,  who 
needed  no  help  from  the  State, 
yet  who  got  all  they  asked  for,  by 
the  abolition  of  all  customs-duties 
which  shackled  their  business. 
But  will  that  principle  keep  its 
ground  now  that  the  weaker  classes 
also  have  a  voice  in  the  Govern- 
2  M 


510 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


[April 


merit  ?  Will  they  not  maintain 
that  they,  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
Nation,  have  a  claim  to  be  fully 
considered  in  the  policy  of  the 
Government;  and  that,  if  they  can 
point  out  any  system  of  Govern- 
mental action  which  will  benefit 
them, .  without  doing  injustice  to 
the  rest  of  the  community,  no  doc- 
trinaire limitations  upon  the  action 
of  the  State  shall  be  allowed  to 
stand  in  the  way1?  The  maxims  of 
the  Liberals,  which  have  been  pre- 
dominant since  1832,  will  be  thrown 
into  the  crucible,  and  tried  anew. 
Already,  in  vague  murmurs  which 
.ere  long  will  become  distinct  and 
earnest  speech,  the  masses  are  be- 
ginning to  say  that  the  principles 
which  have  been  in  vogue  during 
the  rule  of  the  Middle  Classes  will 
not  suit  them.  "Our  interests," 
they  say,  "  are  those  of  Producers, 
not  of  Consumers.  We  also  are 
poor,  and  you  are  wealthy ;  we  are 
weak,  and  you  are  strong :  with  us 
employment  is  a  far  more  precari- 
ous thing  than  it  is  with  you,  and 
we  have  but  small  savings  to  fall 
back  upon  when  out  of  work. 
State -help,  though  not  needful 
to  the  middle  classes,  is  needed  at 
times  by  us;  and  we  shall  never 
rest  contented  until  that  principle 
is  acknowledged  and  properly  ap- 
plied/' 

Unless  we  misinterpret  the  signs 
of  the  times,  our  Statesmen  are 
entering  upon  a  trying  period,  and 
one  in  which  they  will  find  more 
work  on  their  shoulders  than  they 
have  been  accustomed  to.  It  is  a 
time — a  crisis — which  will  sift  the 
chaff  from  the  wheat,  and  discern 
sharply  and  clearly  between  the 
two  classes  of  men  commingled  in 
every  Ministry  —  between  men 
whose  only  merit  is  skilful  debat- 
ing power,  and  those  who  really 
possess  the  gift  of  statesmanship. 
It  is  not  without  uneasiness  that 
we  regard  the  political  crisis  now 
drawing  near, — the  ripening  crop 
of  new  views,  interests,  and  aspira- 
tions, backed  by  the  still-unused 
power  of  the  masses.  In  regard  to 


the  movement  itself — the  awaken- 
ing of  the  masses  to  political  thought 
and  their  entry  upon  political  power 
— so  far  from  dreading  it,  we  hail  it 
as  an  event  as  desirable  as  it  is 
inevitable, — as  a  healthy  action  of 
the  national  mind,  and  one  which, 
by  compelling  us  to  test  and  recon- 
sider our  legislative  principles  from 
a  new  point  of  view,  will  greatly 
assist  the  ever-desirable  work  of 
shaping  the  Administration  of  the 
country  in  a  manner  most  conson- 
ant with  the  fair  claims  and  just 
wants  of  the  nation  as  a  whole.  It 
is  natural  and  self -flattering  to  think 
that  our  past  and  still-existing 
legislation  has  all  been  framed  in 
this  manner, — and  we  certainly  do 
not  believe  that  our  legislators  have 
ever  consciously  done  otherwise ; 
but  we  cannot  lay  the  flattering 
unction  to  our  souls,  that  our  domes- 
tic policy  has  not  been  mistaken  in 
some  respects  when  viewed  in  con- 
nection with  the  interests  of  the 
nation  as  a  whole,  and,  still  more, 
eminently  defective,  leaving  undone 
many  things  which  a  rightly-con- 
stituted State  ought  to  have  done. 
We  should  be  false  to  the  opinions 
again  and  again  expressed  in  the 
Magazine  if  we  hesitated  to  say 
this  frankly,  and  also  unjust  to  the 
Conservative  party,  whose  tradition- 
al policy  has  been  to  uphold  the 
National  interests  in  opposition  to 
the  doctrinaire  system  of  policy 
established  by  the  Whigs,  and  now 
adopted  by  the  main  body  of  their 
Radical  allies. 

What  are  the  cries  which  are 
now  heard  among  the  working 
classes — the  vast  section  of  the 
community  now  at  length  admitted 
to  a  direct  share  in  the  government 
of  the  country  1  What  are  the  ques- 
tions which  they  are  pondering, 
and  which  ere  long  they  will  rea- 
son out  for  themselves,  and  press 
upon  the  attention  of  Parliament  ? 
Foremost  among  these  are  the 
Colonial  question,  Emigration, 
the  Poor-laws,  and  "  Free-trade 
with  Reciprocity."  How  often 
have  these  questions  been  dealt 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


511 


with  in  the  Magazine !  How  often, 
especially,  did  the  late  Sir  Archi- 
bald Alison,  in  these  pages,  earnest- 
ly and  eloquently  advocate  these 
questions  in  the  interests,  not  of 
any  class  or  party,  but  of  the  Na- 
tion at  large  !  The  whole  current 
of  the  time  was  against  him.  The 
doctrinaire  system  of  the  Liberals 
was  then  supreme  :  but  honestly 
and  manfully  he  advocated  his  views, 
developing  a  truly  Imperial  policy, 
by  which  the  Colonies  were  to  form 
a  real  part  of  the  empire,  held  to 
the  mother  country  by  a  system  of 
reciprocal  advantages  ;  by  which  a 
State  system  of  Emigration  was  to 
relieve  the  labour-market  at  home, 
reducing  also  the  burden  of  Poor- 
rates,  and  ceaselessly  adding  to  the 
population  and  resources  of  the  Col- 
onies, who  have  ever  been  our  best 
customers,  the  largest  consumers  of 
our  exported  manufactures.  We  need 
not  speak  of  his  long  and  steady  ad- 
vocacy of  the  interests  of  the  Pro- 
ducing classes  in  this  country,  as 
endangered  by  the  extreme  and  one- 
sided system  of  so-called  Free-trade 
established  by  the  Liberals.  He 
maintained  that  in  Free-trade,  like 
everything  else,  there  are  limits 
beyond  which  the  ad  vantages  which 
it  confers  on  some  classes  are  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  loss 
which  it  inflicts  on  others.  Normust 
we  forget  the  warm  interest  which 
he  ever  took  in  the  interests  of  the 
Working  classes  and  of  the  Poor;  so 
much  so,  that  even  in  his  great 
History,  while  depicting  the  Reign 
of  Terror  when  at  its  worst,  he 
pauses  in  his  narrative  of  crime  and 
horrors  to  praise  Robespierre  for  the 
"  noble  spirit"  of  his  proposed  Poor- 
law-- 
Emigration and  the  state  of  our 
Poor-laws  are  naturally  the  foremost 
questions  in  the  thoughts  of  the 


working  classes  at  the  present  time. 
The  lamentable  depression  of  trade, 
and  consequent  want  of  employ- 
ment, which  have  recently  prevail- 
ed, have  now  reached  a  most  se- 
rious magnitude  in  many  of  the 
larger  towns,  and  most  of  all 
in  London  and  its  far-spreading 
suburbs.  The  intensity  of  the 
distress  in  the  metropolitan  dis- 
tricts has  not  been  equalled  in  re- 
cent times.  And  the  break-down 
of  our  Poor-law  system,  despite  all 
the  efforts  of  voluntary  associations, 
has  been  absolutely  appalling  in  its 
results.  Not  a  week  passes  with- 
out several  cases  of  "  deaths  from 
starvation,"  duly  attested  by  the 
verdict  of  coroners'  inquests,  where 
the  medical  and  other  evidence  re- 
veals an  amount  of  unaided  wretch- 
edness and  starvation  which  one 
would  suppose  impossible  in  a  civi- 
lised country.  Men,  women,  and 
children  dying  from  sheer  famine 
in  the  heart  of  the  wealthiest  city 
of  the  world  !  —  how  inadequate 
must  our  Poor-laws  be  when  so 
shocking  a  spectacle  is  of  frequent 
recurrence !  And  what  does  the 
Government  do  1  What  measures 
does  it  take  to  remedy,  or  even 
mitigate,  this  unusually  severe  and 
widespread  distress  among  the 
lower  classes  ?  None  at  all. 
Even  when  directly  appealed  to  in 
Parliament,  the  Government  ad- 
heres to  the  vaunted  Liberal  doc- 
trine of  laissez-faire.  It  prates 
about  the  "established  principles 
of  economical  science"  (what  are 
they  ?)  It  takes  credit  for  leaving 
everything  to  be  settled  by  "the 
law  of  supply  and  demand," — as  if 
that  "law"  (of  which  we  have  heard 
so  much  during  the  last  thirty-five 
years  of  Liberal  rule)  ever  brought 
help  to  the  helpless,  clothes  to  the 
naked,  or  a  morsel  of  food  to  men 


*  "  Fas  est  et  ab  haste  doceri "  is  Alison's  remark  after  stating  the  provisions  of 
the  proposed  law.  And  he  adds  :  "The  true  principles  of  the  management  of 
the  poor  are  to  be  found  in  this  Report  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Salvation  ;  and 
regular  Governments  will  never  act  so  wisely  for  their  own  as  well  as  for  their 
people's  interest,  as  when  they  take  this  leaf  out  of  the  book  of  their  enemies." — 
History  of  Europe,  vol.  iii.  p.  292  (8vo  edition,  1859). 


512 


TJie  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


[April 


dying  of  starvation.  We  remember, 
during  the  terrible  famine  in  Orissa, 
that  when  some  of  the  Government 
officials  acted  on  the  so  -  called 
"  established  principles  of  economi- 
cal science,"  and  left  the  people  to 
die  in  hundreds,  they  were  cen- 
sured in  the  strongest  (yet  not 
too  strong)  terms  by  the  Indian 
Government,  and  were  condemned 
unanimously  by  the  English  public. 
Yet  is  not  our  own  Government 
now  culpable  in  the  same  way1? 
Surely  the  break-down  of  the  Poor- 
law  in  this  case  ought  to  have  in- 
cited the  Government  to  the  adop- 
tion of  prompt  measures  of  relief, 
even  if  those  were  of  an  exceptional 
kind.  Yet  nothing  will  move  them ; 
and  even  a  direct  motion  in  Par- 
liament for  State-help  to  alleviate 
the  widespread  distress  by  means 
of  emigration,  has  been  repelled  by 
the  whole  force  of  the  Govern- 
ment. 

The  argument  for  State-help  to 
the  working  classes,  in  the  present 
dilemma,  is  peculiarly  strong ;  for 
the  Government  itself  has  greatly 
swelled  the  number  of  the  unem- 
ployed, and  at  this  moment  is  add- 
ing several  thousands  more  to  the 
list.  Since  the  present  "  Liberal " 
Ministry  came  into  power,  it  has 
dismissed  several  thousands  of 
workmen  from  the  National  dock- 
yards, has  largely  reduced  the  men 
employed  in  the  Navy,  and  has 
likewise  dismissed,  or  is  in  process 
of  dismissing,  upwards  of  twenty 
thousand  men  hitherto  employed 
as  soldiers.  All  these  able-bodied 
men — many  of  them  with  families 
dependent  upon  them — have  been 
thrown  out  of  work  by  the  Govern- 
ment at  a  time  when  the  labour- 
market  is  wholly  overstocked,  and 
when  an  unusual  amount  of  dis- 
tress prevails  among  the  working 
classes.  We  do  not  think  that  all 
these  reductions  are  desirable  ;  and 
even  if  desirable,  there  was  certain- 
ly no  necessity  for  making  them  at 
the  present  moment.  But  then  the 
Gladstone  Cabinet  desire  to  make 
an  ostentatious  display  of  their 


"  economy  "  by  showing  a  large 
surplus  in  the  Budget.  What  good 
will  that  do  to  the  unemployed 
and  starving  workmen  ?  None 
whatever.  What  help  will  a  reduc- 
tion of  the  income-tax  and  the  tea 
and  sugar  duties  afford  to  the  un- 
employed who  have  barely  money 
to  buy  bread]  Nay,  even  as  re- 
gards the  working  classes  as  a  body, 
how  small  will  be  the  fraction  of 
gain  that  will  reach  them  !  What- 
ever it  be,  it  certainly  will  not  com- 
pensate them  for  the  depression  in 
the  labour-market  produced  by  the 
competition  of  the  thirty  thousand 
able-bodied  men  recently,  or  now 
in  the  process  of  being  dismissed 
from  the  Government  service. 

The  recent  Parliamentary  debate 
and  division  on  the  Emigration 
question  appear  to  us  in  almost 
every  respect  unsatisfactory,  alike 
in  the  interests  of  Government  and 
of  the  masses  of  our  population. 
The  so-called  Liberal  Cabinet,  in 
adhering  to  the  old  principle  of 
the  Whigs  on  the  Emigration  ques- 
tion, are  supported  by  the  Man- 
chester school  of  politicians,  who 
in  this  matter  have  two  objects 
in  view — namely,  a  desire  to  sever 
the  Colonies  from  the  mother  coun- 
try (thereby  reducing  England  to  a 
helpless  position  among  the  great 
Powers  of  the  world,  so  as  to  com- 
pel us  to  adopt  a  permanent  policy 
of  peace  at  any  price),  and  also  to 
keep  down  wages  in  this  country  by 
retaining  a  redundant  population. 
It  is  a  significant  fact,  that  the  mo- 
tion in  favour  of  State-help  to  emi- 
gration was  supported  entirely  by 
the  younger  politicians  on  either 
side  of  the  House,  in  conjunction 
with  representatives  of  large  urban 
constituencies  ;  and  the  speech  of 
the  evening  was  unquestionably 
that  of  Lord  George  Hamilton,  the 
member  for  Middlesex,  and  the 
most  promising  of  the  juniors  of 
the  Conservative  party.  This  fact 
of  itself  is  worthy  of  notice.  The 
older  politicians  in  the  House  are 
either  content  with  the  present  sys- 
tem of  things,  which  has  been  so 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


513 


long  established  under  the  rule  of 
the  Whigs  and  Liberals,  or  at  least 
they  are  so  indifferent  on  this  sub- 
ject as  to  refrain  from  opposing  it  by 
their  votes,  or  even  questioning  it 
in  debate.  They  appear  to  be  blind 
to  the  new  forces  at  work,  and  to 
the  new  spirit  which  ere  long  must 
be  infused  into  the  Government  of 
this  country,  if  that  Government  is 
to  remain  stable  and  the  masses 
contented. 

In  old  States  with  a  large  pop- 
ulation, Emigration  is  the  great 
safety-valve  by  which  poverty  and 
discontent  are  prevented  from  ac- 
cumulating to  an  extent  dangerous 
to  the  welfare  of  the  community. 
In  our  own  little  islands  this  has  been 
notoriously  the  case.  Population 
will  increase  among  the  poorer 
classes  quite  as  much  as  among  the 
upper  and  middle  classes.  This  is 
a  fact  which  must  be  accepted — it 
cannot  be  prevented.  And  as  the 
area  of  our  islands  is  small,  it 
is  impossible  that  Employment 
can  go  on  increasing  in  the  same 
ratio  as  population  does.  Hence, 
but  for  Emigration,  ere  this  our 
country  would  have  been  burdened 
by  a  mass  of  poverty  and  discon- 
tent which  would  not  have  failed 
to  produce  most  calamitous  con- 
sequences. 

The  whole  policy  of  the  present 
Government  towards  the  Colonies 
shows  plainly  that  the  idea  of  State- 
aid  to  Emigration  never  once  en- 
tered their  thoughts.  It  is  also 
well  known  that  the  leading  mem- 
bers of  the  Cabinet  —  Gladstone, 
Bright,  and  Lowe  —  adhere  firmly 
to  the  principle  of  their  Whig 
predecessors.  These  two  facts 
naturally  cast  a  doubt  upon  the 
genuineness  of  the  excuses,  and 
upon  the  impartiality  of  the  argu- 
ments, by  which  they  defended 
themselves  during  the  recent  de- 
bate. One  of  those  excuses  was, 
that  the  Colonies  were  averse  to 
receive  any  emigrants  sent  out  by 


State-help.  But  was  this  project 
ever  fairly  brought  before  the  Co- 
lonial Governments'?  It  was  not 
• — it  could  not  have  been.  Indeed, 
with  what  face  could  a  Cabinet 
which  is  doing  its  best  to  throw  off 
the  Colonies,  which  is  withdrawing 
from  them  every  regiment  and  ship, 
and  telling  them  as  plainly  as  it 
dare  do  that  we  want  to  get  rid  of 
our  Colonies  altogether  as  a  burden 
and  an  expense, — how  could  such 
a  Cabinet  enter  upon  negotiations 
with  the  Colonial  Governments  on 
this  important  question  of  Emigra- 
tion 1  The  project,  in  fact,  runs 
counter  to  the  Colonial  policy  of 
this  Ministry,  and  also  to  the  selfish 
doctrines  of  the  Manchester  school. 
By  the  recent  successful  division, 
the  Cabinet  has  got  rid  of  the  ques- 
tion for  the  moment ;  but  it  will 
not  be  for  long.  And  we  sincerely 
trust  that  Parliament  will  duly  con- 
sider the  matter  betimes ;  for  if  this 
is  not  done,  the  result  will  be  a 
great  popular  movement  which  will 
be  most  dangerous  to  the  rights  of 
property  at  home. 

Holding  the  views  above  ex- 
pressed, we  greet  with  satisfaction  a 
recently-published  work,  which,  in 
brief  compass,  treats  very  fully  of 
the  duties  of  the  State  in  regard  to 
the  social  and  material  interests  of 
the  country.*  It  is  an  expression 
of  the  new  school  of  ideas  and 
principles  relative  to  the  Govern- 
mental action  of  the  State.  It  de- 
velops a  wide  scheme  of  work  for 
the  State,  not  merely  in  relation  to 
the  working  classes  and  the  poor, 
but  also  in  relation  to  the  general 
interests  of  the  Nation  as  a  whole. 
In  his  '  Science  of  Finance/  Mr 
Patterson  has  shown  himself  a  re- 
solute opponent  of  all  unnecessary 
interference  of  the  State  in  affairs 
of  private  industry  and  enterprise, 
— because  such  affairs  do  not  come 
within  its  province,  nor  is  the  State 
well  fitted  for  their  administration. 
He  holds  that  the  State  should  not 


*  '  The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country  :  including  Suggestions  on  the  Irish 
Question.'     By  R.  H.  Patterson,  author  of  the  '  Science  of  Finance,'  &c. 


514 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  tlie  Country. 


[April 


engage  in  any  business  nor  under- 
take any  duty  which  can  be  equal- 
ly, or  even  approximately,  well 
done  by  the  public.  Nevertheless 
there  are  many  cases  in  which  the 
intervention  of  the  State  is  not 
only  justifiable,  but  urgently  need- 
ed, for  the  sake  of  the  moral  and 
social  wellbeing  of  the  community. 
"  The  object  of  a  Government,"  he 
says,  "is  to  do  for  a  community 
what  the  community  cannot  do  for 
itself."  In  these  few  words  we 
have  the  whole  and  sole  raison 
d'etre  of  a  Government.  Mr  Pat- 
terson evidently  does  not  accept 
the  doctrine  of  "  every  one  for  him- 
self and  the  devil  take  the  hind- 
most." Such  a  state  of  matters 
may  prevail  in  rude  and  barbarous 
countries ;  but  it  is  a  principle 
wholly  out  of  place  in  a  civilised 
country,  in  the  organised  life  of 
a  rightly -constituted  Nation.  It 
is  quite  alien  in  such  communities, 
— it  is  wholly  opposed  to  the  Social 
principle, — it  is,  in  fact,  its  an- 
tithesis, and  in  practice  its  worst 
enemy.  "  A  Nation  is  a  unit :  all 
classes  alike  must  share  its  burdens 
in  proportion  to  their  means." 
"Mutual  aid,"  he  says  again,  "is 
the  fundamental  basis  of  every 
rightly-constituted  society."  "  It 
should  be  with  society  as  with  the 
body,  '  If  one  member  suffers,  all 
suffer.'" 

We  cannot  follow  our  author 
through  the  various  plans  which 
he  proposes  for  accomplishing  his 
double  project  of  (l)  developing  the 
productive  power  of  the  People  (or, 
as  he  otherwise  puts  it,  "  making 
every  man  of  our  labouring  class  in 
the  future  worth  two  in  the  past"), 
and  (2)  of  augmenting  the  natural 
resources  of  the  Country.  Some  of 
his  proposals  under  the  first  head 
appear  to  us  to  be  conceived  in  too 
hopeful  a  spirit  as  regards  the 
character  of  our  working  classes, 
and  to  be  too  difficult  to  be  realised 
in  the  present  state  of  society.  But 
they  are  all  desirable  per  se;  and  it 
is  possible,  nay  probable,  that  the 
difficulties  which  seem  to  render 


some  of  them  impracticable  at  pre- 
sent, will  ere  long  be  lessened  or 
disappear.  We  have  only  to  look 
back  upon  the  past  progress  of 
society  and  civilisation  in  order  to 
perceive  how  many  things  which 
are  difficult,  and  appear  almost 
"  Utopian"  to  one  age,  are  ere  long 
easily  accomplished  in  the  onward 
and  upward  progress  of  humanity. 
If  Mr  Patterson's  views  upon  emi- 
gration and  the  treatment  of  the 
poor  remind  us  of  those  so  elo- 
quently and  powerfully  advocated 
in  these  pages  by  the  late  Sir  Archi- 
bald Alison,  his  views  upon  the 
question  of  Railways  for  Ireland 
not  less  forcibly  recall  to  mind  the 
statesmanlike  proposals  of  the  late 
Lord  George  Bentinck  (then  leader 
of  the  Conservative  party  in  the 
House  of  Commons)  upon  the  same 
subject.  The  Liberals  succeeded  in 
defeating  Lord  George  Bentinck's 
proposal, — just  as,  alike  in  previous 
and  past  years,  they  have  ever  op- 
posed State-help  to  the  working 
classes  by  emigration.  In  like 
manner,  also,  they  have  done  their 
best — and  now  more  than  ever — 
to  cast  off  our  splendid  colonial 
empire,  the  grandest  and  most 
wonderful  product  of  England's 
life  and  enterprise,  and  to  reduce 
the  British  empire  to  the  limit  of 
our  own  little  isles.  Had  the  Con- 
servative party  been  predominant 
during  the  last  forty  years,  as  the 
Whigs  and  Liberals  have  been, 
we  make  bold  to  say  that  ere 
this  the  Mother  Country  and  the 
Colonies  would  have  been  firmly 
united  by  the  bonds  of  mutual  ad- 
vantages,— forming  a  vast  empire, 
with  well-arranged  political  rela- 
tions, and  commercially  united  as  a 
Zollverein,  which  in  treaty  for  free- 
dom of  trade  with  other  countries 
could  by  its  very  magnitude  obtain 
equal  reciprocal  advantages,  instead 
of  giving  all  and  getting  nothing,  as 
has  been  the  case  under  the  doctrin- 
aire system  of  the  Liberals.  The 
old  Tory  policy  of  maintaining  the 
National  interests  above  all,  and 
of  fostering  the  growth  and  re- 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


515 


sources  of  our  empire  (Home  and 
Colonial)  as  a  unit,  might  still  have 
remained  in  force  ;  whereas  under 
the  theorising  and  doctrinaire  sys- 
tem of  the  Whigs,  the  splendid 
fabric  of  British  power  has  been 
loosened,  until  it  now  has  little 
more  cohesion  than  a  rope  of  sand. 
"  Give  the  Political  Economists  (so 
self-styled)  an  empire  of  granite," 
said  the  great  Napoleon,  "and  they 
will  quickly  reduce  it  to  powder  !  " 
What  words  can  more  fittingly  de- 
scribe the  result  of  thirty -eight 
years  of  Liberal  ascendancy  upon 
the  fortunes  of  the  British  empire  1 
•The  "  political  economy "  which 
the  Whigs  have  taught  England 
to  worship  is  a  bastard  progeny,  a 
crabbed  offshoot  of  the  true  science, 
— a  science  which  must  ever  be 
based  upon  the  actual  circumstances 
of  the  country  to  whose  govern- 
ment it  is  applied,  and  not  a  mere 
set  of  theories  which  the  Liberals 
apply  indiscriminately,  and  whose 
operation  they  scorn  to  subject  to 
any  limitations, — even  though  the 
practice  of  every  other  country  in 
the  world  warns  them  that  in  so 
doing  they  are  wrong. 

In  his  earnest  advocacy  of  the 
schemes  of  Governmental  action 
which  he  sets  forth,  Mr  Patterson 
appeals  to  all  parties  in  the  State 
alike.  He  says  with  emphasis  that 
it  is  no  party  question,  but  a  "  Na- 
tional question  in  the  fullest  mean- 
ing of  the  term."  In  one  sense  we 
agree  with  him.  A  scheme  of  State- 
action  for  extending  the  area  of 
employment,  and  augmenting  the 
natural  resources  of  the  country,  is 
really  a  National  question.  But  to 
what  party  must  the  country  look 
for  the  carrying  out  of  such  a  pol- 
icy ?  Will  it,  can  it,  ever  be  done  by 
the  Liberals  1  who  would  make  the 
Government  a  body  by  itself,  stand- 
ing aloof  from  the  interests  of  the 
masses,  leaving  the  helpless  and 
the  unemployed  (even  those  of  its 
own  making)  to  struggle  on  as  they 
best  may,  and  turning  with  disdain 
from  every  proposal  for  State-ac- 
tion, the  adoption  of  which  would 


combine  help  for  the  unemployed 
with  a  permanent  benefit  to  the 
country  at  large.  In  marked  con- 
trast to  this  heartless  school  of 
political  doctrinaires  stand  the  Con- 
servatives, whose  traditional  policy 
is  that  of  supporting  the  great  Na- 
tional interests  of  the  country, — 
whose  special  aim  and  desire  is  to 
confer  material  benefits  upon  the 
people,  while  the  grand  stock-in- 
trade  of  the  Liberals  is  sentimental 
and  sectarian  grievances. 

It  is  in  the  general  history  of  a 
party  that  the  essential  spirit  of  its 
policy  is  best  manifested,  and  we 
have  shown  from  the  evidence  of 
the  past  how  widely  the  admini- 
strative policy  of  the  Tories  and 
Conservatives  upon  great  national 
questions  has  differed  from  that  of 
the  Whigs  and  Liberals.  But  even 
take  this  beau-ideal  of  Liberal  Cab- 
inets which  now  reigns  in  Downing 
Street,  and  rules  supreme  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  What  care  do 
they  take  of  National  interests,  or 
of  those  of  the  toiling  masses  of 
the  population  1  We  have  already 
spoken  of  their  conduct  towards 
the  Colonies,  and  need  not  recur  to 
it.  But  see  what  "  political  econo- 
my" is  doing  for  us  at  home.  For 
years,  for  generations,  the  State  has 
fostered  economy  among  the  lower 
classes  by  taking  care  of  their  sav- 
ings, even  at  some  small  expense  to 
itself.  And  alike  in  spirit  and  in 
principle  (although  the  details  may 
have  been  imperfect)  this  system  is 
as  wise  as  it  is  generous,  for  there- 
by many  hundreds  of  our  popula- 
tion have  been  saved  from  coming 
on  the  poor's-roll.  But  the  present 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  desires 
to  put  an  end  to  this  small  help  to 
the  lower  classes.  In  obedience  to 
"  the  established  doctrine  of  econo- 
mical science,"  he  would  reduce  the 
rate  of  interest  at  present  paid  to 
depositors  in  the  Savings  Banks.  He 
says  the  loss  to  the  State  by  the 
present  system  is  £120,000  a-year. 
But  this  statement  gives  a  most 
erroneous  view  of  the  facts  of  the 
case.  Nine-tenths  of  this  loss  is 


516 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


[April 


not  due  to  the  present  rate  of  in- 
terest, but  represents  the  interest 
on  the  "  loss  "  incurred  in  the  old 
Tory  times,  when  the  Government 
did  not  shrink  from  favouring 
economy  among  the  working  classes 
even  at  some  small  expense  to  the 
State.  Let  any  one  examine  what 
has  been  the  interest  on  Consols 
during  the  last  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury, and  he  will  find  that,  at  the 
present  rate  of  interest  (3j  per 
cent)  paid  by  the  Savings  Banks, 
the  "  loss "  (so  to  call  it),  to  the 
State  could  not  be  more  than 
,£lO,OOOa-year  at  the  most ;  and  as 
a  set-off  against  this,  must  be  placed 
the  £400,000  of  balances  in  the 
hands  of  the  State,  and  for  which 
it  pays  no  interest !  Moreover,  if 
it  were  thought  right  to  allow  a  por- 
tion of  the  Savings  Banks'  deposits 
to  be  invested  in  the  State-debt  of 
India,  there  would  be  no  loss  at 
all.  Yet,  for  the  sake  of  avoiding 
this  almost  nominal  loss,  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer,  by  reduc- 
ing the  rate  of  interest  on  the  sav- 
ings of  the  poorer  classes,  would 
throw  a  damper  on  the  self-denying 
economy  of  the  very  class  among 
whom  economy  of  any  kind  is  most 
rare,  yet  is  most  of  all  to  be  desired. 
It  is  not  merely  the  loss  of  interest 
to  these  poor  depositors  that  has 
to  be  taken  into  account,  but  the 
moral  effect  of  the  change,  the  dam- 
per thrown  upon  them.  Unques- 
tionably they  will  think  themselves 
unfairly,  or  at  all  events  harshly 
dealt  with,  and  in  resentment  will 
abandon  their  present  habits  of  sav- 
ing. This  is  "  political  economy," 
as  understood  and  worshipped  by 
the  Liberals  !  For  the  sake  of  mak- 
ing a  gain  to  the  State  of  £10,000 
a-year,  or  less,  this  beau-ideal  of 
Liberal  Cabinets  would  wrench  this 
sum  from  the  most  deserving  por- 
tion of  the  poorer  classes,  and,  as  a 
necessary  consequence,  would  in- 
crease the  Poor-rates  to  a  far  greater 
extent.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer defends  this  proposal  of 
his  by  saying,  that  he  "does  not 
know  any  principle  by  which  one 


portion  of  the  community  should 
pay  for  the  benefit  of  another" 
Why,  then,  should  there  be  any 
Poor-rates  at  all  ?  Still  more,  why 
any  Education-rate  ?  Such  reason- 
ing is  really  too  preposterous. 

Look,  too,  at  the  mode  in  which 
the  Government  has  dealt  with 
the  large  dismissals  of  men  by  the 
Admiralty  and  the  War  -  Office. 
We  do  not  object  to  any  reduc- 
tion in  the  national  defences  that 
is  proved  to  be  necessary.  In 
the  present  case,  we  believe  that 
the  reductions  in  the  national  ar- 
maments, and  in  the  Government 
offices  also,  have  been  carried  too" 
far.  And  in  regard  to  the  time  and 
manner  in  which  those  curtailments 
have  been  effected,  there  is  hardly 
an  unprejudiced  man  in  the  country, 
whether  Tory  or  Radical,  who  can 
approve  of  the  Government  policy. 
By  withdrawing  our  ships  and  regi- 
ments from  the  colonies  and  other 
parts  of  the  empire,  and  at  the  same 
time  declaring  them  unnecessary  at 
home,  and  by  wholesale  dismissals 
of  workmen  from  our  national 
dockyards,  thirty  thousand  able- 
bodied  men  have  been  thrown  out 
of  the  public  service,  and  cast  forth 
upon  the  ordinary  labour-market 
of  the  country  ;  and  this  at  a  time 
when  the  labour-market  is  wholly 
overstocked,  and  thousands  even 
of  skilled  workmen  seek  vainly  for 
employment  of  any  kind,  and  have 
to  beg  bread  for  themselves  and  for 
their  families  at  the  Workhouse. 
What  chance,  then,  have  these  thou- 
sands of  men  dismissed  from  the  pub- 
lic service  of  getting  employment "? 
We  may  say  roundly,  None  what- 
ever. And  in  so  far  as  they  do  find 
employment,  it  can  only  be  at  the 
cost  of  the  whole  working  classes, 
by  the  reduction  of  wages  which 
the  competition  of  those  thousands 
of  new  suppliants  for  work  will 
necessarily  produce  in  a  labour- 
market  already  grievously  over- 
stocked. 

Not  one  of  the  soldiers  and  sail- 
ors thus  dismissed  could  have  left 
the  public  service  of  his  own  accord. 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


517 


They  were  bound  to  serve  the  State 
for  a  period  of  years,  and  they 
could  not  have  released  themselves 
from  this  engagement  in  order  to 
enter  upon  other  work  and  engage- 
ments, however  profitable  these 
might  be.  The  engagement,  in  fact, 
between  the  State  and  our  soldiers 
and  sailors,  is  what  lawyers  call 
"  unilateral :"  it  binds  the  men,  but 
not  the  State  which  has  engaged 
their  services.  The  State  keeps 
them  remorselessly  to  the  engage- 
ment as  long  as  it  pleases, — it  can 
keep  them  whether  they  like  or 
not.  In  such  circumstances,  sure- 
ly, the  State  is  morally  bound  to 
exercise  its  power  of  dismissing 
these  men  with  some  little  conside- 
ration for  their  interests.  We  hear 
a  great  deal  at  present  about  "fixity 
of  tenure,"  "  compensation  for  loss 
of  occupancy,"  &c.,  for  the  Irish ; 
and  Irish  tenants,  though  free  to 
throw  up  their  farms  whenever  they 
please,  are  to  be  granted  an  enor- 
mous "  compensation  "  whenever  a 
proprietor  chooses  to  make  a  change 
in  the  occupancy  of  his  farm,  even 
though  he  should  simply  take  it 
into  his  own  hands.  This  is  "jus- 
tice to  Ireland."  But  surely  some 
respect  should  be  paid  by  the  Gov- 
ernment itself  to  this  principle, 
when  dealing  with  its  own  em- 
ployes, especially  those  to  whom  it 
denies  the  right  of  leaving  its  ser- 
vice except  at  long  intervals.  The 
State,  in  fact,  takes  a  long  lease  of 
the  soldiers  and  sailors  whom  it 
employs,  yet  holds  itself  at  liberty 
to  break  that  lease  whenever  it 
suits  its  own  interests  to  do  so. 
We  do  not  object  to  this  state  of 
things,  for  we  do  not  see  how 
it  can  well  be  remedied.  But 
we  repeat  most  emphatically  that 
the  right  of  the  State  to  make 
wholesale  dismissals  of  those  men 
ought  to  be  exercised  with  some 
respect  to  moral  obligations  and 
fair-play,  as  between  man  and  man. 
And  we  maintain  that  to  summarily 
dismiss  some  thirty  thousand  men 
from  the  public  service — especially 
at  a  time  of  distress  like  the  pre- 


sent— is  an  act  which  would  require 
to  be  supported  by  reasons  of  State 
necessity  of  the  very  strongest  kind, 
such  as  certainly  do  not  exist  in  the 
present  case.  We  make  bold  to 
say  that  the  conduct  of  the  Gov- 
ernment in  this  matter  is  far  more 
tyrannous  and  transgressive  of 
moral  duty  than  any  evictions  of 
Irish  tenants  which  they  can  point 
to  in  support  of  their  Irish  Land 
Bill. 

It  is  acknowledged  that  the 
artisans  in  the  dockyards  worked 
at  lower  wages  than  are  usual  in 
private  establishments,  being  con- 
tent to  do  so  out  of  regard  to  the 
comparative  permanency  of  em- 
ployment in  the  public  service. 
The  same  thing  is  true  to  a  far 
greater  degree  in  the  case  of  the 
clerks  in  the  Admiralty  and  other 
Government  oifices.  The  supposed 
permanency  of  the  employment  has 
hitherto  induced  men  to  enter  the 
service  at  a  lower  rate  of  pay  than 
is  usual  in  private  offices.  More- 
over, there  is  a  fixed  rate  of  increase 
for  their  salaries  in  proportion  to 
their  length  of  service  :  and  surely, 
to  summarily  dismiss  those  men, 
and  thereby  prevent  their  attaining 
the  future  increase  of  pay  which 
formed  one  of  the  terms  of  the  en- 
gagement, is  a  breach  of  moral  obli- 
gation only  excusable  upon  grounds 
of  urgent  State  -  necessity.  Mr 
Childers  boasts  that  he  has  saved 
.£32,000  by  summarily  dismissing 
124  clerks  from  the  Admiralty.  But 
does  he  think  that  the  nation  con- 
gratulates itself  upon  such  a  gain  ? 
Does  he  think  that  this  paltry  sum 
gained  for  the  tax-payers  will  com- 
pensate for  the  loss  and  suffering 
inflicted  upon  these  six  score  clerks 
and  their  hapless  families  1  Does  he 
think  that  the  penny  per  head  thus 
saved  to  the  tax-payers  can  possibly 
give  satisfaction  to  them  when  they 
think  of  the  misery  of  the  poor 
clerks  by  whose  dismissal  this  ad- 
dition to  the  year's  surplus  has 
been  obtained  ? 

It  is  important  to  take  note  at 
once  whither  this  "  Liberal"  policy 


518 


Tlit  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


[April 


is  leading  us.    Get  a  large  surplus  : 
that  is  the  sole  maxim  of  the  pre- 
sent  Cabinet.      A   large    surplus, 
suffer  who  may.      And  what  are 
the  means  by  which  this  object  is 
attained  1     In  the  first  place,  the 
ordinary  revenue-payments  are  fore- 
stalled :  the  public  have  now  to  pay 
for  what  they  have  not  used.   More- 
over, the  taxation  is  made  onerous 
out  of  proportion  to  its  amount,  by 
being  levied  in  large  sums,  instead 
of  being,  as  hitherto,  spread  over  the 
year.    So  much  for  the  new  Liberal 
mode  of  assessment.    Next  observe 
what  section  of  the  nation  specially 
suffers   from    the  financial  policy 
of  the  present  Ministry.     It  is  the 
working  classes, — and  next  to  them 
the   lower  section  of  the  middle 
class.    The  enormous  reductions  of 
the  army  and  navy  (dockyards  in- 
cluded) fall  mainly  upon  the  work- 
ing classes ;  the  reductions  in  the 
Government  offices  fall  mainly  upon 
a  portion  of  the  middle  class.     The 
proposed  reduction  in  the  rate  of 
interest  paid  by  the  Savings  Banks 
likewise  falls  upon  the  same  classes. 
Even  the  pitiful  economy  by  which 
no  successor  is  to  be  appointed  to 
Mr  Tidd  Pratt,  is  likewise  made  at 
the  expense  of  the  working  classes, 
to  whose  interests  he  rendered  great 
service  by  supervising  (so  far  as  his 
powers  extended)  the  condition  of 
the    Benefit    Societies,   to    whose 
keeping  the  working  classes  intrust 
by  far  the  greatest  part  of  their 
savings.      The  working  classes  al- 
ready feel    acutely  the   result   of 
these   State-economies ;   and   they 
would  be  dull  indeed  if  they  did 
not  take  note  of  the  remorseless 
spirit  of  the  Liberal  policy,  when 
they  see  their  Benefit  Societies  left 
unheeded,  and  the   Savings-Bank 
rate  of  interest   reduced,  for  the 
sake  of  a  gain  to  the  State  which 
is    absolutely    pitiful.      Moreover, 
when,    in   their   present   distress, 
they  earnestly  petition  the  Govern- 
ment for  some  small  help  to  emigra- 
tion, the  whole  force  and  eloquence 
of  the  Government  are  exerted  to 
obtain  from  the  House  of  Commons 


a  refusal  of  their  prayer  and  a  con- 
demnation of  the  principle  of  State- 
help  involved  in  it. 

Now,  we  ask,  what  will  be  the 
upshot  of  this  vaunted  "  Liberal  " 
policy?    The  Government  say,  Our 
sole  duty  to  the  country  is  to  reduce 
the  amount   of    taxation,    leaving 
every  class  to  profit  or  suffer  from 
it  as  they  may.     What  is  the  corol- 
lary which  the  working  classes  will 
append  to  this  maxim  1     Reduce — 
nay,  wholly  abolish  the  duties  upon 
tea,  sugar,   &c.,   and  the  working 
classes  will  still  be  great  losers  by 
the   Government  policy.      Not  to 
speak  of  the  open  neglect  of  their 
interests  shown  by  the  measures  of 
the  Chancellor   of  the   Exchequer 
above  mentioned,  the  loss  of  wages 
to   the   working  classes   in   conse- 
quence of  the  competition  of  the 
thousands  of  men  dismissed  from 
the  Government  service  in  a  period 
of  unusual  lack  of  employment,  will 
exceed  by  a  hundred-fold  any  sav- 
ing to  be  made  by  the  reduction  in 
the  price  of  tea  and  sugar.      They 
will  say :  "  We  object  entirely  to  this 
system  of  State-economy  :  we  ob- 
ject entirely  to  the  principle  that 
the  only  duty  of  the  Government 
is  to  reduce  taxation, — for  it  is  we 
who  specially  suffer  from  the  eco- 
nomies by  which  the  Government 
is   enabled  to  make  their   reduc- 
tions."      And  what  will  follow  1 
The    working    classes    will    say  : 
"  If    the    State    is   to    economise 
chiefly  at  our  expense,  and  even  with- 
draw the  little  favours  and  general 
consideration  which  have  hitherto, 
and  only  justly,  been  accorded  to 
us  ;  and  if  the  State  is  to  proclaim 
that  its  duty  is  to  do  nothing  ex- 
cept reduce  the  taxation,   leaving 
every  class,  the  weak  as  much  as  the 
strong,  to  shift  for  itself:  if,  in  short, 
the  national  system  of  taxation  is 
to  be  the  only  form  in  which  any 
State-help  is  to  come  to  us,  either 
in  good  times  or  in  bad — then  we 
say  that  the  national  system  of  tax- 
ation must  be  entirely  remodelled." 
Remodelled! — revolutionised  would 
be    the    fitter  word.      But  how  ? 


1870.] 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


519 


There  can  only  be  one  answer  to 
that  question.  By  a  graduated 
.system  of  direct  taxation.  The 
lower  section  of  the  middle  class 
•will  join  with  the  working  class  in 
this  question,  and  the  popular  cry 
will  be  not  only  that  the  income- 
uax  should  be  graduated  from  bot- 
tom to  top,  but  that  all  the  other 
direct  taxes  (poor's-rate,  house-tax, 
&c.,)  should  be  graduated  in  similar 
fashion.  This  is  the  goal  to  which  Mr 
Lowe's  "clever"  finance  is  leading, 
And  strange  to  say,  it  will  come  as 
the  consequence  of  his  fanatical  en- 
deavours to  establish  the  very  op- 
posite principle.  He  says, — "  I  can 
see  no  reason  why  one  section  of 
the  community  should  pay  to  bene- 
fit another  section;"  and  on  this 
ground  he  remorselessly  insists 
upon  making  a  trumpery  gain  to 
the  State  by  reducing  the  rate  of 
interest  paid  by  the  National  Sav- 
ings Banks,  as  also  by  repelling 
every  proposal  for  State-aid  to  emi- 
gration. Was  there  ever  such 
blindness  ?  And  the  whole  Cabi- 
net shares  the  mental  short-sight- 
edness of  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer. 

We  want  a  different  policy  alto- 
gether. A  reduction  of  taxation  is 
but  a  means  to  an  end, — and  that 
end  is  the  comfort  and  contentment 
of  the  nation  as  a  whole.  A  tru- 
ly national  system  of  government 
must  ever  pay  full  and  careful  re- 
gard to  the  lower  classes,  the 
weaker  and  less  fortunate  members 
of  the  community.  It  must  ever 
shape  the  action  of  the  State  and 
the  tenor  of  its  legislation  in  conson- 
ance with  the  wants  of  the  nation 
as  a  whole.  Above  all,  it  cannot 
ignore  the  ever-recurrent  periods 
of  distress  among  the  labouring 
masses.  And  it  is  impossible,  nor 
is  it  to  be  desired,  that  any  system 
of  administration  of  the  public 
affairs  which  runs  counter  to  this 
principle  can  be  lasting.  It  will 
provoke  a  recoil  of  sentiment,  and 
a  great  popular  movement  which 
will  sweep  away  such  a  system  of 
narrow,  heartless,  and  erroneous 


administration ;  and  in  such  a  case 
the  remedy,  hastily  adopted,  is  too 
likely  to  create  evils  of  an  opposite 
kind,  perhaps  as  much  to  be  depre- 
cated as  those  which  it  supplants. 
Mark  the  difference  between  the 
goal  to  which  the  present  Govern- 
ment policy  is  leading  and  that  which 
is  offered  by  the  national  system  of 
policy  which  Mr  Patterson  proposes, 
and  which  in  the  main  we  heartily 
support.  Let  the  State  combine 
the  interests  of  the  poor  with  those 
of  the  country  at  large.  Let  it 
adopt  a  system  of  State  works  which, 
carried  out  gradually,  will  give  em- 
ployment for  our  able-bodied  poor, 
instead  of  wasting  their  labour  in 
the  unproductive  tasks  and  demo- 
ralising influence  of  the  work  houses. 
As  the  best  boon  to  Ireland,  and  as 
a  relief  to  the  now  overstocked  la- 
bour-market, let  it  co-operate  (by 
guarantee  which  will  cost  but  a 
trifle  at  the  outset,  and  which  ere 
long  will  be  repaid)  in  the  con- 
struction of  cheap  railways,  open- 
ing up  the  solitudes  and  develop- 
ing the  agricultural  resources  of  the 
sister  isle.  Let  it  also  make  en- 
gineering surveys  of  the  vast  waste 
lands  of  Ireland,  with  a  view  to  the 
gradual  reclamation  of  those  waste 
lands  during  those  periods  of  distress 
among  our  labouring  classes  which 
are  unfortunately  only  too  sure  to 
recur  at  intervals.  Under  such  a 
system  of  administration,  the  ne- 
cessity for  State-help  to  emigration 
would  be  greatly  diminished,  espe- 
cially as  the  working  classes  have 
little  desire  to  expatriate  themselves 
if  they  can  find  work  at  home ;  but 
whenever  such  a  necessity  arises, 
let  it  be  promptly  met,  as  the 
sole  means  then  left  for  preventing 
the  accumulation  of  a  pauperised 
and  discontented  population,  per- 
manently feeding  upon  the  reven- 
ues, and  disturbing  the  peace  and 
comfort  of  the  nation. 

We  advocate  this  policy  upon  the 
permanent  grounds  of  justice  and 
wise  statesmanship.  But  the  man 
is  short-sighted  indeed,  who  does 
not  mark,  in  the  signs  of  the  times, 


520 


The  State,  the  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


[April 


the  approach  of  a  crisis  in  our  do- 
mestic legislation  which  renders 
the  prompt  consideration  of  these 
views  especially  urgent.  The  weaker, 
poorer,  but  most  numerous  section 
of  the  nation,  is  now  suffering  under 
a  widespread  distress ;  and  not  only 
is  that  distress  seriously  augmented 
by  the  thousands  of  men  thrown 
out  of  employment  by  the  Govern- 
ment, but  the  appeal  to  the  Gov- 
ernment to  mitigate  this  suffering 
of  their  own  making,  by  helping 
a  few  hundreds  of  the  sufferers  to 
emigrate,  is  summarily  and  decis- 
ively rejected ;  and  even  the  little 
favours  which  the  lower  classes 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
from  all  former  Governments,  both 
as  regards  the  National  Savings 
Banks  and  their  own  Sick  and  Bene- 
fit Societies,  are  ruthlessly  taken 
from  them.  It  needs  no  seer  to 
predict  the  end  of  such  a  system  of 
administration  as  this — namely,  a 
popular  movement  which  will  es- 
tablish, probably  in  a  most  unwise 
form,  a  principle  the  very  opposite 
'to  that  which  the  present  Ministry 
is  now  carrying  to  an  extreme.  To 
what  Party,  then,  in  the  country — 
to  which  side  of  the  House — are  we 
to  appeal  1  We  are  waved  back 
scornfully  from  the  Ministerial 
benches.  The  vast  phalanx  of 
Liberals  of  all  'shades  who  support 
the  policy  of  the  Prime  Minister 
and  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  our  proposals. 
They  support  the  maxim  of  their 
leaders  that  the  poorer  classes 
must  shift  for  themselves,  and  that 
the  sole  object  of  Government  in 
such  matters  is  to  reduce  taxation, 
without  taking  any  steps  to  miti- 
gate the  distress  among  the  lower 
classes,  which  this  policy  of  theirs 
is  so  greatly  augmenting.  But 
may  we  not  turn  with  confidence  to 
the  Opposition,  and  appeal  to  the 
weakened  but  still  powerful  Con- 
servative party  to  inaugurate  a 
rival  policy,  and  save  the  country 
from  the  perils  into  which  the  doc- 
trinaire system  of  the  Liberals isnow 
leading  us  ?  The  system  which  we 


advocate  is  essentially  that  of  the 
Conservative  party.  It  is  National 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  term;  it 
is  practical,  founded  upon  the  wants 
of  the  community,  as  opposed  to 
the  theoretic  system  of  government, 
which  finds  favour  with  the  Lib- 
erals. It  offers  material  benefits, 
not  mere  remedies  for  sentimental 
grievances.  It  deals  with  the  na- 
tion as  a  whole,  and  makes  the 
benefits  which  it  confers  upon  the 
weaker  classes  a  mean  of  equally 
and  permanently  improving  the 
condition  and  resources  of  the  coun- 
try at  large.  If  this  be  not  a  policy 
worthy  of  the  Conservative  party, 
and  specially  accordant  with  their 
principles,  then  all  the  political 
thinkers  and  leading  writers  of  that 
Party  have  been  wrong,  and  the 
world  must  wait  to  learn  anew 
what  the  policy  of  that  party  is. 
It  is  true  that  any  proposals  of 
this  kind  made  by  the  Conserva- 
tives in  Parliament  will  not  for  the 
present  be  successful.  But  what  of 
that?  The  fortunes  of  any  party 
are  determined  in  the  long-run  by 
the  wisdom  and  justice  of  its  pro- 
posals. Let  a  party  show  itself 
possessed  of  the  high  qualities  of 
statesmanship — of  the  power  and 
ability  to  initiate  a  policy  in  har- 
mony with  the  sympathies  of  the 
time  and  the  actual  requirements 
of  the  country,  and  it  matters  little 
whether  or  not  immediate  success 
attend  its  efforts.  The  Conserva- 
tives, when  in  office,  never  fail  to 
distinguish  themselves  as  able  and 
popular  administrators.  But  for 
more  than  twenty  years  they  have 
been  placed  at  a  great  disadvantage 
compared  with  their  rivals,  by  the 
fact  that  they  have  been  so  little 
in  office,  and  thereby  have  been 
prevented  doing  justice  to  their 
powers  of  statesmanship.  But,  let 
us  ask,  have  they  not  magnified  that 
disadvantage  for  themselves,  by 
abandoning  the  initiation  of  mea- 
sures whenever  they  were  relegated 
to  the  Opposition  benches  ?  We 
acknowledge  the  important  duty 
which  the  Conservatives  have  at 


1870.] 


The  State,  tJie  Poor,  and  the  Country. 


521 


present  to  discharge,  in  oppos- 
ing or  seeking  to  improve  the 
measures  brought  forward  by  the 
Liberal  Cabinet.  But  no  party 
can  win  a  solid  reputation  simply 
by  work  of  this  kind.  In  order 
to  become  strong,  and  increase  its 
numbers,  a  party  must  show  itself 
capable  of  initiating  good  and  states- 
manlike measures  in  harmony  with 
the  growing  wants  and  changing 
condition  of  the  country.  Believing, 
as  we  do,  that  the  Conservatives 
are  still  faithful  to  their  traditions 
us  the  great  National  party,  we  com- 
mend to  their  attention  the  follow- 
ing words  of  one  of  the  most  recent 
and  not  least  distinguished  Conser- 
vative writers  :  —  ''By  acting  on 
large  views  of  social  and  economical 
truths,  and  of  the  good  of  the  whole 
nation,  as  opposed  to  narrow  class 
interests,  the  Conservatives  may  add 
to  their  county  strength  great  rein- 
forcements from  the  middle  classes 
in  towns,  and  from  the  working 
classes  whom  they  have  helped  to 
enfranchise,  and  form  on  a  wide 
basis  a  progressive  and  powerful 
Conservative  party."* 

But  the  momentous  character  of 
the  subject  with  which  we  have 
been  dealing,  and  of  the  issues  at 
stake,  make  us  unwilling  to  close  our 
remarks  in  the  language  of  party. 
Believing,  as  we  do,  that  England 
is  on  the  threshold  of  a  crisis  in  her 
domestic  affairs,  we  would  appeal 
even  to  the  Government  itself  to  re- 
consider the  mistaken  course  which 
it  is  so  fanatically  pursuing,  and 


not  to  repel  into  a  dangerous  chan- 
nel popular  forces,  which,  if  wisely 
directed,  might  be  made  the  means 
of  improving  alike  the  social  and 
industrial  condition  of  our  country. 
Surely  the  country  has  had  enough 
of  the  pitiful  sectarian  fights  and 
squabbles  which  engage  so  largely 
the  time  and  attention  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  How  strange  is  the 
bitterness,  how  unsatisfactory  the 
importance,  attached  to  University 
Tests  Bills,  Edinburgh  Annuity- 
tax  Bills,  and  the  like,  when  the 
great  wants  of  the  nation  are  wait- 
ing for  consideration.  The  relations 
between  the  State,  the  Poor,  and 
the  Country,  are  really  the  grand- 
est question  of  the  times,  and  one 
which  will  increase  in  magnitude, 
if  not  also  in  difficulty  and  in  peril, 
with  every  delay.  If  Parliament 
does  not  deal  with  this  question 
promptly,  we  fear  the  solution  of  it, 
when  it  comes,  will  not  take  the 
form,  nor  be  conceived  in  the  spirit, 
to  be  desired  by  every  well-wisher 
to  the  commonwealth.  Despite  the 
doctrinaire  creed  of  the  present 
Cabinet,  there  must  be  State-aid 
for  the  lower  classes  in  times  of 
distress,  and  a  better  as  well  as  less 
wasteful  poor-law  system  ;  and  we 
should  be  glad  indeed  if  it  be 
possible  to  combine  the  attain- 
ment of  these  objects  with  a  sys- 
tem of  administration  which  would 
simultaneously  develop  the  pro- 
ductive powers  of  the  people,  and 
augment  the  national  resources  of 
the  country. 


*  '  English  Parties  and  Conservatism. '     By  R.  Dudley  Baxter.     An  excellent, 
impartial,  and  instructive  review  of  the  history  of  our  political  parties. 


522 


Count  Charles  de  Montaletribert. 


[April 


COUNT   CHAKLES   DE   MONTALEMBERT. 


THERE  is  something  very  sad  in 
the  dying  out  of  a  generation  of  the 
leaders  and  rulers  of  the  world. 
Nothing  marks  so  clearly  the  pas- 
sage of  time,  the  succession  of  one 
age  to  another,  as  this  dropping, 
one  by  one,  of  the  familiar  names 
which  have  been  sounds  of  autho- 
rity and  pre-eminence  for  half  or 
quarter  of  a  century.  New  neces- 
sities, new  difficulties,  new  com- 
binations of  circumstances,  have 
stolen  upon  us  unawares,  and  we 
are  conscious,  practically,  that  new 
men  have  come  in  to  guide  the 
fortunes  of  nations  ;  but  nowhere 
are  the  epochs  of  contemporary  his- 
tory so  clearly  marked  out  as  by 
graves.  One  cycle  has  ended,  an- 
other has  begun.  The  old  men 
who  linger  like  leaves  upon  the 
topmost  branches,  but  emphasise 
the  universal  passing  away  of  all 
with  whom  they  have  been  asso- 
ciated. The  old  order  changeth, 
giving  place  to  new. 

In  such  a  case  as  that  of  Count 
de  Montalembert  the  ending  has 
been  softened  by  a  long  prelimin- 
ary chapter  of  retirement  from  the 
world  —  softened  to  his  friends, 
not  to  himself.  And  yet  to  how 
many  of  his  friends  will  the  closing 
up  of  that  chamber  in  the  Rue  du  Bac, 
which  was  the  abode  of  so  much  pain, 
yet  of  so  much  vivacious  interest 
in  the  world,  and  animated  discus- 
sion of  all  its  affairs,  be  like  the  ex- 
tinction of  a  friendly  light  in  the 
midst  of  the  darkness.  For  a  great 
part  of  these  years,  the  little  simple 
bedroom  which  the  author  of  the 
'  Figaro '  described  the  other  day  to 
his  readers,  with  a  particularity  more 
American  than  French,  has  been 
an  audience  -  chamber  to  which 
crowds  have  nocked.  Like  a 
dream,  the  writer  recalls,  as  he 
writes,  the  half-mournful  half-smil- 
ing conversation  of  two  or  three 
gentlemen,  all  of  European  name, 


who  were  waiting  in  the  large 
drawing-room,  which  formed  a  kind 
of  antechamber  to  Montalembert's 
reception,  one  afternoon  now  nearly 
three  years  ago.  The  room  was 
darkened  because  of  the  summer 
glare  outside,  and  the  animated 
voices  came  as  from  ghosts  half 
seen.  They  were  talking  of  Cousin, 
then  not  long  dead;  discussing  those 
peculiarities  which  are  defects  in  a 
man  as  long  as  he  lives,  but  after 
his  death  become,  as  being  habits 
of  his,  more  dear  to  his  friends 
than  the  highest  qualities  of  his 
character.  Are  they  talking  now 
more  sadly,  yet  with  the  smile  of 
recollection  already  beginning  to 
break  up  the  heaviness  of  grief,  of 
Montalembert  ?  No  doubt  —  re- 
minding each  other  of  his  out- 
breaks of  characteristic  impatience 
and  energy,  of  his  sharp  sayings,  his 
keen  wit,  his  genial  kindness.  But 
it  is  early  yet  for  such  softened 
thoughts ;  now  and  then  a  sob  must 
come  in,  a  pang  of  farewell,  and 
that  intolerable  sense  that  nothing 
more  can  be  said  to  him,  nothing 
more  heard  from  him,  which  is  the 
soul  of  grief.  Was  it  only  the  other 
day  that  he  wrote,  "let  me  hear 
often  from  you  "  1  and  careless  life 
went  on,  and  a  world  of  petty 
affairs  prevented  the  response. 
What  matter  ?  one  would  do  it  to- 
morrow or  to-morrow;  and  now 
in  all  heaven  and  earth  there  is 
no  way  of  doing  it,  no  means  of 
answer.  There  is  no  sadder  con- 
sciousness in  life. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  '65-'66 
that  Montalembert's  last  illness, 
from  its  beginning  a  very  painful 
one,  first  attacked  him.  He  was  so 
ill  in  the  spring  of  '66  as  to  be  com- 
pelled to  give  up  for  a  time  the 
work  on  the  completion  of  which 
he  had  so  much  set  his  heart,  his 
great  and  favourite  work,  '  Les 
Moines  d'Occident.'  Early  in  '67 


1870.] 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


523 


he  described  himself  as  "  in  a  very 
sad  and  precarious  state ; "  and 
before  the  summer  of  that  year  his 
physicians  had  dreaded  that  his 
malady,  if  cured  at  all,  must  yet  be 
a  very  lingering  one.  His  strength 
was  then  so  far  reduced  that  he  had 
to  be  carried  to  his  carriage  on  the 
days  he  was  permitted  an  airing  ; 
but  still  every  day  about  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  his  room  was  full 
of  guests,  friends  of  his  life,  who 
called  the  worn  statesman  and 
author  by  his  Christian  name,  and 
could  enter  with  him  into  full  dis- 
cussions of  all  his  life-long  pursuits 
and  convictions;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  strangers  from  all  quarters, 
whom  his  illness  and  suffering  did 
not  prevent  him  from  receiving 
with  all  the  courtly  kindness  and 
genial  grace  of  his  nature.  "  Your 
countrymen  do  not  come  to  see  me 
as  much  as  I  could  wish,"  he  wrote 
not  three  months  before  his  death, 
notwithstanding  the  numbers  who 
sought  him  continually.  His  inter- 
est was  as  fresh  in  everything  that 
everybody  was  doing,  while  he  lay 
there  on  his  weary  couch,  with  the 
close-capped  sister  in  constant  at- 
tendance upon  him,  as  if  he  had 
still  been  in  the  full  current  of  life. 
It  was  a  relief  and  help  to  this 
rapid,  ever-active  intelligence,  thus 
suddenly  confined  within  four  walls, 
and  shut  out  from  personal  exer- 
tion, to  participate,  at  least  by 
way  of  sympathy,  in  the  work  and 
thought  of  others.  His  ear  was 
open  to  everything  that  was  sug- 
gested to  him ;  his  mind  as  ready 
and  vivacious  as  that  of  any  youth 
—  nay,  far  more  so  :  for  youth 
is  too  much  occupied  with  its 
own  affairs  to  give  such  full  un- 
hesitating attention  to  those  of 
others.  Whatever  might  be  the 
special  interest  of  his  visitor,  Mon- 
talembert had  always  some  light  to 
throw  upon  it,  some  stray  glances 
out  of  the  wonderful  treasures  of 
his  own  knowledge  or  experience, 
or  at  the  best,  a  courteous  in- 
terest, an  unfeigned  sympathy. 


The  first  feature  in  him  which 
struck  the  stranger  was  this  gracious 
gift  of  courtesy.  His  manners  were 
just  touched  with  the  elaboration 
of  the  old  regime,  as  became  the 
son  of  an  emigre,  the  inheritor  of 
centuries  of  courtly  French  breed- 
ing. But  we  do  not  think  that 
this  impression  of  extreme  personal 
benignity  and  politeness  was,  after 
the  first  encounter,  the  aspect  of 
Count  de  Montalembert's  character 
which  made  most  lasting  impres- 
sion upon  the  mind  of  a  recent  ac- 
quaintance. It  was  rather  the 
keenness  of  perception,  the  rapid 
vision,  the  sharp  wit,  never  failing 
in  absolute  grace  of  expression, 
but  leaving  the  less  ready  insular 
intelligence,  with  a  puzzled  sense 
of  discomfiture,  miles  behind.  He 
took  the  slow  Englishman  up, 
who  was  saying  something  probably 
sensible  enough,  and  cast  a  gleam- 
ing coil  of  wit  round  him,  and  ex- 
tinguished his  half-said  perplexed 
reasonings  on  the  spot — an  opera- 
tion which  caused  a  certain  sensa- 
tion of  fright,  by  no  means  without 
foundation,  to  thebystanders.  This, 
however,  was  in  his  days  of  health 
and  unbounded  activity,  while  yet 
the  inherent  impatience  of  a  lively 
and  impetuous  nature  survived  in 
certain  glimmers  and  sparkles  of  sar- 
castic vivacity,  such  as  even  perfect 
politeness  could  not  quite  annihilate. 
The  enthusiasm  of  his  character, 
and  its  intense  love  of  beauty  and 
appreciation  of  everything  noble  and 
generous,  did  not,  we  think,  show  so 
plainly  in  his  conversation  as  this 
intellectual  brilliancy  and  speed. 
Keen  as  daylight,  sharp  upon  any 
pretence  as  the  steel  of  Ithuriel's 
spear — instantly  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  polite  simulation,  and 
pitiless  to  it — it  was  rather  the  clear- 
ness of  his  judgment  than  his  poetic 
character  which  struck  the  observer. 
His  was  the  kind  of  mind  one  could 
have  supposed  quick  to  sift  every 
belief,  less  moved  by  imagination 
than  by  reason,  more  familiar  with 
the  processes  of  thought  than  the 


524 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


[April 


visions  of  faith.  The  reader  who 
knows  him  only  by  his  works  will 
be  startled  by  such  a  view  of  his 
character.  But  nobody  who  knew 
Count  de  Montalembert  will  be 
disposed  to  deny  a  fact  which  adds 
tenfold  to  his  weight  and  influence 
as  a  believer,  and  which  makes  it 
so  much  the  more  difficult  to  un- 
derstand many  features  in  his  creed 
and  many  portions  of  his  work. 
There  could  not  be  found  any  more 
clear-sighted  observer,  or  shrewd 
and  able  man  of  the  world.  In 
things  temporal  and  intellectual 
he  took  nothing  for  granted,  and 
was  the  last  in  the  world  to  ac- 
cept a  specious  theory  or  visionary 
tale.  To  add  after  this,  as  we  are 
inclined  to  do — and  yet  he  was  a 
fervent  Roman  Catholic,  accepting 
a  hundred  things  as  absolutely  true 
which  to  us  seem  mere  fables  of 
a  fond  and  excited  fancy — would 
have  been  to  himself  but  another 
instance  of  "  unconquerable  British 
prejudice  in  respect  to  anything 
Roman;"  yet  it  is  difficult  to 
restrain  the  expression  of  this 
wonder,  be  it  prejudice  or  be  it 
justice.  The  attitude  in  which  at 
this  moment  he  appears  to  us 
as  a  protestant  against  the  last 
great  attempt  at  self-assertion  on 
the  part  of  the  Papacy,  has  a  cer- 
tain composing  effect  upon  the 
general  aspect  of  his  religious  char- 
acter ;  and  we  have  to  recall  to  our- 
selves that  it  is  the  young  Christian 
knight  who  in  the  pride  of  his 
youth  gave  up  at  a  word  from  the 
Church  one  of  the  most  cherished 
of  his  prospects — that  it  is  the  bio- 
grapher of  St  Elizabeth,  the  histo- 
rian of  the  monks,  of  whom  we  are 
speaking.  Not  a  miracle  in  all 
those  saintly  lives,  not  a  prodigy 
recorded  in  the  ages  of  faith,  dis- 
turbed his  power  of  belief.  He 
accepted  them  with  the  full  and 
frank  confidence  of  the  simplest 
believer.  He,  with  his  keen  wit 
and  quick  perceptions,  his  learn- 
ing and  sagacity,  an  accomplished 
writer  and  brilliant  man  of  the 


world,  tingling  to  his  finger-points 
with  the  new  sap  and  modern 
vigour  of  his  century,  yet  received 
everything  which  the  hoary  past 
brought  to  him  in  the  name  of  reli- 
gion with  the  tender  faith  of  a  child. 
Such  a  phenomenon  is  to  be  seen 
now  and  then  in  the  world,  and 
when  it  appears  it  is  always  full  of 
attraction,  full  of  interest — one  of 
the  finest  yet  strangest  combina- 
tions of  human  character.  And 
such  was  Charles  de  Montalembert. 
It  is  not  yet  time  to  enter  upon 
any  full  account  of  his  life  or  esti- 
mate of  his  influence.  The  exist- 
ence which  has  just  ended  must  be 
a  little  further  off  before  it  can 
"  orb  into  the  perfect  star "  of 
completed  being.  He  had  lived 
about  sixty  years  in  the  world, 
when  he  was  suddenly  called  out 
of  it.  For  thirty  of  these  years  his 
life  was  full  of  activity,  and  spent 
very  much  in  the  eye  of  the  public. 
During  this  time  many  changes  had 
taken  place  in  France,  and  none 
greater  than  those  religious  changes 
into  which  he  threw  himself  heart 
and  soul.  In  the  spring  of  '67,  the 
writer,  then  in  Paris,  attended  by 
his  advice  several  conferences  of 
the  Retraite  des  Hommes,  in  Notre 
Dame,  during  the  holy  week — a 
most  impressive  and  wonderful 
sight,  such  as  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  any  parallel  to  in  this 
country,  with  all  its  boasted  gravity. 
Somewhere  about  four  thousand 
men,  a  dark  mass,  but  faintly  light- 
ed by  great  flambeaux  of  gas 
placed  here  and  there,  were  closely 
packed  in  the  great  central  aisle  of 
the  Cathedral,  listening  with  rapt 
attention  to  the  preaching  of  Pere 
Felix,  who,  though  a  very  popular 
preacher,  is  no  orator  by  right 
divine,  nor  capable  by  his  own 
attraction  only  of  calling  so  great  a 
multitude  together.  The  chanting 
by  this  mass  of  men,  in  plain 
song,  of  the  Stabat  Mater  on 
Holy  Thursday,  and  of  the  shorter 
hymns  of  the  Church  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  other  services  —  the 


1870.] 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


525 


great  thunder  of    so    many  male 
voices  in  unison — was  such  a  strain 
as   we    never    remember  to   have 
heard  before,   and  which  no   one 
could  listen  to   without   emotion. 
M.  de  Montalembert's  face  bright- 
ened when  he  heard  the  impression 
made  by  this  wonderful  scene  up- 
on the  mind  of  the  writer.    When 
he  began  his  career,  he  said  with  a 
certain  gleam  of  high  satisfaction 
in  his  eye,  it  had  been  considered 
a  wonder  in  France  to  see  a  young 
man  enter  a  church,  or  to  hear  him 
avow  any  charity  towards  Christi- 
anity.    These  were  the  days  when 
Charles  de  Montalembert,  a  youth 
half  English,  or  rather  half  Scotch, 
and    whole    enthusiast,     speaking 
French  with  a  taint  of  insular  ac- 
cent, and  with  ideas  not  yet  whol- 
ly Continental,  made  acquaintance 
with  the  young  Henri  Lacordaire. 
They  had  met,  and  joined  them- 
selves together,  and  set  their  young 
wits  to  work  on  the  grandest  patri- 
otic problem — how  to  lead  France 
back  to  Christian  faith  and  a  religi- 
ous life,  cherishing  all  her  liberties, 
all  her  privileges,  the  residue  of 
good  left  behind  by  the  devastating 
torrent  of  the  Revolution,  at  the 
same  time.      What  they  had  suc- 
ceeded in  doing,  in  one  point  at 
least,  we  had  learned  in  the  crowd- 
ed   nave  of   Notre   Dame   during 
those  rainy  chilly  April  evenings, 
and  on  the  bright  winter  morn  at 
the  early  communion.      It  was   a 
sign  of  accomplished   work  which 
might     well     have    cheered     any 
reformer.     This  was    one    of    the 
great    objects    of    Montalembert's 
life — one   which    does    not    show 
largely  in    ordinary    history  :    he 
had  helped  to  make  religion  pos- 
sible, helped  to  make  it  real,  in  his 
country ;    and    if     ever    the    his- 
tory of  the  revival  of  religion  in 
France  during  the  last  forty  years 
should  be  written — and  there  could 
be  no  more  interesting  chapter  of 
modern  history — the  name  of  Count 
de   Montalembert  would  take   its 
natural  place  there,  side   by  side 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLIV. 


with  that  of  his  friend.    He  poured 
the  whole  force  of  his  young  life 
into  this  highest  scheme ;  he  threw 
himself  into  plans  of  public  instruc- 
tion in  every  way  in  which  it  was 
practicable  to  him.     His  first  step 
in  public  life  was  taken  when  he 
joined  himself  to  Lamennais  and 
Lacordaire  in  the  management  of 
their  paper  called  '  L'Avenir.'    A 
year  later  the   Christian  Liberals 
found  themselves  aux  prises  with 
Rome,  as  they  had  already  got  into 
contact  with  civil  law  at  home.   The 
spiritual  authority  was  more  diffi- 
cult to  struggle  with  than  the  tem- 
poral ;  and  it  was  only  after  a  long 
process  of  deliberation  and  anxious 
thought  that  the  two  friends,  La- 
cordaire and  Montalembert,  made 
up   their  minds  what   was    their 
highest  duty.     The   story  is   told 
by  Montalembert  himself    in  his 
life  of  his  friend.     There  he   de- 
scribes   Lacordaire    as  wandering 
and   musing  about    the    memory- 
haunted  ruins  of  Rome,  pondering 
many  things  which  are  not  written 
there  to  the  common  eye.     He  un- 
derstood, from  all  he  saw  around 
him,    "  not    only    the    inviolate 
majesty   of  the   supreme   Pontifi- 
cate, but  its  difficulties,  its   long 
and    patient    plans,    its  adoption 
of   necessary    expedients  (menage- 
ments  indispensables}  for  the  gov- 
ernment of  men  and  things  here 
below."     "  The  weakness  and  in- 
firmities inseparable  from  the  mix- 
ture of  human  things  with  divine 
did  not  escape  him."    In  short,  the 
devout  and    enthusiastic  yet  rea- 
sonable mind  of  the  young  French 
priest,  recognised  that  perfect  modes 
of  working  were  not  to  be  found  in 
human  society  :  that  the  support 
of  the  Papacy,  the  greatest  of  spi- 
ritual  institutions,  was  far  more 
likely  to  advantage  a  great  religi- 
ous work,  than  any  wild  fight  for 
independence  which  he  could  adopt. 
He  recognised  what  many  men  in 
all  churches  have  always  recognis- 
ed, that  something  must  be  swal- 
lowed, something  endured,  in  re- 
2N 


526 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


[April 


turn  for  the  great  spiritual  support 
of  a  universal  church  behind  you, 
with  all  its  popular  traditions,  and 
fundamental  hold,  however  obscured 
now  and  then  for  a  moment,  upon 
ancient  Christendom.  We  may  ac- 
cept this  description  written  by 
Montalembert  of  his  friend,  as  his 
own  creed.  He,  too,  bowed  his  head 
to  the  Pope's  bull,  when  it  came, 
forbidding  the  immediate  work  in 
which  they  were  engaged.  They 
yielded  to  it,  both  knowing  that 
they  had  more  important  matters 
in  hand,  which  forbade  the  possi- 
bility of  schism  or  sectarian  oppo- 
sition, and  thus  their  lives  were 
decided  in  obedience  to  Rome ; 
while  Lamennais,  in  some  respects 
a  greater  figure  than  either,  mis- 
took or  declined  the  lesson,  and 
giving  up  Rome,  gave  up  at  the 
same  time,  as  happens  so  often, 
along  with  his  faith  in  the  Pope, 
his  faith  in  Christianity. 

In  Germany,  where  the  young 
Montalembert  wandered  after  his 
unsuccessful  mission  to  Rome,  and 
where  he  again  encountered  Lacord- 
aire,  the  materials  for  his  beautiful 
Life  of  St  Elizabeth,  one  of  the  finest 
idylls  of  Christian  literature,  were 
collected.  It  was  published  in  the 
year  1836,  his  first  work  of  import- 
ance. On  his  return  to  France  he 
threw  himself  into  political  life,  and 
lived  and  laboured  with  all  the  en- 
ergy of  his  nature,  taking  part  in 
all  the  events  and  all  the  important 
movements  of  the  time.  "  It  was 
the  heroic  age  of  our  religious  and 
liberal  struggles,"  he  says,  in  his  Life 
of  Lacordaire  ;  and  everything  that 
belonged  to  that  enlightened  and 
conservative  liberalism,  which  is  the 
natural  creed  of  all  eclectic  politi- 
cians, moved  him  with  more  than 
merely  political  ardour.  Justice,  free- 
dom, purity,  and  not  party  names  or 
party  objects,  were  with  him  the 
recognised  aims  of  legislation.  His 
code  was  that  all  men  should  be 
free  to  do  well,  to  say  what  good 
was  in  them,  to  make  such  efforts 
as  they  were  capable  of  for  the 


advancement  of  the  world;  but 
yet  there  was  in  him,  it  must 
be  allowed,  a  certain  reserve  as 
to  what  constituted  political  well- 
doing, and  inclination  to  set  up  an 
arbitrary  standard  of  his  own.  It 
was  good  for  France  to  be  free  and 
united,  but  he  did  not  see  that  the 
same  necessity  held  for  Italy.  And 
there  are  other  inconsistencies  in 
his  political  creed.  He  was  in 
favour  of  the  expedition  to  Rome, 
though  Poland  and  Ireland  (which 
he  always  classed  together)  filled 
him  with  indignant  sympathy.  In 
short,  he  was  no  perfect  man,  but 
one  full  of  individual  partialities 
and  prejudices,  and  laden  with  the 
defects  as  well  as  the  virtues  of  his 
opinions.  Although  he  speaks  of 
the  "  odious  injustice  and  unpar- 
donable uselessness"  of  the  Revolu- 
tion of  '48,  his  political  career  lasted 
beyond  the  coup  d'etat.  He  even 
made  an  effort  to  submit  himself  to 
what  was  inevitable  as  long  as  his 
own  honourable,  upright,  straight- 
forward spirit  could  do  so.  The 
spoliation  of  the  Orleans  princes 
was,  it  is  said,  the  point  which 
brought  his  patience  to  an  end. 
But  he  continued  to  sit  in  the 
Chamber  until  1857,  when  he  was 
defeated  in  his  own  department, 
and  retired  from  active  political 
life,  though  not  from  such  sharp 
usage  of  his  pen  as  brought  him, 
on  various  occasions,  into  contact 
with  the  authorities, and  exposed 
him  to  trials  and  vain  sentences  of 
imprisonment,  which  the  Emperor 
was  wise  enough  never  to  permit  to 
be  carried  out.  His  opinion  of  the 
present  Government  of  France  was 
very  low,  and  touched  with  an  in- 
dignant bitterness.  The  inevitable 
and  fast-growing  triumph  of  de- 
mocracy was  his  favourite  horror. 
With  a  contemptuous  vehemence 
which  no  hearer  could  forget,  he 
would  describe  the  hatred  of  me- 
diocrity for  anything  superior  to 
itself,  which  was,  in  his  opinion, 
the  true  essence  of  democratic  sen- 
timent. It  was  not  only  rank,  or 


1870.] 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


527 


wealth,  or  temporal  advantage, 
which  the  mob  resented,  but, 
above  all,  the  superiority  of  mind 
and  sway  of  intelligence.  Epicier 
France  was  glad  to  be  free  of  ces 
ff  ens-let, —  the.Guizots,  the  Thiers, 
the  liberal  statesmen  and  men  of 
talent  who  had  been  the  leaders 
of  their  generation.  It  was  a  relief 
to  the  surging  and  heaving  popular 
mass  to  throw  off  the  sway  of  every 
one  better  than  themselves,  and  to 
be  ruled  by  men  of  nothing.  Even 
his  politeness  was  scarcely  proof 
against  any  rash  approval  of  abso- 
lute power;  and  the  sentimental 
English  fancy,  or  profession  of  a 
fancy,  for  theoretic  Caesarism,  irri- 
tated him  to  a  high  degree.  "  Why, 
for  heaven's  sake,"  he  writes,  in 
respect  to  a  review  of  his  own 
touching  Memoir  of  General  Lamo- 
ricierej  "  do  you  incline  towards 
M.  Carlyle's  theory  of  autocratic 
government1?"  The  mere  sugges- 
tion stirred  him  to  a  sharpness  keen 
and  angry ;  and  so  did  the  English 
admiration  for  the  Emperor,  which 
was  once  more  lively  than  now. 
This  sentiment  stung  him  as  a  poor 
man  might  be  stung  by  commenda- 
tions of  poverty  made  by  a  rich  and 
easy  neighbour.  "  It  is  well  for  you 
to  applaud  a  rule  which  you  would 
not  have  for  a  single  day,"  was  his 
indignant  comment,  often  repeated. 
Not  only  the  actual  evil,  but  the 
reproach  upon  France,  the  impli- 
cation of  her  indifference  to  those 
liberties  which  he  prized  so  much 
for  her,  wounded  him  to  the  quick. 
And  with  this  feeling  was  mingled 
all  the  contempt,  half  expressed  but 
always  understood,  of  the  old  noble 
fits  des  croises  for  a  parvenu  court. 
He,  too,  was  impatient  of  ces  gens-let, ; 
and  still  more  impatient,  still  more 
contemptuous,  was  the  high-born 
household  which  surrounded  him. 

Montalembert's  generous,  liberal, 
unfactious   spirit,  made    it   at  the 


same  time  difficult  for  him  to  main- 
tain full  amity  even  with  the  Cath- 
olic party,  to  which  he  had  done, 
one  time  and  another,  immeasur- 
able service.  It  was  not  in  him 
to  adopt  unhesitatingly  a  certain 
party,  with  its  drawbacks  and 
advantages.  He  could  not  bind 
himself,  whatever  the  penalties 
might  be,  to  the  paltry  and  untrue. 
He  who  had  made  the  beginning 
of  his  career  extraordinary  by  bow- 
ing his  head,  in  all  the  youthful 
fire  of  his  genius,  under  the  yoke 
of  the  Papal  decree — who  for  the 
best  part  of  his  life  was  incessantly 
occupied  in  serving  the  interests  of 
his  Church,  and  by  all  the  force  of 
his  talent  and  influence  aiding  her 
progress — became  such  a  mark  for 
the  arrows  of  the  Ultramontane 
party  as  no  profane  person  could 
have  been.  "  There  is  amongst  the 
English  Catholics,"  he  writes  in 
April  1866,  "  as  well  as  amongst 
the  French,  a  party  of  violent,  de- 
nunciating,  and  persecuting  people, 
who  are  unfortunately  in  posses- 
sion of  almost  all  our  periodical 
press.  They  look  upon  me  as  more 
than  half  a  heretic  (as  may  be 
seen  in  M.  Veuillot's  last  produc- 
tion, '  L' Illusion  Liberale'),  on  ac- 
count of  my  liberal  and  concili- 
ating opinions  ;  and  if  my  views, 
moderate  as  they  are,  were  to  be 
attenuated  in  the  English  text,* 
all  those  who  are  now  barking 
against  Dr  Newman  (on  account  of 
his  strictures  on  certain  forms  of 
worship  of  the  B.  Virgin),  and 
many  others,  would  cover  me 
with  needless  obloquy."  It  is 
unnecessary  for  us  to  add  any 
description  of  the  fulness  and  fer- 
vour of  his  faith.  He  considered 
himself  tolerant  to  the  last  de- 
gree— and  was  so  in  all  practical 
ways,  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but 
yet  his  friends  who  were  heretics 
could  not  but  recognise  in  his  tone 


*  This  was  in  reference  to  the  English  translation  of  M.  de  Montalembert's  great 
work,  'Les  Moines  d'Occident,'  which  he  was  most  anxious  should  be  rendered 
with  absolute  fidelity — a  point  on  which  he  was  fully  satisfied. 


528 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


[April 


a  certain  something  —  a  slurring 
over  of  any  reference  to  a  common 
faith,  a  courteous  silence  in  respect 
to  religious  convictions  out  of  the 
pale  of  the  Church,  which  showed, 
as  it  does  so  often  in  the  most 
amiable  and  tender-hearted  Catho- 
lics, either  a  rooted  doubt  of  any 
good  being  possible,  or  a  compas- 
sionate reluctance  to  do  or  say  any- 
thing which  might  disturb  that  con- 
dition of  invincible  ignorance  in 
which  is  a  heretic's  only  hope.  Of 
this,  however  —  or  rather  of  the 
individual  heretic's  perception  of 
it — the  chances  are  he  was  quite 
unconscious.  "  If  you  meet  with 
any  expressions,"  again  in  refer 
ence  to  '  Les  Moines  d' Occident/ 
*'  which  may  wound  your  relig- 
ious or  patriotic  feelings,"  h& 
writes,  "  remember  how  very  prev- 
alent the  most  painful  language 
on  that  matter  is  with  your  coun- 
trymen and  countrywomen.  This 
ought  and  will,  I  am  sure,  make 
you  indulgent  to  me.  I  have  had 
to  undergo,  during  my  journey  in 
Spain,  all  the  bigoted  outbreaks  of 
Mr  Ford  in  Murray's  handbook,  at 
every  step,  against  all  that  Catho- 
lics are  taught  to  venerate  and  be- 
lieve. Sorry  and  ashamed  should 
I  be  if  anything  calculated  to 
offend,  in  such  a  way,  the  belief  of 
Protestant  Christians,  had  ever 
fallen  from  my  pen." 

In  this  country  there  can  be  no 
doubt  the  name  of  Montalembert 
is  more  closely  identified  in  the 
popular  imagination  with  the  de- 
fence and  championship  of  the 
Church  of  Rome  than  with  any 
other  principle  :  and  the  impres- 
sion is  a  perfectly  just  one.  The 
State  and  its  liberties  were  much 
to  him  all  his  life,  but  the  Church 
was  more.  He  would  have  sacri- 
ficed anything  for  France,  but  more 
than  anything  for  Rome.  He  had 
survived  the  failure  of  many  politi- 
cal hopes,  but  the  hopes  of  religion 
could  never  fail ',  and  all  his  heart 
was  in  the  work  of  re-evangelising 
his  beloved  country.  Knowing  how 


entirely  this  was  the  case,  it  strikes 
us  with  a  certain  inexpressible  in- 
dignation to  read,  as  we  write,  in 
the  news  of  the  day,  the  expressions 
of  absolute  satisfaction  with  which 
the  information  of  his  death  was 
heard  in  Rome.  "  What  good  for- 
tune !  "  the  Pope  is  reported  to  have 
cried.  What  ingratitude  !  He  who 
had  stood  by  the  great  Dominican 
Lacordaire  and  the  great  Jesuit 
Ravignac,  supporting  their  efforts 
with  all  his  talent,  his  influence, 
and  popular  fame,  while  they 
won  back  France  to  the  Church, 
to  be  thus  rewarded  by  that 
Church  for  the  devotion  of  a 
lifetime !  The  Church  had  given 
him  little  at  any  time  of  his 
career,  except  the  satisfaction  of 
labouring  for  what  he  believed  to 
be  the  cause  of  God.  She  had  laid 
him  open  to  the  sneers  of  men  out- 
side her  pale,  who  were  incapable 
of  comprehending  his  faith — and  to 
the  poisoned  darts  of  men  within, 
who  were  equally  incapable  of  un- 
derstanding his  love  of  freedom 
and  the  candour  of  his  nature  ;  she 
had  stolen  from  him  his  child,  the 
one  of  his  family,  it  is  said,  most 
like  himself.  The  writer  cannot 
forget  the  look  on  his  face,  the 
glimmer  of  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
held  up  the  light  to  exhibit  a  por- 
trait of  his  daughter,  taken  before 
her  entrance  into  the  order  of  the 
Sacre  Cceur,  in  all  the  pretty  pomp 
of  dress  which  became  her  youth, 
and  told  the  story  of  her  self-dedi- 
cation— "a  ma  grande  desolation!" 
said  the  father,  who  had  paid  so 
severe  a  tax  for  his  devotion  to  his 
Church.  And  his  Church  has  re- 
warded her  noble  knight  as  she  has 
rewarded  many  another — by  depre- 
ciation of  his  virtues  while  he  lived, 
and  by  an  unseemly  cry  of  triumph 
over  his  honourable  grave. 

But  yet  the  very  position  in 
which  he  stood  towards  Rome  at 
his  death  is  instructive  to  us  of  a 
fact  which  we  are  very  apt  to  for- 
get, though  perhaps  less  likely  now 
than  in  periods  of  greater  ecclesiasti- 


1870.] 


Count  Charles  de  Montalembert. 


529 


cal  calm — that  the  Church  of  Rome 
is,  no  more  than  our  own,  a  blank  of 
bigoted  unanimity ;  but  contains 
in  her  ample  bosom  many  shades  of 
sentiment,  and  is  full  of  faithful 
souls,  strong  in  all  the  fundamental 
truths  of  Christianity,  who  accept 
the  superfluities  of  Romish  faith 
often  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion, and  even  with  fervour,  as 
matters  rendered  sacred  by  educa- 
tion and  the  prepossessions  of  na- 
ture, but  without  ever  placing  the 
secondary  on  the  same  level  with 
the  primary  objects  of  faith.  It  is 
not  within  our  present  purpose  to 
inquire  how  far  this  was  the  case 
with  Montalembert.  He  was  the 
truest  of  Romanists,  receiving  with- 
out doubt  or  difficulty  much  which 
it  would  seem  to  us  impossible  for 
such  a  man  to  receive  ;  but  he 
never  surrendered  his  intelligence 
in  matters  which  he  considered 
within  the  scope  of  human  reason. 
And  it  is  strange  and  sad  to  find 
him,  after  his  many  struggles,  dy- 
ing at  last  while  in  the  very  act  of 
delivering  a  stroke  of  the  conse- 
crated lance,  with  which  for  forty 
years  he  has  tilted  against  her  ene- 
mies, at  the  pretensions  of  Rome. 
But  not  of  his  Rome — the  great 
traditionary  See  which  through  a 
hundred  storms  had  kept  the  life- 
blood  warm  in  the  inmost  heart  of 
Christendom,  and  prolonged  its 
rule  over  all  these  centuries  by 
higher  means  surely  than  by  mere 
self-assertion,  and  shutting  out  of 
external  light.  That  wider,  more 
universal  Church  of  his  fathers, 
which  a  foolish  Pope  and  narrow 
hierarchy  may  encumber  with  still 
more  unnecessary  dogmas,  but 
which  no  man  nor  set  of  men  can 
altogether  deprive  of  the  ever-re- 
viving power  of  Christianity,  will 
yet  do  justice  to  the  stainless 
memory  of  Charles  de  Montalem- 
bert. 

The  great  literary  work  upon 
which  he  had  set  his  heart  had 
been  long  interrupted,  and  it  is 
now  some  time  since  he  recognised 


as  hopeless  the  possibility  of  bring- 
ing it  near  a  conclusion.  "  I  leave  its 
completion  to  younger  and  happier 
hands,"  he  wrote  but  a  few  months 
ago,  with  a  sadness  that  every  his- 
torical student  will  understand. 
]&ven  the  sober  age  at  which  he 
undertook,  and  the  conscientious 
and  laborious  care  with  which  he 
carried  on,  his  history  of  '  Les 
Moines  d' Occident/  have  not  suf- 
ficed to  withdraw  a  certain  tender 
light  of  sacred  romance  and  en- 
thusiasm from  that  work.  For 
with  all  his  keen  wit  and  practical 
know] edge  of  men,  with  all  his 
experience  of  the  craft  of  politics 
both  secular  and  ecclesiastical,  and 
insight  into  the  meaner  minds 
arid  less  elevated  thoughts  which 
fill  up  the  general  mass  of  human- 
ity, this  last^/s  des  croises  vindicated 
his  descent  with  a  distinctness  sel- 
dom seen  in  the  most  rigid  gene- 
alogy. He  was  a  man  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  a  constitutionalist, 
a  parliamentarian,  full  of  modern 
ways  and  thoughts ;  and  yet  he 
was  as  true  a  crusader  as  ever  took 
the  cross.  That  cross  upon  his 
shield,  however,  is  not  more  sig- 
nificant of  the  noble  enthusiasm 
of  his  character  than  is  the  motto 
which  doubtless  some  other  clear- 
sighted, sharp  -  witted  Montalem- 
bert, pursuing  a  visionary  object 
with  keenest  practical  good  sense, 
and  brave  indifference  to  its  per- 
sonal result,  handed  down  out  of  the 
silent  ages.  "  Ni  espoir,  ni  peur," 
says  the  proud  legend.  It  is  the 
fullest  comment  upon  the  just  con- 
cluded life.  For  himself  he  has 
sought  nothing,  looked  for  nothing, 
desired  nothing.  But  for  God,  and 
for  the  Church,  and  for  his  coun- 
try, how  great  have  been  his 
hopes,  and  how  manifold  his  ef- 
forts !  How  sadly,  with  an  echo 
from  that  perennial  disappoint- 
ment which  is  the  burden  of  all 
human  melodies,  may  we  write  the 
same  words  upon  his  grave  !  A 
certain  still  despair  lay  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart  in  the  declining  of 


530 


Count  diaries  de  Montalembert. 


[April  1870- 


his  life — France  and  the  world 
seemed  to  him  trembling  within 
the  vortex  of  overwhelming  fate — 
God  was  still  holding  the  great 
balance,  so  that  somehow  at  the 
last,  if  even  as  by  fire,  salvation  must 
be  certain ;  but  his  hope  had  grown 
feeble  of  any  temporal  deliverance, 
or  re-establishment  of  a  noble  social 
order.  It  is  said  that  the  recent 
changes  in  France  brightened  a 
little  to  his  dying  eyes  the  prospects 
of  his  nation  ;  but  this  faint  clear- 
ing of  the  skies  at  home  could  have 
done  little  to  counterbalance  the 
gloom  of  the  storm-clouds  which 


were  gathering  over  the  still  dearer 
sanctuary  of  his  heart  and  wishes 
at  Rome.  Death  has  brought  him 
rest  from  many  sufferings — it  is  the 
one  incident  in  a  good  man's  life 
which  we  feel  sure  must  be  accom- 
panied by  fullest  satisfaction  and 
perfect  content ;  but  there  is  no- 
thing sadder  to  the  age  than  thus 
to  mark  its  onward  way  by  signs 
of  the  extinction  of  another  and 
another  light.  France  and  the 
world  are  so  much  the  poorer  by  all 
the  brightness  of  one  brilliant  in- 
telligence, and  all  the  sympathy  and 
warmth  of  one  most  genial  heart. 


Printed  by  William  Blackwood  <L-  Sons,  Edinburgh 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCLY. 


MAY  1870. 


VOL.  CYII. 


OUR  POOR  RELATIONS. 


CAN  any  one  fancy  what  this 
world  would  be  like  if  inhabited 
by  no  other  animal  but  man  ] — the 
earth  without  its  four-footed  and 
its  creeping  things,  the  sea  and  the 
river  vacant  of  their  shy  silvery 
gleams  and  far -darting  shadows, 
the  air  void  of  the  choral  hum  of 
insects  and  the  song  of  birds'? 
What  a  dismal  hush  in  creation  ! 
what  a  multitudinous  charm  and 
delight  wanting  to  the  woods,  the 
fields,  the  shallows,  and  the  deeps  ! 
What  glory  lost  to  the  grass  with 
the  spotted  ladybirds,  the  mail-clad 
beetles,  and  the  slender  grasshop- 
pers !  What  splendour  gone  from 
the  flower  with  the  bronzed  and 
fire-tipt  bee  that  fed  on  its  heart, 
and  the  painted  butterfly  that  hov- 
ered above  its  petals  !  How  dull 
had  been  Eden  for  Adam  with  no- 
thing breathing  but  Eve,  and  all 
the  rest  of  creation  inanimate — no 
voice  but  that  of  the  wind  or  the 
thunder — no  motion  but  the  flow 
of  the  stream,  the  floating  of  the 
clouds,  the  waving  of  the  trees ! 
The  earth  would  have  been  silent 
as  a  picture ;  the  forest  and  the 
plain,  the  mountain  and  the  lake, 
forlorn,  tremendous,  insupportable 
solitudes  —  solitudes  that  none 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV 


would  have  sought,  since  there 
could  have  been  neither  hunters 
nor  fishers,  herdsmen  nor  shep- 
herds. 

In  far  other  measure  has  the 
gift  of  life  been  poured  forth  upon 
the  earth.  All  the  generations  of 
all  the  tribes  of  men  are  but  a 
handful  to  the  myriads  of  creatures 
which  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  every 
day,  haunt  land,  air,  and  water,  till 
inanimate  nature  teems  with  the 
sentient  vitality  that  lends  it  all  its 
interest  and  all  its  significance.  A 
leaf  holds  a  family,  a  clod  a  com- 
munity, and  there  is  material  for 
the  speculations  of  a  lifetime  in  the 
tenants  of  the  neighbouring  mead- 
ow, and  of  the  brook  that  waters  it. 
The  unclouded  heavens  would  be 
oppressive  in  their  vastness  and 
loneliness  but  for  those  frequent 
travellers  high  in  air,  the  rook,  the 
raven,  or  rarer  heron,  that  flap  their 
untiring  way  onwards  till  they  melt 
again  into  the  blue  depths  out  of 
which  they  grew  upon  the  sight. 
The  bare  white  cliffs  are  no  longer 
barren  when  their  clangorous  pop- 
ulation of  chough  and  kittiwake 
and  daw  are  abroad  in  the  sun- 
shine; and  the  black  storm-cloud, 
coming  up  on  the  blast  behind  its 
2o 


532 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


veil  of  rain,  gains  a  beauty  which 
before  it  had  not,  as  it  throws  into 
relief  the  white  wing  of  the  sea- 
gull. Nay,  in  some  countries  where 
calm  and  sunshine  are  more  per- 
manent conditions  of  the  atmo- 
sphere than  here,  we  learn  that 
the  regions  of  air  are  not  only 
a  highway,  but  a  home.  Sir 
Samuel  Baker  observes  that  when 
an  animal  is  slain  in  the  Nubian 
wilderness,  within  a  few  seconds  a 
succession  of  birds,  hitherto  invi- 
sible, descend  on  the  prey,  and 
always  in  the  same  order.  First 
the  black-and-white  crow  arrives, 
then  the  buzzard,  then  the  small 
vulture,  then  the  large  vulture, 
lastly  the  marabout  stork.  "  I  be- 
lieve," says  Sir  Samuel,  "that 
every  species  keeps  to  its  own  par- 
ticular elevation,  and  that  the  at- 
mosphere contains  regular  strata 
of  birds  of  prey,  who,  invisible  to 
the  human  eye  at  their  enormous 
height,  are  constantly  resting  upon 
their  widespread  wings  and  soar- 
ing in  circles,  watching  with  tele- 
scopic sight  the  world  beneath." 
It  is  like  a  tale  born  of  Persian  or 
Arabian  fantasy  to  hear  that  above 
the  traveller  in  the  desert  hangs  a 
huge  mansion,  "  impalpable  to  feel- 
ing as  to  sight,"  with  its  basement, 
its  first  and  second  floors,  its  attics, 
and  its  turrets ;  or  (to  vary  the 
image)  that  the  social  system  of  the 
atmosphere  comprises  its  lower 
orders,  its  middle  classes,  and  its 
upper  ten  thousand. 

It  is  a  pleasant,  if  somewhat  ex- 
travagant, fancy,  to  figure  to  one's 
self  man  dwelling  amid  his  fellow- 
tenants  of  the  earth  in  completest 
harmony,  the  friend  and  companion 
of  some,  the  protector  of  others, 
the  harmer  of  none,  the  intelligent 
observer  of  all.  Who  shall  say 
what  new  unforeseen  relations 
might  not  have  been  established 
between  us  and  our  humble  friends 
on  this  basis  of  confidence  and 
affection?  Who  shall  say  that 
they  might  not  have  revealed  to  us 
that  secret  which  they  have  guarded 
since  the  creation — the  secret  of 


their  instincts  and  their  ways ; 
what  their  notions  are  of  the  world, 
of  each  other,  and  of  man  ;  and 
how  far  they  look  before  and  after  ? 
It  was  one  of  Hawthorne's  prettiest 
wild  fancies,  that  Donatello,  the 
descendant  of  the  old  Fauns,  and 
the  partial  inheritor  of  their  sylvan 
nature,  still  held  kinship  with  the 
untamed  creatures  of  the  woods, 
and  could  draw  them  into  com- 
munion with  him  by  the  peculiar 
charm  of  his  voice.  Every  one  who 
has  domesticated  some  strange  shy 
creature  can  testify  to  the  wealth 
of  character  which  it  came  to  dis- 
play in  the  ripening  warmth  of 
intimacy ;  and  several  naturalists 
(by  which  term  we  are  far  from  in- 
tending to  signify  the  dissectors  of 
frogs,  the  scientific  experimenters 
on  the  nerves  and  muscles  of  dogs, 
or  the  impalers  of  beetles  and  but- 
terflies) have  recorded  their  pleasant 
experiences  of  these  connections. 
Thus  one  of  them,  in  spite  of  ancient 
prejudice  and  proverbial  adjectives, 
has  elicited  fine  social  qualities  in  a 
bear  ;  another  has  owned  a  beaver 
of  such  intelligence  that  it  might 
almost  have  been  persuaded  to 
become  a  Christian;  while  Mrs 
Southey,  whose  taste  in  this  parti- 
cular we  respect  rather  than  like, 
kept  a  toad  (a  practice  which  we 
had  thought  to  be  peculiar  to  old 
ladies  who  are  in  league  with  the 
devil),  and  grew  so  fond  of  the  un- 
promising associate  as  to  celebrate 
its  virtues  in  verse.  What  diver- 
sity and  distinctness  of  character 
in  the  poet  Cowper's  three  hares  ! 
Could  any  amount  of  hare-soup, 
civet  de  lievre,  jugged  hare,  or  roast 
hare,  that  ever  figured  at  a  century 
of  city  feasts,  have  made  amends 
to  the  world  for  the  want  of  the 
affectionate  record  of  their  social 
qualities  1  Yet  many  a  Puss,Tiney, 
and  Bess,  as  full  of  whim  and  play 
and  individuality  as  they,  perishes 
unappreciated  in  every  day  of  cover- 
shooting,  or  is  run  into,  in  the 
open,  by  heartless  and  indiscrimi- 
nating  beagles.  Especially  in  their 
early  youth  'are  the  four-footed 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


533 


peoples  lovely  and  of  good  report — 
not  to  mention  such  obvious  ex- 
amples as  the  soft  graces  of  kittens, 
the  pretty  stiff  friskings  of  lambs, 
like  toys  in  motion  (all  the  lamb 
family  are  as  full  of  quaint  fun  as 
Charles  himself),  and  the  clumsy 
geniality  of  puppies,  the  rule  will 
be  found  elsewhere  of  pretty  gene- 
ral application.  Young  pigs  are 
delightful  —  their  gambols,  and 
squeaky  grunts,  and  pokings  in  the 
straw,  and  relations  with  their 
mother  and  brethren,  are  marked 
with  a  grave  facetiousness  all  their 
own,  though  the  spectator  who 
would  enjoy  them  must  be  careful 
to  ignore  the  sensual  aldermanic 
life  of  the  mature  porker.  Young 
donkeys,  on  the  other  hand,  are  by 
so  much  the  more  charming,  as 
being  invested  with  the  pathos 
(quite  awanting  to  the  pigling)  of 
the  future  hard  existence  that  is 
pretty  certain  to  await  each  mem- 
ber of  the  race  as  a  poor  man's 
drudge.  Foxes,  in  private  life,  and 
apart  from  their  public  merits  as 
main  supporters  of  a  great  national 
institution,  are  full  of  estimable 
qualities,  as  many  a  poacher  who, 
watching  for  other  game,  has  noted 
Mrs  Reynard  unbending  in  the 
moonlight  with  her  young  family, 
might  testify;  and  a  little  fox,  with 
his  face  full  of  a  grave  sweet  intel- 
ligence which  is  as  yet  undebased 
by  the  look  of  worldly  astuteness 
conspicuous  in  after-life,  is  one  of 
the  prettiest  sights  in  the  world. 
Domesticated,  they  develop,  in  ad- 
dition to  their  native  sagacity,  a 
most  affectionate  attachment  to 
those  who  are  kind  to  them:  and 
though,  owing  to  personal  peculi- 
arities, their  society  is  most  agree- 
able when  the  visitor  approaches 
them  from  windward,  yet  acquaint- 
ance with  a  fox  will  aways  repay 
cultivation.  Going  further  afield 
for  examples  of  unobtrusive  me- 
rit, what  a  wealth  of  humour  is 
comprised  in  the  phrase,  "  A  wil- 
derness of  monkeys  "  !  What  end- 
less fun,  what  fresh  comedy,  what 
brilliant  farce,  what  infinity  of  by- 


play and  private  jesting,  quite  be- 
yond the  reach  of  our  most  popular 
comedians,  is  being  for  ever  enacted 
in  those  leafy  theatres  where  they 
hold  their  untiring  revels!  How 
little  are  they  dependent  on  the 
stimulus  of  a  sympathetic  audience, 
how  free  from  the  vulgarity  of  play- 
ing at  the  gallery,  how  careless 
about  splitting  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings,  how  careful  always  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature  and 
to  man  !  Hamlet  could  have  given 
them  no  advice  that  would  have 
been  of  service.  On  the  contrary, 
they  would  have  been  spoiled  by 
being  "sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale 
cast  of  thought" — a  metaphysical 
monkey,  mooning  over  his  barren 
philosophy,  would  sit  in  dismal 
discord  with  the  surrounding  fun. 
Even  in  captivity  the  merry  race 
cultivate  the  drama,  and  the  au- 
diences about  the  great  cages  in  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes  or  our  own 
Zoological  are  never  disappointed 
in  the  performance.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday  last  summer,  that  we  wit- 
nessed, in  the  monkey-house  in  the 
Regent's  Park,  a  piece,  the  serious 
cast  of  which  was,  on  Shakespearean 
principles,  relieved  by  passages  of 
lighter  matter.  Perched  on  their 
poles  engaged  in  mutual  friendly 
investigation,  or  swinging  airily  on 
ropes,  the  community  was  unusu- 
ally quiet,  while  a  female  monkey, 
not  the  least  of  whose  attractions 
was  a  roseate  flush  which  spread 
itself  over  part  of  her  else  russet- 
gray  person,  was  engaged  in  deep 
flirtation  with  a  cavalier  whose 
nether -monkey  was  of  a  tender 
green  shading  into  gold.  The  im- 
passioned Romeo,  chattering  volu- 
ble protestations,  followed  the  coy 
but  loquacious  Juliet,  while  that 
lasciva  puella  pelted  him  in  retiring 
with  orange-peel,  nutshells,  and 
straws,  till  they  arrived  beneath  a 
branch  along  which  lay  extended 
another  monkey,  who  watched  the 
pair  attentively.  He  may  have 
been  a  rival,  like  the  County  Paris, 
or  a  dissatisfied  relative,  like  Tybalt, 
or  possibly  he  may  have  resented 


534 


Oar  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


as  an  injury  and  a  slight  any  pre- 
ference of  other  attractions  to  his 
own,  for  he  presented  to  the  curi- 
ous eye  some  embellishments  of 
brilliant  azure.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
without  the  slightest  warning  he 
dropped  like  a  plummet  on  the  en- 
amoured pair,  and,  seizing  Romeo, 
bit  him  in  his  gorgeous  hinder 
parts.  The  injured  swain,  turning 
with  an  appalling  grin,  grappled 
his  assailant.  Juliet  fled  shrieking, 
and  her  outcries,  mingling  with  the 
noise  of  combat,  conveyed  the  tid- 
ings of  the  strife  to  all  the  cage, 
and  "spread  the  truth  from  pole 
to  pole."  Thereupon  all  the  other 
monkeys,  leaving  their  own  pri- 
vate concerns,  vaulted  from  rope 
and  perch  towards  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion, where,  with  shrill  clamour,  they 
precipitated  themselves  on  the  com- 
batants, and  joined  in  a  general 
fray  ; — while  an  elderly  and  morose 
baboon,  delayed  by  age  and  infir- 
mity, arrived  rather  later,  and,  arm- 
ed with  a  stick,  belaboured  all  in- 
discriminately who  came  within  his 
reach.  Shortly  after,  we  beheld,  in 
a  neighbouring  cage,  a  monkey,  of 
dark  attenuated  figure,  clinging 
with  hands  and  feet,  like  a  gigantic 
hairy  spider,  to  the  wire  roof,  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  meditation, 
while  his  tail  hung  perpendicularly 
down  to  the  length  of  about  a  yard. 
This  appendage  offered  irresistible 
attractions  to  a  friend  upon  a  neigh- 
bouring rope,  who,  after  long  ear- 
nestly surveying  it  as  he  swung, 
reached  it  in  one  wild  leap,  and, 
grasping  it  with  both  hands,  pro- 
ceeded to  use  it  as  the  vehicle  of  an 
animated  gymnastic  performance. 
The  sage  above,  noways  discompos- 
ed, slowly  turned  his  head,  and, 
after  a  patronising  glance  at  the 
pendent  acrobat,  resumed  the  thread 
of  his  meditations.  Possibly  this 
was  intended  as  a  practical  illustra- 
tion of  the  feat  known  to  logicians 
as  "  j  umping  at  a  conclusion."  But 
whether  grave  or  gay,  the  charm 
of  undomesticated  animals  is,  that 
they  show  us  their  nature  fresh 
from  the  Fashioner,  unmodified  by 


education,  or  the  opinion  of  others, 
or  any  influence  which  might  make 
them  wish  to  seem  other  than  they 
are;  and  they  follow  their  sports, 
their  matings,  the  shaping  of  their 
abodes,  their  parental  cares,  the 
purveying  of  their  food,  their  slum- 
bers and  flights  and  perambula- 
tions, their  relations  to  their  fellows, 
whether  gregarious  or  solitary,  with 
absolute  independence  of  all  im- 
pulses except  those  which  inspired 
the  first  of  their  race. 

The  idea  of  a  paradise  of  animals 
who  move  without  fear  round  the 
central  figure  of  man  is  not  alto- 
gether fanciful,  for  something  like 
it  has  been  witnessed  from  time  to 
time  by  lost  crews,  or  storm-driven 
mariners,  who  reach,  Crusoe-like,  a 
haven  in  some  hitherto  unexplored 
province  of  Ocean.  Birds  of  strange 
plumage  come  out  to  welcome  the 
solitary  figure  in  the  boat,  to  perch 
on  the  prow,  and  to  herald  its  pro- 
gress ;  it  nears  the  shore  of  the  far 
antarctic  region  amid  a  crowd  of 
gamesome  seals,  like  the  car  of 
Amphitrite  conducted  by  a  proces- 
sion of  Tritons.  On  the  sands  sit 
sea-lions,  gazing  with  their  solemn 
eyes  at  man,  like  conscript  fathers 
receiving  a  foreign  envoy  ;  penguins 
waddle  in  his  path ;  the  greater  and 
lesser  albatross  come  floating  by, 
turning  a  bright  fearless  glance  on 
him.  Or,  in  warmer  regions,  dol- 
phins are.  his  avant  couriers;  at 
his  approach,  turtles  broad  of  back 
scarce  quit  their  eggs  in  the  sand 
to  crawl  into  the  water  ;  the  gaudy 
parrots  and  creamy-crested  cocka- 
toos scream  inquiry,  not  indigna- 
tion, from  the  branches  ;  the  wood- 
pecker scarce  pauses  in  his  tapping ; 
the  shining  dove  ceases  not  to  woo 
his  mate  ;  the  apes  chatter  a  wel- 
come, and  grin  not  less  affably  than 
many  a  host  and  hostess  who  de- 
sire to  give  the  guest  a  hospitable 
reception.  We  have  ourselves,  in 
the  depths  of  Canadian  forests, 
amid  pines  "  hidden  to  the  knees  " 
in  snow,  seen  the  white  hare  pause 
to  look  at  us  as  she  hopped  past  a 
few  yards  off;  the  tree-grouse  glanc- 


1870.] 


Oar  Poor  Relations. 


535 


ing  downward  from  a  branch  close 
by  with  an  air  of  courteous  in- 
quiry ;  and  the  spruce  -  partridges 
never  disturbing  the  order  in  which 
they  sat  on  the  boughs  as  our  snow- 
shoes  crunched  the  crisp  surface 
underneath — a  confidence  but  ill 
requited,  for  an  Indian,  who  guided 
us  in  those  trackless  woods,  ascend- 
ing the  tree,  and  beginning  with 
the  bird  that  sat  lowest,  plucked 
off,  by  means  of  a  stick  and  a  noose, 
several  in  succession,  passing  the 
fatal  loop  round  their  necks  with 
a  skill  worthy  of  Calcraft.  Not  to 
us  does  this  kind  of  tameness  seem 
shocking,  as  it  did  to  lonely  Crusoe, 
but  rather  delightful,  because  proof 
of  the  innocence  that  imagines  no 
evil ;  and  very  touching,  because  it 
betrays  the  simple  creature  which 
one  might  think  it  ought  to  pro- 
tect. 

In  fact,  the  relations  between 
man  and  his  co-tenants  of  the  globe 
would  have  been  altogether  delight- 
ful but  for  one  unlucky  circum- 
stance— a  circumstance  which,  far 
from  being  inevitable  or  natural,  is 
one  of  the  insoluble  problems  of 
the  earth,  and  has  caused  a  terrible 
jar  and  discord  in  creation — name- 
ly, the  fact  that  one  animal  is  food 
for  another.  No  doubt,  as  matters 
stand,  beasts  and  birds  of  prey 
must  follow  their  nature  ;  the  tear- 
ing of  flesh  and  the  picking  of 
bones  are  the  correlatives  of  fangs 
and  grinders,  beaks  and  talons  ; 
and  the  comparative  anatomist  is 
compelled  to  coincide  with  that 
practical  Yankee,  who,  being  told 
that  in  the  days  of  the  millennium 
the  lion  and  the  lamb  will  lie  down 
together,  said,  "he  expected  the 
lamb  would  lie  down  inside  the 
lion."  Nor  is  there  any  sign  of 
relaxation  in  the  vigour  with  which 
man  continues  to  devour  fish,  flesh, 
and  fowl  ;  and  no  individual  hu- 
man stomach  reaches  maturity 
without  sacrificing  whole  hecatombs 
of  victims  by  the  way.  If  we  (the 
present  writer)  were  to  make  any 
pretence  to  a  virtuous  distaste  for 
flesh,  we  should  justly  be  rebuked 


by  the  thought  of  all  the  slayings 
and  cookings  that  our  presence  in 
the  world  has  caused,  and  will  yet 
cause.  All  the  yet  unborn,  unlit- 
tered,  and  unhatched  creatures  that 
will  be  trussed  and  jointed,  skew- 
ered, basted,  roasted,  boiled,  grilled, 
and  served  up,  to  keep  our  single 
soul  and  body  together,  might  very 
properly  low,  bleat,  grunt,  gobble, 
quack,  cackle,  and  chirp  us  the  lie  in 
our  throat.  In  particular  might  we 
be  haunted  and  humbled  by  the 
memory  of  our  carnivorous  desires 
on  that  evening  when,  having  toiled 
all  day  on  foot  from  Martigny  up 
the  Great  St  Bernard,  we  sat,  hungry 
and  weary,  a  solitary  guest,  with  one 
sad  monk  for  host,  in  the  huge  din- 
ing-hall  of  the  Hospice.  We  were 
hungry  with  the  hunger  of  those 
snow-clad  altitudes  ;  succulent  vi- 
sions of  stew  and  cutlet  floated  be- 
fore our  fancy ;  and  when  an  attend- 
ant bore  into  the  twilight  hall  a 
tray  with  many  dishes,  we  blessed 
the  pious  memory  of  the  sainted 
Bernard.  Our  gratitude  cooled  a 
little  with  the  soup,  which  seemed 
to  be  compounded  of  grass  and 
warm  water  :  the  remains  of  some 
cold  pudding,  of  a  kind  suitable  for 
infants,  followed;  then  some  slices 
of  potato  fried  in  oil ;  then  a  ragout 
of  the  green  products  of  the  Italian 
ditches;  till  at  length,  in  the  grow- 
ing darkness,  a  plate  was  placed 
before  us  on  which  glimmered  some 
small  brown  patches  which  might  be 
diminutive  cutlets,  or  sliced  kidneys, 
or  possibly  bits  of  baked  meat. 
Into  the  nearest  we  plunged  our 
fork — shade  of  Dalgetty,  it  was  a 
stewed  prune  !  A  dried  apple,  we 
believe,  concluded  the  repast,  but 
we  did  not  eat  it.  As  to  grace,  Amen 
stuck  in  our  throat ;  and  we  had 
rather  not  repeat  the  epithets  which 
we  breathed  to  our  pillow  that  night 
in  honour  of  the  canonised  founder 
of  the  feast.  Nor  among  our  gas- 
tronomic recollections  should  we 
omit  the  time  when,  on  a  foreign 
strand,  where  we  had  subsisted  for 
some  days  chiefly  on  the  cabbages 
of  the  country,  and  were  lying,  sick 


536 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


and  jaundiced  and  void  of  all  desire 
for  food,  in  our  tent,  we  were  driven 
by  some  strange  perverse  impulse 
to  devise  an  infinite  number  of  bills 
of  fare,  composed  of  the  choicest 
viands,  to  be  partaken  by  the  choic- 
est guests,  whenever  we  should 
again  sit  in  the  cheerful  warmth  of 
a  certain  club  in  Pall  Mall ;  visions 
since  in  great  part  realised.  When, 
therefore,  we  argue  that  the  jux- 
taposition of  the  words  "  animal 
food  "  expresses  a  disastrous  con- 
dition of  our  existence,  the  candid 
reader  will  understand  that  we 
make  no  pretence  to  have  discover- 
ed an  alternative,  or  to  be  exempt 
from  the  common  misfortune. 

To  a  race  of  vegetarian  men  sur- 
rounded by  vegetarian  animals — 
herds  from  which  they  demanded 
only  milk,  flocks  whose  sole  tribute 
was  their  fleece,  and  poultry  which 
supplied  nothing  but  eggs  to  the 
board — the  idea  of  depriving  crea- 
tures of  life  in  order  to  eat  them 
would  probably  seem  monstrous 
and  repulsive.  But  custom  will  re- 
concile us  to  anything ;  the  Fans 
feast  on  their  nearest  relatives  with 
as  little  disgust  as  we  on  a  haunch 
or  a  sirloin ;  and  if  bills  of  fare  pre- 
vailed among  that  interesting  peo- 
ple, a  rot  of  aged  grandfather,  an 
entree  of  curried  aunt,  or  sucking- 
nephew's  head  en  tortue,  would  be 
as  much  matters  of  course  as  our 
ordinary  dishes.  But,  notwith- 
standing the  omnivorous  conforma- 
tion of  the  human  teeth,  and  the 
all- assimilative  faculty  of  the  hu- 
man stomach,  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
imagined  that  man,  placed  in  a 
paradise  of  roots  and  fruits,  herbs 
and  grain,  honey  and  spices,  milk 
and  wine,  would  have  originated  of 
himself  the  idea  of  killing  and  eat- 
ing animals.  He  may  have  been 
first  corrupted  by  the  bad  example 
of  the  carnivora.  The  spectacle  of 
a  tiger  rending  a  kid,  or  an  eagle  a 
pigeon,  may  have  habituated  him 
to  connect  the  ideas  of  slaughter 
and  food ;  next,  his  imitative  pro- 
pensities may  have  kindled  the  de- 
sire to  perform  the  process  himself ; 


and,  the  imagination  thus  depraved, 
any  remaining  scruples  would  speed- 
ily vanish,  in  time  of  dearth,  before 
the  impulse  of  a  craving  stomach. 
But  however  the  custom  may  have 
arisen,  we  are  not  left  in  any  doubt 
as  to  the  dietary  habits  of  our  prim- 
eval ancestors.  The  earliest  trace  of 
man  on  the  earth  is  the  flint  wea- 
pon with  which  he  slew  the  bear, 
the  deer,  and  the  beaver,  whose 
bones  strew  the  site  of  his  dwellings. 
His  first  garments  were  torn  from 
the  backs  they  grew  on.  His  first 
business  was  the  chase.  Natural 
philosophers  tell  us  that  a  habit,  ac- 
cidental at  first,  grows,  in  the  course 
of  transmission,  into  the  nature,  and 
becomes  a  characteristic.  It  was 
perhaps  in  this  way  that  the  germ 
of  destructiveness,  implanted  by 
instant  and  ever-pressing  necessity 
in  the  aboriginal  breast,  struck 
such  deep  root  that,  in  all  succeed- 
ing ages,  every  corner  of  the  inhab- 
ited earth  has  been  a  shambles,  and 
the  rest  of  animated  creation  has 
been  compelled  to  accept  from  man 
either  subjection  or  persecution — 
persecution  often  pushed  even  to 
extermination.  In  the  pride  of  that 
power  which,  through  the  faculty 
of  speech,  man  possesses,  of  com- 
bining forces  and  transmitting 
knowledge,  he  has  exercised  ruth- 
lessly his  dominion  over  the  beast 
of  the  field  and  the  fowl  of  the  air. 
Wherever  he  has  held  sway,  there 
have  all  other  creatures  drawn  their 
painful  breath  in  subjection,  un- 
championed  and  unpitied.  If  in  that 
imaginary  paradise  of  animals  we 
have  already  sketched,  we  simply  in- 
troduce the  figure  of  a  NATIVE,  the 
whole  scene  changes.  That  lean, 
low-browed,  flat-nosed  caricature  of 
humanity,  more  like  a  painter's  lay 
figure  than  a  sculptor's  model — full 
of  propensities  much  viler  than  those 
of  the  animals  around  him — selfish, 
remorseless,  faithless,  treacherous — 
is  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The 
birds  have  learnt  the  power  of  the 
poisoned  arrow — the  beasts  have  a 
wholesome  dread  of  the  ambush 
and  the  snare.  That  bronze-colour- 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


537 


ed  being,  distinguished  from  the 
ape  chiefly  by  superior  malevolence 
and  articulate  speech,  walks  sur- 
rounded by  a  wide  circle  of  fear. 
The  creatures  around  him  have 
learnt,  and  taught  their  young,  the 
lesson  that  he  is  as  malignant  as  he 
is  powerful.  Only  give  him  time, 
and  he  will  depopulate  whole  re- 
gions of  their  animals.  The  gigan- 
tic Moa  no  longer  stalks  over  the 
hills  of  New  Zealand.  The  moose 
disappears  from  the  east  of  the 
American  continent  as  the  buffalo 
from  the  west.  South  Africa,  that 
used  to  teem  with  wild  herds, 
crowding  the  wide  landscape  up  to 
the  horizon,  and  astounding  the 
traveller  with  the  magnificent 
spectacle  of  tribes  of  antelopes, 
zebras,  and  giraffes  hiding  the  plain, 
elephants  and  rhinoceroses  brows- 
ing securely  amid  the  clumps  of 
trees,  and  hippopotamuses  swarm- 
ing in  the  rivers,  has,  since  the 
negroes  were  supplied  with  guns, 
been  almost  swept  of  its  game,  and 
in  some  parts  not  only  have  the 
birds  disappeared,  but  the  very 
moles  and  mice  are  growing  scarce. 
In  fact,  in  all  lands  the  savage 
gluts  himself  with  slaughter.  Nor 
is  his  civilised  brother  behind  him 
in  the  propensity  to  destroy,  which 
nothing  but  the  interest  of  pro- 
prietorship avails  to  check.  Every- 
where it  is  absolutely  a  capital 
crime  to  be  an  unowned  creature. 
Darwin  tells  us  that  "  when  the 
Falkland  Islands  were  first  visited 
by  man,  the  large  wolf-like  dog 
(Canis  antarcticus)  fearlessly  came 
to  meet  Byron's  sailors,  who,  mis- 
taking their  ignorant  curiosity  for 
ferocity,  ran  into  the  water  to  avoid 
them  ;  even  recently,  a  man,  by  hold- 
ing a  piece  of  meat  in  one  hand  and 
a  knife  in  the  other,  could  sometimes 
stick  them  at  night"  Beautiful 
attitude  of  humanity  !  In  those 
parts  of  America  where  game-laws 
do  not  exist  the  game  has  almost 
disappeared  ;  in  France  the  small 
birds  have  been  destroyed,  to  the 
great  joy  and  prosperity  of  the  in- 
sects and  caterpillars  ;  in  England 


the  interests  of  game -preserving 
have  proscribed  the  owl,  the  falcon, 
the  eagle,  the  weasel,  and  a  host  of 
other  tenants  of  the  woods.  Gen- 
erations ago  the  bustard  had  van- 
ished from  our  downs,  and  within 
the  memory  of  man  the  last  pair  of 
wheatears  were  shot  in  Sussex. 
The  act  which  has  of  late  come  to 
be  stigmatised  as  "  bird-murder/' 
still,  in  rural  districts,  casts  a  halo 
of  glory  round  the  perpetrator ;  and 
we  frequently  read  how  "  Mr  James 
Butcher,  gamekeeper  at  Longears, 
lately  shot  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
golden  eagle  ;  "  or  how  "  our 
respected  fellow  -  townsman,  Mr 
Noodle,  killed,  last  Wednesday, 
the  only  hoopoe  that  has  visited 
this  part  of  the  country  for  many 
years."  Nightingales,  so  common 
in  the  south  of  England,  have  not 
spread  so  far  westward  as  Devon- 
shire ;  and  an  idiot  once  wrote  to 
the  papers  to  announce  that  he  had 
just  succeeded  in  killing  one  which 
had  been  guilty  of  straying  within 
the  confines  of  that  county,  "  as  it 
was  singing  on  the  top  of  a  thorn." 
Sometimes,  in  distant  seas,  new 
tracts  of  coast  have  been  discover- 
ed abounding  in  seals,  and  straight- 
way crews  of  enterprising  mariners 
have  arrived  armed  with  spears  and 
clubs,  who  have  wallowed  in  slaugh- 
ter, never  ceasing  to  stab  and  strike 
till  all  that  hapless  and  harmless 
life  was  extinct,  no  tenants  again 
for  ever  lending  cheer  to  those 
desolate  shores,  the  grey  lonely  sea 
no  more  rippled  by  their  sports. 
Wherever  there  is  no  law  for  the 
river  or  the  lake,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  flood  disappear  —  even  the 
countless  tribes  of  the  ocean  are 
being  rapidly  thinned  by  the  in- 
satiate rapacity  of  man. 

But  not  for  his  bodily  needs 
alone  has  the  human  animal  been 
so  lavish  in  destroying  others. 
His  spiritual  interests  have  also 
demanded  much  of  that  kind  of 
prodigality.  A  devil,  under  one 
name  or  another,  lies  at  the  root 
of  many  religions ;  and  many,  in 
their  infancies,  have  recognised  the 


538 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


duty  of  propitiating  the  unseen 
powers  by  sacrifice.  Deeply  con- 
vinced, and  with  good  reason,  of 
the  tremendous  power  of  evil  in 
human  affairs ;  feeling  in  his  own 
lot 'how  irresistible  is  the  force 
of  malignant  influences,  how  fu- 
tile his  efforts  to  evade  them, — 
man  has  soon  learned  to  associate 
the  supernatural  power  which  he 
dreads,  with  delight  in  inflicting 
pain ;  and,  accustomed  to  slay  crea- 
tures for  his  own  wants,  he  next 
conceives  the  idea  of  slaying  them 
for  the  satisfaction  of  his  sangui- 
nary gods.  In  most  lands  the 
supplications  of  the  savage  to  his 
deity  are  written  in  blood ;  and  his 
petitions,  often  foolish  and  often 
wicked,  are  thought  to  be  more 
palatable  if  they  ascend  in  the 
smoke  of  burnt-offerings.  As  civi- 
lisation advances,  sacrifice  grows 
more  ceremonial  —  butchery  be- 
comes a  priestly  function  ;  and  the 
ancient  world  was  filled  with 
blood-stained  altars,  the  mytho- 
logy of  its  peoples  with  prescribed 
modes  of  reverential  slaughter, 
and  the  assignment  to  particular 
deities  of  particular  victims.  It 
was  natural  that  the  idea  of  pro- 
pitiation by  vicarious  suffering 
should  extend  till  it  included  man 
himself;  and  had  the  oxen,  and 
lambs,  and  kids,  and  birds,  whose 
fellows  bled  so  constantly  as  votive 
offerings,  been  capable  of  sharing 
the  strictly  human  gratification  of 
revenge,  they  would  have  found 
ample  opportunity  for  exulting  in 
the  spectacle  of  men  sacrificed  by 
their  fellows.  "  Moloch,  horrid 
king,"  has  been  worshipped,  though 
not  always  under  that  name,  in 
many  lands,  and  in  many  ages ; 
his  grinning  image  has  looked  down 
on  Druids  with  their  wicker  idols 
filled  with  victims,  and  on  Aztec 
priest  laying  hearts  yet  beating  on 
his  altar-stone.  Even  in  our  day, 
his  votary  the  Thug  makes  assassi- 
nation the  chief  article  of  religion, 
and  the  king  of  Dahomey  floats  his 
consecrated  canoe  in  human  blood. 
There  was  a  profound  meaning, 


and  one  applicable  to  the  history 
of  our  race,  in  Hogarth's  represen- 
tation of  different  stages  in  atrocity, 
where  the  hero,  beginning  with 
cruelty,  ends  with  murder. 

Nevertheless,  in  all  his  slayings 
and  his  sacrifices,  man  has  had 
standing  between  him  and  reproba- 
tion the  plea  of  the  hard  conditions 
of  life,  which  rendered  his  acts  na- 
tural and  necessary,  and  therefore 
not  degrading.  Even  when  the 
chase,  as  in  the  great  huntings  of 
the  Asiatic  monarchs,  left  the  plain 
laden  with  carcasses,  this  was  still 
only  the  excess  of  a  propensity  easy 
to  be  justified.  But  perhaps,  in 
course  of  time,  the  habit  of  looking 
on  the  whole  animal  world  as  abso- 
lutely subject  to  the  convenience  of 
man,;and  of  regarding  the  infliction 
of  death  with  indifference,  devel- 
oped a  latent  germ  in  our  mysteri- 
ous nature,  whereupon  a  new  human 
quality — namely,  CRUELTY — sprang 
up  and  greatly  flourished.  No  doubt 
it  had,  in  the  congenial  soil  of  indi- 
vidual human  breasts,  in  all  times 
found  its  habitat :  natures  partak- 
ing so  much  more  of  the  demon 
than  the  god  as  to  find  enjoyment 
in  the  contemplation  of  pain,  must 
always  have  been  but  too  plentiful. 
But  in  course  of  time  this  poi- 
sonous offspring  of  a  bad  heart 
came,  in  gardeners'  language,  to  be 
"bedded  out"  in  national  institu- 
tions, such  as  the  Flavian  and  other 
amphitheatres,  our  own  bear-bait- 
ings, bull-baitings,  badger-baitings, 
rat  -  killings,  and  cock-fights,  the 
arenas  of  Eastern  princes,  and  the 
bull-rings  of  Spain ;  and  whole 
peoples  were  trained  in  the  main 
doctrine  of  devil-worship — namely, 
that  it  is  delightful  to  inflict  or  to 
witness  agony.  All  the  aid  which 
grandeur  of  architecture,  pomp  of 
ceremonial,  the  sanction  of  author- 
ity, and  the  keen  expectation  and 
high-strung  interest  which  are  en- 
gendered in  the  holiday  assemblies 
of  multitudes,  could  lend  to  develop 
cruelty  and  quench  humanity,  was 
afforded  by  these  great  spectacles. 
Rome  transferred  to  the  huge  circus 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


539 


on  these  occasions  her  statecraft, 
her  priesthood,  her  beauty,  her  lofty 
patrician  airs  and  graces,  her  jolly 
plebeian  merriment ;  fresh  garlands, 
new  togas,  gay  girdles,  splendid 
robes,  and  brilliant  gems,  made  the 
wide  sweep  of  the  amphitheatre 
a  circle  of  splendour.  Into  the 
sand-strewn  space  below  crowded 
the  bewildered  inhabitants  of  the 
forest  and  the  desert — the  slow- 
stalking  elephant,  the  giraffe  with 
its  towering  form  and  gentle  eyes, 
the  sleek  slinking  tiger,  the  sturdy 
undaunted  boar,  the  plumed  os- 
triches hurrying  hither  and  thither 
in  search  of  an  outlet.  Brilliant 
thus  far  the  spectacle — but  interest- 
ing to  "  those  bold  Romans  "  only 
for  its  promise  of  slaughter;  and 
their  enjoyment  was  incomplete  till 
the  bright  fur  was  dabbled  in  blood, 
the  huge  forms  still  in  death,  the 
feathers  strewn  on  the  sand ;  and 
then,  from  fall  and  grateful  hearts, 
they  applauded  the  imperial  pur- 
veyor of  the  sport,  the  good  old 
monarch  Tiberius,  who  went  home 
to  spend  the  evening  in  torturing 
some  slaves,  or  the  most  sweet 
youth  Domitian,  who  had  been  kill- 
ing flies  in  his  palace  all  the  morn- 
ing. And  in  the  Plazas  de  Toros 
of  Honda,  Seville,  or  Madrid,  the 
modern  spectator  may  realise  no 
small  portion  of  the  magnificence 
of  the  amphitheatres  of  the  old 
world,  and  may  see,  joyous  and 
eager  as  ever,  the  spirit  that  delights 
in  blood.  This  consecration  of 
cruelty  could  not  but  react  on  the 
people  ;  torture  was  a  refined,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  cheap,  pleasure. 
Poverty  itself,  debarred  from  such 
luxuries  as  elephants  and  ostriches, 
could  at  least  procure  cats,  rats, 
birds,  and  frogs ;  and  wherever 
there  was  a  defenceless  animal  and 
a  few  ingenuous  youth,  tJiere  was 
a  small  Colosseum.  It  was  natural 
that  a  people  thus  trained  should 
demand,  for  the  full  satisfaction  of 
their  desires,  the  blood  of  gladiators 
and  captives. 

No  longer  sacrificing  to  the  an- 
cient gods,  we  still  lay  living  offer- 


ings on  the  shrine  of  the  chief 
divinity  in  modern  mythology — 
namely,  Science.  The  most  virtu- 
ous among  us  agree  (not  without  a 
certain  air  of  pious  satisfaction  at 
the  supposed  necessity)  that  it  is 
lawful  to  dissect  live  animals  for 
the  benefit  of  humanity.  Where 
the  sanctioning  law  is  to  be  found 
we  know  not,  and  it  was  certainly 
made  without  reference  to  the  par- 
ties principally  concerned,  which 
seems  hardly  consonant  with  the 
spirit  of  modern  legislation.  It 
may,  however,  be  granted  that  when 
some  great  discovery  is  the  result, 
the  wrong  may  be,  if  not  justified, 
excused — that,  when  Bell  succeeds 
in  demonstrating  the  functions  of 
the  brain,  we  may  agree  not  to  in- 
quire too  closely  into  the  number 
of  living  creatures  whose  nerves  of 
motion  and  sensation  were  laid  bare 
and  pricked  with  needles  during 
the  investigation.  Neither  can  we 
altogether  condemn  that  discoverer 
when  we  find  him  preparing  to  pro- 
cure a  monkey  on  which  to  prac- 
tise the  operation  that  goes  by  his 
name  (Bell's,  not  the  monkey's)  for 
the  cure  of  squinting — though,  of 
course,  the  monkey  would  not  care 
though  the  whole  human  race 
squinted.  But  after  excepting  a 
few  great  names,  we  fear  there  are 
still  throughout  the  surgical  and 
veterinary  professions  numerous 
diligent  inquirers,  who,  without  the 
intellect  necessary  to  penetrate  the 
secrets  of  science,  are  engaged  in 
the  pursuit  of  delusions,  or  of 
crotchets,  or  of  matters  unimportant 
if  true,  and  on  such  grounds  do 
not  hesitate  to  submit  animals  to 
the  most  prolonged  and  horrible 
tortures.  The  professional  gentle- 
man who  is  known  to  be  engaged 
in  such  practices  may  very  fairly 
be  suspected  of  indulging  a  taste 
under  the  sanction  of  a  duty;  for 
it  is  hardly  to  be  believed  that  any- 
body who  did  not  enjoy  vivisection 
for  its  own  sake  would  submit  his 
nature  to  what  would  be  such  vio- 
lence, unless  under  the  pressure  of 
a  very  exceptionally  powerful  mo- 


540 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


tive.  The  miscreants  of  the  vete- 
rinary colleges  of  Lyons  and  Alfort, 
for  example,  who  habitually  per- 
formed many  most  terrible  opera- 
tions, some  of  them  of  no  possible 
application  as  remedies,  on  the 
same  living  horse,  and  who  warmly 
resented  interference,  must  have 
found  a  horrid  relish  in  their  vile 
vocation.  In  a  letter  published  in 
a  journal  devoted  to  the  interests 
of  animals,  we  find  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal surgeons  of  the  Hotel  Dieu, 

M.  le  Docteur  M (we  are  sorry 

we  cannot  give  his  honourable 
name)  reported  as  saying  that 
studies  and  experiments  are  always 
made  on  living  animals  ;  and  that 
there  is  a  class  of  men  who  live  by 
catching  stray  dogs  and  selling  them 
to  be  operated  on,  five  or  six  ope- 
rations being  often  performed  on 
the  same  animal.  "Sometimes," 
said  the  doctor,  "  I  have  taken  pity 
upon  the  poor  brutes;  they  showed 
so  much  intelligence,  and  seemed 
to  think  I  was  operating  upon  them 
to  do  them  good.  In  such  cases  I 
have  occasionally  kept  them,  but 
usually  I  turn  them  into  the  street." 
Is  it  uncharitable  to  hope  that  the 
next  dog  operated  on  may  be  rabid, 
and  may  bite  this  scientific  inquir- 
er ?  There  is  a  well-known  piteous 
case,  too,  of  an  English  vivisector 
who  operated  on  his  own  dog  while 
it  licked  the  hand  that  continued 
to  dissect  it. 

But  there  is  yet  another  class 
of  these  votaries  of  science,  called 
Naturalists,  to  whom  no  kind  of 
creature  that  can  be  classified  comes 
amiss  as  a  victim,  from  a  butterfly 
to  a  hippopotamus.  Armed  some- 
times with  a  rifle,  sometimes  less 
expensively  with  a  pin,  they  go 
forth  into  strange  lands  to  collect 
what  they  call  the  "fauna."  Mil- 
lions of  moths,  before  they  have 
fluttered  out  half  their  brief  exist- 
ence in  the  sunshine,  are  secured 
by  these  sportsmen,  and  impaled 
in  boxes.  Lizards  and  other  rep- 
tiles suspected  of  differing  from 
the  rest  of  their  race,  are  put  to 
death  without  mercy.  The  rarity 


of  various  birds,  and  the  splendour 
of  their  plumage,  are  held  to  be 
sufficient  grounds  for  their  execu- 
tion. So  earnest  in  their  pursuit 
are  these  gentlemen,  that  we  have 
sometimes,  when  reading  their  own 
account  of  their  doings,  suspected 
that  they  would  have  scrupled  little 
to  add  a  stray  Native  now  and  then 
to  their  collection,  provided  they 
did  not  thereby  expose  themselves 
to  the  penalties  of  murder.  We 
will  here  give  some  extracts  from 
the  recent  work  of  a  naturalist, 
which  is  in  many  respects  agreeable 
and  entertaining,  premising  that 
the  "  Mias  "  who  figures  in  them  is 
a  gigantic  ape  (the  orang-outang, 
we  believe),  a  native  of  Borneo, 
living  for  the  most  part  inoffensive- 
ly on  the  products  of  the  woods  ; 
and  that  only  a  single  case  is  quoted 
in  the  book  of  any  of  the  race  hav- 
ing injured  mankind,  in  which  one 
that  was  intercepted  in  its  retreat 
to  a  tree,  and  stabbed  with  spears 
and  hacked  with  axes,  resented 
these  playful  aggressions  so  far  as 
to  bite  one  of  its  assailants  in  the 
arm.  This  is  the  account  of  the 
result  of  a  great  many  shots  fired 
by  the  naturalist  at  a  Mias  who  was 
making  off  through  the  branches  of 
the  tall  trees  : — "  On  examination 
we  found  he  had  been  dreadfully 
wounded.  Both  legs  were  broken, 
one  hip-joint  and  the  root  of  the 
spine  completely  shattered,  and  two 
bullets  were  found  flattened  in  his 
neck  and  jaws !  Yet  he  was  still 
alive  when  he  fell." 

Another  of  these  subjects  of 
scientific  investigation  was  thus 
treated  : — 

"Two  shots  caused  this  animal  to 
loose  his  hold,  but  he  hung  for  a  con- 
siderable time  by  one  hand,  and  then 
fell  flat  on  his  face,  and  was  half  buried 
in  the  swamp.  For  several  minutes  he 
lay  groaning  and  panting,  and  we  stood 
close  round,  expecting  every  breath  to 
be  his  last.  Suddenly,  however,  by  a 
violent  effort,  he  raised  himself  up, 
causing  us  all  to  step  back  a  yard  or 
two,  when,  standing  nearly  erect,  he 
caught  hold  of  a  small  tree,  and  began 
to  ascend  it.  Another  shot  through  the 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


541 


back  caused  him  to  fall  down  dead.  A 
flattened  bullet  was  found  in  his  tongue, 
having  entered  the  lower  part  of  the 
abdomen,  and  completely  traversed 
the  body,  fracturing  the  first  cervical 
vertebra.  Yet  it  was  after  this  fearful 
wound  that  he  had  risen  and  begun 
climbing  with  considerable  facility." 

This  was  the  fate  of  another  of 
these  unfortunates  : — 

"We  found  a  Mias  feeding  in  a  very 
lofty  darion  tree,  and  succeeded  in  kill- 
ing it  after  eight  shots.  Unfortunately 
it  remained  in  the  tree,  hanging  by  its 
hands  ;  and  we  were  obliged  to  leave 
it  and  return  home,  as  it  was  several 
miles  off.  As  I  felt  pretty  sure  it 
would  fall  during  the  night,  I  returned 
to  the  place  early  the  next  morning, 
and  found  it  on  the  ground  beneath  the 
tree.  To  my  astonishment  and  pleas- 
ure, it  appeared  to  be  a  different  kind 
from  any  I  had  yet  seen." 

Perhaps  the  reader  whose  sensi- 
bilities are  as  yet  unaffected  by 
science,  may  think  that  these  are 
very  shocking  penalties  for  the 
crime  of  being  a  Mias,  and  of  pos- 
sessing an  anatomical  structure 
much  coveted  by  museums;  and 
may  feel  disposed  (parodying 
Madame  Roland)  to  exclaim,  **O 
Science,  what  deeds  are  done  in  thy 
name ! " 

In  those  days  (says  an  Oriental 
fabulist  in  the  least  known  of  Ms 
apologues  which  we  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  translate  from  the  ori- 
ginal Arabic),  when  certain  sages 
were  acquainted  with  the  language 
of  animals  (an  accomplishment 
which  they  inherited  from  Solomon, 
who  is  well  known  to  have  added 
this  to  his  other  stores  of  wisdom), 
it  naturally  came  to  pass  that,  not 
only  did  men  know  something  of 
the  thoughts  of  birds  and  beasts, 
but  to  birds  and  beasts  were  im- 
parted some  of  the  ideas  of  men, 
and,  among  others,  that  of  a  devil 
or  malignant  power  who  is  the 
source  of  evil.  Much  impressed 
with  the  reality  of  the  ills  of  life, 
and  the  expediency  of  lessening 
them,  the  fowls  and  brutes  resolved 
to  seek  some  means  of  propitiating 
the  being  who  exercised  over  them 


so  baleful  an  influence.  Accordingly 
they  held  a  convocation  to  debate 
the  matter,  and  it  being  necessary, 
as  a  first  step,  to  gain  a  more  defin- 
ite idea  of  the  nature  and  attributes 
of  this  malevolent  power,  different 
classes  of  animals  were  called  on  to 
describe  the  ills  they  chiefly  suf- 
fered from,  that  their  misfortunes 
might  thus  be  traced  to  a  common 
source.  The  Lion,  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  beasts  of  prey,  declared 
that  he  would  have  nothing  to  com- 
plain of,  game  being  plentiful,  were 
it  not  for  the  accursed  hunters  with 
their  devices,  which  left  him  no 
peace.  The  Antelope  said  that  the 
class  of  wild  creatures  to  which  he 
belonged  would  be  content  to  match 
their  own  vigilance  and  swiftness 
against  the  craft  and  strength  of 
their  four-footed  persecutors,  but 
that  they  could  not  contend  with 
the  terrible  ingenuity  of  man,  who, 
in  his  pursuit  of  them,  had  even 
called  other  animals  to  his  aid ;  and 
that,  whereas  a  beast  of  prey  mo- 
lested them  only  for  the  satisfaction 
of  his  individual  needs,  man  was 
insatiate  in  slaughter.  The  Birds 
were  of  one  consent  that  they  feared 
little  the  hostility  of  animals,  but 
that  snares  and  traps  rendered  their 
lives  a  burden  by  causing  them  to 
distrust  every  mouthful  they  ate. 
The  Sheep,  as  the  mouthpiece  of  a 
large  class  of  domestic  animals,  de- 
clared that  he  was  well  cared  for, 
fed,  and  protected  from  harm,  but 
that  be  paid  a  heavy  price  for  these 
favours  by  living  in  constant  Ex- 
pectation of  the  inevitable  and  ex- 
tremely premature  moment  when 
he  .  would  become  mutton.  The 
Horse  averred  that  he  also  was 
well  cared  for,  and  that,  moreover, 
his  life,  unlike  the  sheep's,  was  in- 
sured so  long  as  he  had  health  and 
strength,  but  (motioning  with  his 
muzzle  towards  the  saddle-marks 
on  his  back  and  the  spur-galls  on 
his  flanks)  that  his  life  was  deprived 
of  savour  by  being  one  of  perpetual 
slavery.  The  Dog  said  that  his  lot 
might  perhaps  seem  the  happiest  of 
all,  in  being  the  companion  of  his 


542 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


master,  but  that  in  reality  he  had 
more  to  lament  than  any  of  them, 
since  protection  was  only  granted 
to  him  on  condition  that  he  should 
aid  in  the  destruction  of  his  fellow- 
brutes.  A  great  mass  of  informa- 
tion having  been  accumulated  in 
this  way,  the  assembly  seemed  still 
as  far  as  ever  from  discovering  the 
object  of  its  inquiry,  when  an  an- 
cient Raven,  of  vast  repute  for  wis- 
dom, hopping  to  a  loftier  branch, 
desired  to  speak.  "  My  friends," 
he  croaked,  "  what  we  are  seeking 
lies  under  our  very  noses.  I  per- 
ceive what  this  power  of  evil  is, 
and  how  futile  will  be  all  attempts 
to  propitiate  it,  for  it  is  clear  that 
Man,  insatiate  Man,  is  our  Devil!" 
Yet,  in  truth,  is  Nature  often  no 
less  harsh  than  man  in  dealing  with 
her  inarticulate  offspring.  To  them 
(as  indeed  to  us;  she  shows  fitful 
favour,  capricious  severity.  In  one 
zone  animal  life  seems  all  happi- 
ness, in  another  all  misery.  It  is 
a  pleasure  to  a  care-laden,  tax-ham- 
pered citizen  merely  to  think  how, 
under  certain  conditions  of  adapta- 
tion to  climate,  whole  tribes  of  crea- 
tures, countless  in  number,  revel  in 
the  opulence  and  prodigality  of  food, 
of  air,  of  sunshine,  and  of  sport ; — 
the  task  of  supporting  life  is  so  easy 
as  to  leave  them  infinite  leisure  for 
enjoying  it; — they  are  as  Sandwich 
Islanders,  into  whose  simple  un- 
taught methods  of  making  exist- 
ence pleasure  no  missionary  can 
ever  introduce  the  jarring  element 
of  a  half-awakened  conscience.  As 
Shelley  heard  in  the  notes  of  the 
skylark  "clear,  keen  joyance," 
"  love  of  its  own  kind,"  and  "  ig- 
norance of  pain/'  and  exhausted 
himself  in  sweet  similitudes  for  the 
small  musician  that  "  panted  forth 
a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine  " — so, 
had  we  his  gift,  we  might  discern 
elements  as  rare  in  the  lives  of  vari- 
ous races,  but  which,  owing  to  the 
accident  of  wanting  a  grammatical 
language,  they  are  unable  to  reveal 
to  us.  What  a  descriptive  poem 
must  the  Eagle  have  in  him,  who, 
sailing  in  ether,  miles  beyond  our 


ken,  sees  earth  beneath  him  as  a 
map,  and  through  gaps  in  the  clouds 
catches  blue  glimpses  of  the  ocean 
and  yellow  gleams  of  the  desert! 
Often,  while  resting  on  his  great 
pennons  in  the  serene  blue,  has  he 
seen  a  thunderstorm  unroll  its  page- 
ant beneath  him,  and  watched  the 
jagged  lightning  as  it  darted  earth- 
ward. (Tom  Campbell  was  once 
taken  up  by  an  eagle  near  Oran, 
and,  coming  safely  down,  described 
what  he  had  seen  in  immortal  verse). 
Those  hermit  birds  which  live  by 
lonely  streams  in  wild  valleys,  like 
the  ousel  and  the  kingfisher,  must 
be  full  of  delicate  fancies — fancies 
very  different  from  those,  which 
must  be  very  delicate  also,  that 
visit  the  nomads  of  the  air,  such  as 
the  swallow,  the  cuckoo,  and  the 
quail,  with  their  large  experience  of 
countries  and  climes  and  seas.  How 
delicious,  how  ever  fresh,  how  close 
to  nature,  the  life  of  a  sea-fowl 
whose  home  is  in  some  cliff  fronting 
the  dawn,  and  who,  dwelling  al- 
ways there,  yet  sees  infinite  variety 
in  the  ever-changing  sky  and  sea — 
flapping  leisurely  over  the  gentle 
ripples  in  the  morning  breeze — 
alighting  in  the  depths  which  mir- 
ror the  evening  sky  so  placidly  as 
to  break  into  circles  round  the  dip 
of  his  wing — piercing,  like  a  ray, 
the  silver  haze  of  the  rain-cloud — 
lost  in  the  dusky  bosom  of  the 
squall — blown  about  like  a  leaf  on 
the  storm  which  strews  the  shore 
with  wrecks — and,  next  day,  rising 
and  falling  in  the  sunshine  on  the 
curves  of  the  swell !  Turning  from 
air  to  earth,  the  very  spirit  of  Tell 
— the  spirit  of  independence  bred  of 
the  pure  sharp  air  of  mountain  soli- 
tudes and  the  stern  aspect  of  the 
snow-clad  pinnacles — must  live  in 
the  Chamois  who  seeks  his  food 
and  pastime  on  the  verge  of  im- 
measurable precipices.  Grand  al- 
so, but  infinitely  different,  the  soli- 
tary empire  of  some  shaggy  lord 
of  the  wilderness,  on  whose  ease 
none  may  intrude,  and  who  stalks 
through  life  surrounded  by  images 
of  flight  and  terror— glowing  al- 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


543 


ways  with  the  gloomy  rage  of  the 
despot — a  despot  careless  of  heredi- 
tary right,  elected  by  nobody's  suf- 
frage, relying  on  no  strength  but 
his  own.  and  absolutely  indifferent 
to  public  opinion.  Below  these 
lofty  regions  of  animal  grandeur, 
but  quite  within  the  circle  of  com- 
fort and  happiness,  dwell  an  infi- 
nite number  of  creatures,  some  find- 
ing their  felicity  in  flocks  or  herds, 
some  in  retiring  into  strict  domes- 
tic seclusion  with  the  mate  of  their 
choice,  some  in  exercising  the  con- 
structive faculties  with  which  they 
are  so  mysteriously  and  unerringly 
endowed.  The  conies  are  but  a 
feeble  folk,  yet  they  may  have  their 
own  ideas  of  household  suffrage  in 
those  close  burrows  of  theirs,  and 
could  doubtless  chronicle  much 
that  would  be  valuable  to  parents 
while  bringing  up  about  fifteen 
families  a-year.  Rats  and  mice  and 
such  small  deer  lead  lives  of  great 
variety,  observation,  and  adventure, 
though  precarious  and  mostly  tra- 
gical in  their  ending,  the  poison 
and  the  steel  being  as  fatal  to 
them  as  to  the  enemies  of  the  Bor- 
gias,  or  claimants  to  disputed  suc- 
cessions in  the  middle  ages.  And, 
again,  beneath  these,  too  insignifi- 
cant to  excite  the  hostility  or  cu- 
pidity of  man,  dwell  an  infinite 
number  of  creatures,  creeping  and 
winged  things,  whose  spacious 
home  is  the  broad  sunshine ;  so 
that,  viewed  from  a  favourable 
standpoint,  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  world,  its  cellars,  garrets, 
lumber-rooms,  and  all,  seem  to  over- 
flow with  busy  delight  or  quiet 
happiness. 

But  who  would  recognise  in  this 
kind  and  liberal  mother,  so  lavish 
of  pleasures  to  her  offspring,  the 
stern  power  that  makes  the  lives  of 
whole  races  sheer  misery  1  Can 
any  one  fancy  what  it  must  be  to 
have  habitual  dread  forming  an 
element  of  life,  and  transmitted 
through  countless  generations  till 
it  finds  expression  in  habits  of 
vigilance,  of  stealth,  and  of  evasion, 
that  we  take  for  peculiar  instincts  ? 


This  power  of  communicating  the 
results  of  experience,  and  of  circu- 
lating throughout  a  whole  species 
the  fear  of  a  known  evil,  is  one  of 
the  most  inexplicable  faculties  of 
unreasoning  and  inarticulate  crea- 
tures. A  naturalist,  well  qualified 
to  form  an  opinion,  believes,  we 
are  told,  that  the  life  of  all  beasts 
in  their  wild  state  is  an  exceed- 
ingly anxious  one  ;  that  "  every 
antelope  in  South  Africa  has  liter- 
ally to  run  for  its  life  once  in  every 
one  or  two  days  upon  an  average, 
and  that  he  starts  or  gallops  under 
the  influence  of  a  false  alarm  many 
times  in  a  day."  Our  own  fields 
and  woods  are  full  of  proscribed 
creatures  which  must  feel  as  if  they 
had  no  business  in  creation,  and 
only  draw  their  breath  by  stealth, 
vanishing  in  earth,  or  air,  or  water, 
at  the  shadow  of  an  imagined  ene- 
my. In  those  lands  of  the  sun 
where  vegetation  is  most  luxuriant, 
and  food  consequently  most  as- 
sured, there  is  yet  a  kind  of  pri- 
vation as  terrible  as  hunger.  "  At 
Koobe,"  says  Livingstone,  describ- 
ing his  experiences  in  Africa, 
"  there  was  such  a  mass  of  mud  in 
the  pond,  worked  up  by  the  wallow- 
ing rhinoceros  to  the  consistency  of 
mortar,  that  only  by  great  labour 
could  we  get  a  space  cleared  at  one 
side  for  the  water  to  ooze  through 
and  collect  in  for  the  oxen.  Should 
the  rhinoceros  come  back,  a  single 
roll  in  the  great  mass  we  had 
thrown  on  one  side  would  have 
rendered  all  our  labour  vain.  It 
was  therefore  necessary  for  us  to 
guard  the  spot  by  night.  On  these 
great  flats,  all  around,  we  saw  in  the 
white  sultry  glare  herds  of  zebras, 
gnus,  and  occasionally  buffaloes, 
standing  for  days,  looking  wistfully 
towards  the  wells  for  a  share  of  the 
nasty  water."  And  in  other  parts 
of  the  African  continent,  when  the 
fierceness  of  the  summer  has  dried 
up  the  rivers,  the  amphibia,  great 
and  small,  collect  in  uncongenial 
crowds  in  the  pools  left  along  the 
deeper  parts  of  the  channel ;  and 
the  land  animals,  the  deer,  the 


544 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


apes,  the  birds,  stoop  hastily  and 
furtively  to  snatch  insufficient 
draughts  from  the  depths  where 
lurk  so  many  ravenous  foes.  Then, 
in  colder  lands,  what  wretchedness 
does  winter  bring — when  the  snow 
puts  an  end  to  the  livelihood  of  all 
the  tribes  which  seek  sustenance 
on  the  earth,  and  the  frost  mocks 
the  misery  of  those  whose  food  is 
in  the  marsh  or  the  pool !  The 
frozen-out  woodcock  taps  in  vain 
for  a  soft  spot  in  which  to  insert 
his  slender  bill — his  larder  is  locked 
up  and  the  key  gone.  In  one  long 
frost  all  the  snipe  perished  in  parts 
of  Scotland,  and  have  never  been 
plentiful  since.  Now  and  then 
comes  a  winter  so  sharp  that  the 
naturalist  misses,  next  summer, 
whole  species  from  theiraccustomed 
haunts.  A  rural  poet,  Hurdis,  who 
caught  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  Cowper's  inspiration,  has  the 
following  passage  on  the  condition 
of  birds  in  winter,  which  took  such 
effect  on  our  boyhood  as  to  save 
many  a  blackbird  and  starling  from 
our  "resounding  tube,"  and  which, 
on  reading  it  again  after  the  not 
brief  interval  now  separating  us 
from  that  golden  time,  still  seems 
to  us  much  more  genuine  poetry 
than  many  elegant  extracts  of  far 
higher  pretension  : — 

"  Subdued  by  hunger,  the  poor  feathery 

tribes, 

Small  dread  of  man  retain,  though  wound- 
ed oft, 

Oft  slain,  or  scared  by  his  resounding  tube. 
The  fieldfare  gray,  and  he  of  ruddier  wing, 
Hop  o'er  the  field  unheeding,  easy  prey 
To  him  whose  heart  has  adamant  enough 
To  level  thunder  at  their  humbled  race. 
The  sable  bird  melodious  from  the  bough 
No  longer  springs,  alert  and  clamorous, 
Short  flight  and  sudden  with  transparent 

wing 

Along  the  dyke  performing,  fit  by  fit. 
Shuddering   he  sits,  in  horrent  coat  out- 

swoln. 

Despair  has  made  him  silent,  and  he  falls 
From  his  loved  hawthorn  of  its  berry 

spoiled, 
A   wasted    skeleton,    shot    through    and 

through 
By  the  near-aiming  sportsman.     Lovely 

bird, 

So  end  thy  sorrows,  and  so  ends  thy  song ; 
Never  again  in  the  still  summer's  eve, 


Or  early  dawn  of  purple-vested  morn, 
Shalt  thou  be  heard,  or  solitary  song 
"Whistle  contented  from  the  water}'  bough, 
What  time  the  sun  flings  o'er  the  dewy 

earth 

An  unexpected  beam,  fringing  with  flame 
The  cloud  immense,  whose  shower-shed- 
ding folds 

Have  all  day  dwelt  upon  a  deluged  world  : 
No,  thy  sweet  pipe  is  mute,  it  sings  no 
more. " 

The  picture  which  follows,  and 
which  less  obviously  aims  at  ex- 
citing sympathy,  is  none  the  less 
effective  for  that  : — 

"  High  on  the  topmost  branches  of  the 

elm, 

In  sable  conversation  sits  the  flock 
Of  social  starlings,  the  withdrawing  beam 
Enjoying,  supperless,  of  hasty  day." 

How  mournful  for  these  poor 
starvelings  the  fact,  apparently  so 
insignificant,  that  the  temperature 
has  fallen  below  freezing-point ! 
What  misery  is  approaching  them 
in  the  leaden  gloom  of  the  north- 
east !  And  in  those  circles  of  the 
earth  where  the  reign  of  winter  is 
prolonged,  hunger  is  the  insepar- 
able associate  of  life,  lying  down 
with  it  in  its  shivering  sleep,  rising 
with  it  in  its  gloomy  waking,  and 
tracking  its  footsteps  always  along 
the  ice-bound  circuit  of  its  weary 
quest. 

But  if  the  vicissitudes  of  climate 
are  fraught  with  suffering,  so  are 
the  vicissitudes  of  age.  The  in- 
fancy of  many  animals  is  as  helpless 
as  babyhood.  Few  hired  nurses,  it 
is  true,  are  so  patient,  so  provident, 
so  watchful,  so  untiring  in  care,  as 
the  dams,  feathered  or  furred,  who, 
in  nest  or  lair,  watch  over  their 
young.  But  then  the  lives  of  these 
guardians  are  terribly  precarious, 
and  innumerable  are  the  orphans 
of  the  animal  world.  The  boy  with 
his  snare  or  his  stone — the  game- 
keeper with  gin,  or  net,  or  gun — the 
watchful  enemies  who  swoop  from 
the  air  or  spring  from  the  ambush — 
are  very  apt  to  make  the  nurslings 
motherless.  In  how  many  an  eyrie 
have  sat  gaping  eaglets  expectant 
of  the  broad  food-bringing  wings 
that  will  never  more  overshadow 
them — the  said  wings  being  then 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


545 


indeed  outstretched  on  a  barn-door, 
nailed  there  by  that  intelligent  high- 
priest  of  nature,  the  keeper  !  In 
how  many  burrows  starve,  before 
ever  seeing  the  light,  litters  of 
young  whose  providers  lie  dead  in 
the  wood,  or  hang  from  a  nail  in 
the  larder  !  In  how  many  nests  of 
sticks,  swaying  on  the  pine-tops, 
scream  the  unfeathered  rooks,  while 
the  old  bird  is  suspended  as  a  scare- 
crow from  a  stick  in  the  distant 
corn  -  field  !  Every  wet  spring 
drowns  in  the  holes  they  have 
never  learnt  to  quit  a  multitude 
of  small  helpless  creatures — every 
storm  of  early  summer  casts  innume- 
rable half-fledged  birds  premature- 
ly on  the  hard  world  to  cower  and 
scramble  and  palpitate  and  hunger, 
till  inevitable  doom  overtakes  them 
after  a  more  or  less  short  interval. 
This  perilous  season  of  infancy  past, 
however,  the  youth  of  animals  is, 
compared  with  that  of  man,  secure 
and  brief,  and  their  maturity  is 
generally  free  from  morbid  or  dis- 
abling accidents.  But  then  comes 
the  time  of  old  age  and  decay — old 
age  such  as  man's  would  be  if  want- 
ing all  which  Macbeth  truly  says 
should  accompany  it,  in  order  to 
render  its  many  infirmities  toler- 
able —  "  honour,  love,  obedience, 
troops  of  friends."  As  the  activity 
necessary  to  procure  food  dimin- 
ishes, and  the  joints  stiffen,  and 
the  flesh  recedes,  leaving  to  the 
bones  the  task  of  sustaining  the 
wrinkling  skin,  the  sunshine  grows 
less  warm,  the  wind  more  bitter ; 
and  if  the  worn-out  creature  is 
neither  made  prey  of  by  its  enemies, 
nor  put  to  death  (as  is  the  instinct 
of  many  races)  by  its  friends,  it 
withdraws  to  some  secret  spot  to 
die  in  solitude.  In  this  unprofit- 
able stage  of  existence,  the  protec- 
tion of  man  is  accorded  to  domesti- 
cated animals  on  principles  strictly 
commercial.  Those  which  are  ex- 
pected to  pay  the  expenses  of  their 
keep,  are  pretty  certain  to  find  an 
execution  put  in  by  their  inexorable 
creditors  as  soon  as  they  become 
bankrupt  of  their  services,  and 


those  only  are  suffered  to  live  whose 
existence  is  matter  of  luxury.  The 
old  bullfinch  is  allowed  to  drop  off 
his  perch  in  the  course  of  nature, 
and  to  pipe  his  own  requiem — the 
old  parrot  dozes  quietly  away  after 
forgetting  half  his  phrases,  and 
mixing  up  the  rest  in  a  confusion 
which  may,  perhaps,  be  his  way  of 
"  babbling  of  green  fields  " — the  old 
lapdog  is  recovered  by  medical  aid 
out  of  many  apoplexies  before  sub- 
mitting to  the  final  stroke — the  old 
spaniel  lives  on  to  meditate  on  the 
happy  hunting-grounds  of  the  past, 
and  perhaps  to  dream  of  those  of 
the  future;  but  for  the  old  horse 
(unless  his  master  be  rich  as  well  as 
kind)  there  is  no  interval  of  rest  in 
old  age,  wherein  to  prepare  for 
those  other  pastures  whither  he 
may  be  hastening,  or  to  reflect  on 
the  busy  portion  of  his  well-spent 
or  ill-spent  life.  Necessity  gener- 
ally compels  the  owner  to  make  an 
end  of  a  life  that  will  not  repay  its 
maintenance.  The  veteran,  **  lin- 
gering superfluous  on  the  stage/' 
asks  for  bran  and  gets  a  bullet ;  it 
is  only  his  corn  that  he  wants 
bruised  when  the  knacker  arrives 
with  the  pole-axe. 

Perhaps  no  case  of  royalty  in  re- 
duced circumstances  is  so  sad  as 
that  of  the  lion  in  his  latter  days. 
Frequent  as  are,  in  our  times,  the 
vicissitudes  of  monarchs,  neither 
the  deposed  Queen  of  Spain  at 
Bayonne,  nor  the  exploded  Bomba 
in  Rome,  nor,  to  look  further  back, 
Louis  Philippe  appearing  suddenly 
in  this  country  as  Mr  Smith,  with 
a  carpet-bag  and  cotton  umbrella, 
is  so  melancholy  a  figure  of  fallen 
greatness  as  the  King  of  the  Soli- 
tudes in  his  old  age.  The  first  stage 
of  his  decline  is  marked  by  the  in- 
ability any  longer  to  spring  on  the 
nimble  antelope,  or  to  cope  with 
the  sturdy  buffalo  ;  and,  against 
his  better  nature,  the  leonine  Lear, 
still  grand  and  imposing  of  aspect, 
but  bereft  of  his  power,  is  driven 
to  watch  for  stray  children  going 
to  the  well,  or  old  women  picking 
sticks  in  the  forest.  It  might  be 


546 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


imagined  that  the  sable  philoso- 
phers of  the  bereaved  tribe  would 
regard  this  abduction  of  aged  fe- 
males as  praiseworthy,  or  would  at 
least  consider  the  eating  of  them 
as  a  sufficient  punishment  for  the 
offence.  Not  so,  however ;  a  lion 
once  known  as  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  eater,  is  by  no  means  en- 
couraged, even  in  Africa,  in  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  tastes  ;  and  what 
with  constant  interruptions,  and  the 
necessity  for  increased  vigilance 
against  his  foes,  he  seldom  enjoys 
a  meal  in  peace.  As  his  teeth  fail 
and  his  joints  stiffen,  he  is  no 
longer  able  to  capture  the  feeblest 
crone  or  to  masticate  the  tenderest 
virgin;  and  in  the  "last  stage  of 
all,  that  ends  this  strange  eventful 
history,"  he  (as  we  learn  from  com- 
petent authority)  catches  mice  for 
a  subsistence,  gulping  them  like 
pills,  and  ekes  out  the  insufficient 
diet  with  grass.  Imagine  this  in- 
carnation of  absolute  power,  this 
rioter  in  the  blood  of  swift  and 
powerful  beasts,  this  emitter  of  the 
roar  that  causes  all  the  hearts  in  the 
wilderness  to  quake, driven,  in  what 
should  be  a  majestic  old  age,  to  pick 
his  own  salads  and  to  turn  mouser  ! 
The  number  of  times  that,  with  his 
large  frame  and  corresponding  ap- 
petite, he  must  perform  for  each 
scanty  meal  the  degrading  act  of 
watching  for  and  pouncing  on  a 
mouse,  must  ultimately  deprave  his 
whole  character ;  daily  he  must 
sink  lower  in  his  own  esteem ;  re- 
formation and  suicide  are  equally 
denied  him  ;  till,  happily,  the 
savage  who  comes  upon  his  track, 
knowing  by  signs  that  he  has  been 
forced  to  graze,  knows  also  that  his 
feebleness  is  great ;  and  finding  him 
not  far  off,  stretched  out  beneath 
a  bush,  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion 
or  the  torpor  of  self-contempt,  con- 
siderately hastens  with  his  assagai 
to  drawn  a  veil  over  the  painful 
scene. 

Were  we  to  stop  here,  our  dis- 
quisition would  be  little  other  than 
a  Jeremiad — an  empty  lament  for 
misfortunes  without  prospect  of 


remedy — a  crying  over  spilt  milk, 
which  would  be  equally  foreign  to 
our  natural  character  and  our  ac- 
quired philosophy.  But  evil  as  has 
been  the  hap  of  the  animal  world, 
there  are  visible  signs  of  hope  for 
it.  Its  relations  with  us  are  mani- 
festly and  rapidly  improving,  and 
this  is  owing  to  a  manifest  and 
rapid  improvement  in  ourselves. 
Whether,  amid  all  our  boasts  of  the 
progress  of  the  species,  man  has 
really  succeeded  in  redressing  the 
balance  of  good  and  evil  in  his  na- 
ture, may  be  matter  of  unpleasant 
doubt.  Sometimes,  when  a  very 
reprehensible  or  lamentable  failing 
of  some  vanished  generation  is  set 
very  pressingly  before  us — some 
horrid  persecution,  political  or  re- 
ligious— some  triumph  of  unreason 
— some  huge  injustice  practised  by 
a  despot  on  a  people,  or  by  a  people 
on  themselves, — we  being  at  the 
time,  perhaps,  in  especial  good 
humour  with  the  world  around  us, 
in  which  those  particular  evils  are 
not  possible,  take  heart,  and  would 
fain  believe  that  humanity  is  get- 
ting on.  But  presently,  when  we 
notice  how  our  contemporaries  form 
what  they  imagine  to  be  their  con- 
victions, what  sort  of  idols  they 
worship,  what  kind  of  progress  it 
is  which  is  least  disputable,  and  of 
which  they  are  most  proud,  we  lose 
courage  again,  and  feel  as  if  man 
were  doomed  for  ever  to  revolve  in 
the  vicious  circle  of  some  mael- 
strom, some  system  inside  of  which 
all  is  delusion,  while  outside  of  it 
all  is  doubt.  Surveying  mankind 
with  extensive  view  from  the  pre- 
historic ages  to  Parliamentary  com- 
mittees on  education,  we  fancy  that 
we  see  much  of  our  gain  balanced 
by  corresponding  loss,  and  that  we 
have  made  room  for  many  of  our 
most  valued  characteristics  only  by 
discarding  qualities  which  have 
rendered  whole  races  for  ever 
famous.  As  we  grow  more  prac- 
tical, we  decry  magnanimity — 
ceasing  to  be  superstitious,  we  for- 
get to  be  earnest — vigour,  born  of 
enterprise,  is  smothered  in  luxury 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


547 


— and  the  cuckoo  science  ousts  the 
sparrow  faith.  But  all  the  time, 
various  as  are  the  aspects  of  various 
ages,  the  elements  of  humanity  re- 
main unaltered,  however  disguised 
by  their  changing  vesture ;  even  as 
while  the  landscape  varies,  in  one 
period  a  wood,  or  swamp,  or  heath, 
in  the  next  a  farm  or  a  city,  the  cen- 
tral fires  are  still  glowing  beneath, 
and  still  betray  their  presence  at 
times  in  an  earthquake  or  a  volcano. 
Scrape  a  man  of  science,  or  a  man 
of  progress,  or  a  man  of  fashion, 
and  you  still  get  a  savage.  But 
nevertheless,  in  striking  the  balance 
between  old  and  new,  there  is  an 
item  that  must  stand  to  our  credit 
absolutely,  without  deduction.  Our 
relations  with  the  races  which  share 
the  earth  with  us  are  so  changed, 
and  the  change  is  still  so  progres- 
sive, that  a  new  element  would 
almost  appear  to  have  been  devel- 
oped in  our  nature.  All  the  authors 
not  only  of  antiquity,  but  of  modern 
times,  down  to  a  few  generations 
ago,  may  be  searched  without  the 
discovery  of  a  dozen  passages  indi- 
cative of  that  fellowship  with  our 
co-tenants  of  the  globe  which  is 
now  so  common  a  feeling.  That 
the  good  man  is  merciful  to  his 
beast — that  the  ewe  lamb  of  the 
parable  drank  of  its  owner's  cup 
and  lay  in  his  bosom — that  Chau- 
cer's prioress  was  so  charitable  as 
to  weep  for  a  trapped  mouse — that 
the  poor  beetle  which  we  tread 
upon  feels  a  pang  as  great  as  when 
a  giant  dies — that  Dapple  was  the 
cherished  friend  of  Sancho — are 
chief  among  the  few  cases  which 
occur  to  us,  where  regard  for  ani- 
mals is  implied  in  the  best  known 
books  of  the  past.  Princes  and 
heroes  have  had  their  favourites, 
four -legged  or  feathered,  hawk  or 
horse  or  hound,  and  the  coursers 
of  Achilles,  the  dog  of  Ulysses,  and 
the  Cid's  steed  Bavieca,  have  their 
place  in  romance  and  in  history ;  but 
their  favour  was  born  rather  of 
pride  than  of  affection,  and  these 
are  but  slight  instances  to  set  against 
so  many  ages  of  mere  chattelage. 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


But  what  a  wealth  of  pleasant  com- 
panionship do  we  now  enjoy  in  the 
society  of  those  four-legged  familiars 
without  whom  no  household  seems 
complete  !  and  how  largely  do  their 
representatives  figure  in  the  litera- 
ture and  art  of  the  present  century  ! 
the  affectionate  portraiture  by  pen 
and  brush  being  both  the  natural 
result  of  that  kindlier  feeling,  and 
the  means  of  rendering  it  deeper 
and  wider.  Looking  backward  to 
the  now  remote  beginning  of  the 
vista  of  life  through  which  we  have 
journeyed,  the  best -loved  books 
of  our  childhood  were  those  in 
which  regard  for  animals  was  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  inculcated ;  the 
indirect  lesson  being,  however,  much 
the  most  impressive.  Thus  when 
^Esop,  desiring  to  satirise  or  in- 
struct mankind  through  the  medium 
of  animals,  represents  his  lions,  dogs, 
foxes,  monkeys,  and  cranes,  as  not 
merely  conversing,  but  delivering 
didactic  discourses  and  holding  po- 
litical debates,  it  is  impossible  for 
the  reader  who  possesses  the  ardent 
faculty  of  belief  and  the  plastic 
imagination  which  are  the  choicest 
endowments  of  childhood,  not  to 
invest  real  animals  with  some  of 
the  faculties  imputed  to  the  crea- 
tions of  the  fabulist.  Fairy  tales, 
too,  resort  largely  to  the  animal 
world  for  machinery,  and  the  gri- 
malkin on  the  hearth-rug  rises  im- 
mensely in  the  estimation  of  the  juv- 
enile student  of '  Pass  in  Boots'  as  a 
possible  personator  of  the  agent  of 
the  Marquis  of  Carabas,  and  an  art- 
ful plotter,  greatly  superior  to  mere 
men  in  the  devising  of  stratagems. 
The  little  bright-eyed  nibblers  be- 
hind the  wainscot  have  something 
of  "  the  consecration  and  the  poet's 
dream"  reflected  on  them  by  the 
rhymed  history  of  '  The  Town  and 
Country  Mice/  The  solemn  ape, 
surveying  mankind  from  the  top  of 
an  organ,  or  meditating  gloomily 
in  his  cage  in  a  caravan,  may  well 
be  suspected  of  being  other  than 
he  seems,  considering  that,  in  the 
same  form,  a  Calender,  a  king's 
son,  was  once  disguised  by  powerr 
2P 


548 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


fill  enchantment.  The  hare,  dart- 
ing from  a  clump  of  fern  at  the 
approach  of  the  feminine  intruder 
in  white  frock,  blue  sash,  cotton 
socks,  and  bare  calves,  is  invested 
with  most  pathetic  interest  in  the 
eyes  of  the  wondering  gazer,  by 
the  recollection  of  that  other  hare 
whose  many  friends  so  utterly  fail- 
ed her  in  the  hour  of  need.  Far, 
indeed,  from  looking  on  birds  and 
beasts  as  "  the  lower  animals,"  the 
youth  whose  childish  sentiments 
of  wonder  and  companionship  have 
been  thus  cultivated  regards  the 
creatures  around  him  with  affec- 
tion not  unmixed  with  respect, 
as  the  possessors  of  many  facul- 
ties which  he  does  not  share, 
the  thinkers  of  many  thoughts  un- 
known to  him,  the  pilgrims  in 
many  paths  apart  from  his  ;  while, 
nevertheless,  they  have  so  much  in 
common  with  him  as  to  constitute 
ground  for  intimacy  and  friend- 
ship. Children  of  this  stamp,  of 
whatever  degree,  going  forth  to 
their  sports,  whether  on  the  well- 
kept  lawn  or  the  village  green,  are 
pretty  sure  to  be  accompanied  by  a 
dog — perhaps  a  skye  with  a  blue  rib- 
bon, perhaps  a  nondescript  cur  in  a 
leather  collar,  made  by  the  paternal 
hand  of  the  cobbler, — while  the 
youngest  of  the  party  bears  with 
him  a  great  tomcat,  whose  eyes  are 
seen  patiently  winking  between 
his  uncomfortably  upstretched  legs 
over  the  bearer's  pinafored  shoul- 
der, and  whose  tail  (from  the 
equality  in  their  stature)  drags  on 
the  ground ;  and,  in  such  cases, 
Vixen  and  grey  Tom,  far  from  be- 
ing mere  passive  appendages  to  the 
amusements  of  the  hour,  are  looked 
on  as  sage  confederates,  of  great 
experience  in  the  art  of  rightly 
spending  a  holiday.  As  a  childhood 
of  this  kind  merges  into  youth,  its 
progressive  literature  still  aids  in 
nourishing  that  love  for  animals 
which  has  often  been  a  distinguish- 
ing characteristic  of  the  men  of 
genius  who  stamp  their  spirit  on 
the  age.  Scott's  great  hounds — 
Fang,  the  gaunt  friend  of  Gurth 


the  swineherd;  Roswal,  guardian 
of  the  standard  for  Kenneth  of 
Scotland;  Bevis,  companion  of  Sir 
Henry  Lee;  and  Luath,  beloved  of 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake — are  magnifi- 
cent ;  and  as  for  small  dogs,  has  he 
not  given  to  the  whole  tribe  of 
Dandie  Dinmonts  a  local  habita- 
tion and  a  name?  Bulwer's  Sir 
Isaac  is  a  careful  and  reverential 
study,  by  a  great  master,  of  a 
highly  but  not  preternaturally  gift- 
ed dog.  Dickens  has  doubly  and 
trebly  proved  himself  a  dog-fancier, 
by  his  portraits  of  Diogenes,  the 
enemy  of  Mr  Toots  ;  and  Gyp, 
adored  by  Dora  ;  and  Boxer,  the 
associate  of  John  Peerybingle,  who 
took  an  obtrusive  interest  in  the 
baby :  besides  which  he  has  de- 
voted a  whole  paper  of  his  '  Un- 
commercial Traveller'  to  dogs, 
especially  those  who  keep  blind 
men,  and  has  added  to  his  animal 
gallery  a  capital  pony  and  a  mira- 
culous raven.  George  Eliot  has 
given  Adam  Bede's  friend,  the 
schoolmaster,  a  female  dog  of  great 
merit,  and  has  bestowed  a  vast 
amount  of  affectionate  skill  on  the 
portrait  of  the  ape  Annibal,  in  the 
'  Spanish  Gypsy.'  Then  what  rev- 
erence for  the  wearers  of  fur  and 
feathers  is  implied  in  the  works  of 
Landseer! — what  sympathy  with 
them  in  the  popularity  of  those 
world-famous  pictures ! — though  we 
could  wish  that  some  incidents  had 
remained  uncommemorated  by  Sir 
Edwin's  brush,  such  as  the  fox 
sneaking  up  to  prey  on  the  dead 
stags  locked  in  each  other's  horns, 
and  the  transfixed  otter  writhing 
round  to  bite  the  shaft  of  the 
spear,  which  are  simply  abominable. 
Nor,  amidst  the  many  delineators 
of  animals  who  adorn  the  age — 
the  Bonheurs,  Ansdells,  Coopers, 
Weirs,  Willises  —  must  Leech  be 
forgotten.  What  arrogance  in  his 
fat  lapdogs,  what  fun  and  mischief 
and  frank  good-fellowship  in  his 
Scotch  terriers,  what  spirit  in  his 
hounds  and  horses !  The  youth 
thus  sustained  in  his  finer  tastes 
by  great  examples,  enters  manhood, 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


549 


and  passes  through  it,  in  constant 
friendly  communion  with  relations 
and  dependants  and  associates  of 
every  kind.  His  horses  are  his 
trusted  familiars  ;  if  a  sportsman, 
he  is  cordial  with  his  dogs,  rides 
well  forward  to  hounds  (though 
never  to  the  extreme  distress  or  in- 
jury of  his  good  steed),  and  with 
his  whole  life  gives  the  lie  to  those 
maudlin  humanitarians  who  insist 
that  cruelty  constitutes  the  pleasure 
of  sport.  His  mother  instilled,  and 
his  sisters  share,  his  sympathies  for 
the  inarticulate  races.  How  in- 
finitely does  that  girl  add  to  her 
attractions  who  thinks  more  of  her 
spaniel  or  her  collie,  her  super- 
annuated pony  or  antediluvian 
macaw,  than  of  the  most  cher- 
ished inanimate  possession,  not 
excepting  the  mysterious  struc- 
ture of  her  back  hair !  Memory 
and  imagination  come  in  to  en- 
hance affection  :  the  old  donkey 
in  the  paddock,  as  he  approaches 
her  for  his  daily  crust  with  his  ex- 
alted ears  bent  forward,  reminds 
her  of  the  childhood  which  she  still 
recollects  with  delight,  though  not, 
as  yet,  with  regret.  The  trills  of 
her  blackbird  in  his  wicker  cage, 
placed  there  because  he  was  found 
in  the  wood  with  a  broken  wing, 
cause  her  to  think  of  the  Spring, 
when  a  young  maid's  no  less  than 
a  young  man's  fancy  "  lightly  turns 
to  thoughts  of  love."  The  gay 
parroquet,  in  its  gilded  palace, 
suggests  to  her,  in  its  rich  green, 
the  foliage  of  tropical  forests,  in 
its  splendid  scarlet  the  flowers 
which  glow  amidst  the  leaves ; 
md  when  its  form  of  grace  and 
beauty  is  lifeless,  it  is  consigned 
co  its  garden-tomb  with  tears  which 
well  become  the  eyes  whose  glances 
many  lovers  watch  for.  If  her 
nets  of  charity  to  the  featherless 
l)ipeds  around  her  are  many,  not 
iewer  are  those  which  benefit  the 
unfortunate  and  the  helpless  who 
have  no  language  wherein  to  speak 
their  complaints ;  and  when  she 
has  children,  she  teaches  them,  as 
u  lesson  not  inferior  to  any  to  be 


found  in  Dr  Watts,  or  Dr  Paley,  or 
Dr  Newman,  or  any  other  Doctor 
whatsoever,  that 

"  He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast." 

We  will  now,  after  the  manner 
of  great  moralists,  such  as  he  who 
depicted  the  careers  of  the  Indus- 
trious and  Idle  Apprentices,  give 
the  reverse  of  this  picture,  in  the 
horrible  imp  of  empty  head  and 
stony  heart,  who  has  been  trained 
to  regard  the  creatures  around  him 
as  the  mere  ministers  of  his  plea- 
sure and  his  pride,  and  who,  in 
fact,  represents  in  its  worst  form 
the  former  state  of  feeling  respect- 
ing animals.  Provided,  almost  in 
his  cradle,  by  his  unnatural  parents, 
with  puppies  and  kittens  whereon 
to  wreak  his  evil  propensities,  he 
treats  them,  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  as  the  infant  Hercules 
treated  the  serpents,  and,  when 
provoked  to  retaliate  with  tooth  or 
claw,  they  are  ordered,  with  his 
full  concurrence,  to  immediate  exe- 
cution. A  little  later  he  hails  the 
periodical  pregnancies  of  the  ill-used 
family  cat  as  so  many  opportunities 
in  store  for  drowning  her  progeny. 
The  fables,  so  dear  to  lovable 
childhood,  of  lambs  and  wolves, 
apes  and  foxes,  are  rejected  by  his 
practical  mind  as  rubbishy  lies. 
All  defenceless  animals  falling  into 
his  power  are  subject  to  martyrdom 
by  lapidation.  Show  him  a  shy 
bird  of  rare  beauty  on  moor  or 
heath,  in  wood  or  valley,  and  the 
soulless  goblin  immediately  shies  a 
stone  at  it.  Stray  tabbies  are  the 
certain  victims  of  his  bull-terrier  ; 
and  the  terrier  itself,  when  it  re- 
fuses to  sit  up  and  smoke  a  pipe,  or 
to  go  into  the  river  after  a  water- 
rat,  is  beaten  and  kicked  without 
mercy.  He  goes  with  a  relish  to 
see  the  keeper  shoot  old  Ponto, 
who  was  whelped  ten  years  ago  in 
the  kennel,  and  comes  in  to  give 
his  sisters  (who  don't  care)  appre- 
ciative details  of  the  execution. 
As  a  sportsman  he  is  a  tyrant  to 
his  dogs,  a  butcher  on  his  horse, 


550 


OUT  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


and,  sitting  on  that  blown  and 
drooping  steed,  lie  looks  on  with 
disgusting  satisfaction  when  the 
fox  is  broken  up.  Throughout 
life  he  regards  all  his  animated 
possessions  (including  his  unhappy 
wife)  simply  as  matters  of  a  certain 
money  value,  to  be  made  to  pay  or 
to  be  got  rid  of.  Not  to  pursue  his 
revolting  career  through  all  its 
stages,  we  will  merely  hint  that 
he  probably  ends  by  committing  a 
double  parricide ;  and  being  right- 
eously condemned  to  the  gallows, 
is  reprieved  only  by  the  inap- 
propriate tenderness  of  the  Home 
Secretary. 

To  one  who  considers  the  sub- 
ject, it  will  be  apparent  that  the 
influences  at  work  in  favour  of 
animals  are  of  a  nature  to  gain  in 
force,  and  that  their  friends,  con- 
stantly increasing  in  number,  will 
end  by  shouldering  their  foes  alto- 
gether to  the  shady  side  of  public 
sentiment.  It  is  now  a  very  old 
story  thjat  a  law  exists  for  the  pre- 
vention of  cruelty  to  animals,  who 
thus  for  the  first  time  acquire  a 
legal  footing  in  the  world.  But 
laws  are  often  inoperative,  unless 
it  is  the  interest  of  somebody  to 
enforce  them ;  and  as  the  injured 
parties  cannot  in  this  case  apply  to 
the  nearest  magistrate  for  a  war- 
rant, in  order  to  help  them  in  the  mat- 
ter certain  worthy  men  and  women 
long  ago  formed  a  Society,  which  is 
increasing  in  prosperity  every  year. 
Many  deeds  of  cruelty  are  still  done 
which  cannot  be  punished  or  de- 
tected ;  but  in  thousands  of  cases 
which  would  formerly  have  escaped 
even  reprobation,  wronged  animals 
now  appear  in  court  by  "  their  next 
friend  "  (one  of  the  Society's  officers), 
and  make  the  perpetrators  pay  in 
purse  or  person.  Not  only  is  a 
check  thus  imposed  on  small  pri- 
vate atrocities,  like  the  bruising  and 
lashing  of  horses  by  brutal  waggon- 
ers, the  martyrising  of  cats  and 
dogs  by  blackguard  boys,  and  the 
battering  of  donkeys  by  ferocious 
costermongers,  but  heavy  blows 
are  also  dealt  at  such  organised 


cruelties  as  the  crowding  of  animals 
on  rough  sea  voyages  in  unfit  ves- 
sels, the  transmission  of  others  on 
long  journeys  by  rail  without  food 
or  water,  the  shearing  and  starving 
of  sheep  in  winter,  the  setting  of 
steel  traps  for  wild  creatures,  and 
the  wanton  destruction  of  sea-fowl 
and  rare  birds.  A  society  having 
the  same  objects  exists  in  France, 
and  in  that  country,  as  well  as  in 
Australia  and  several  States  of  the 
American  Union,  stringent  laws 
protect  many  kinds  of  birds.  Kin- 
dred societies  with  special  objects 
have  also  been  formed  among  us — 
drinking-troughs  for  animals  in  hot 
weather  abound  in  the  metropolis, 
and  a  Home  has  been  established 
for  Lost  Dogs.  No  kind  of  animal 
misery  is  more  common  or  more 
lamentable  than  that  of  these  out- 
casts, who  may  be  seen  any  day  in  one 
or  other  of  our  London  thorough- 
fares, purposely  lost  in  many  cases 
by  owners  who  are  unwilling  to  pay 
the  five-shilling  dog-tax,  though  a 
single  day's  abstinence  from  drun- 
kenness, or  a  very  brief  sacrifice  of 
pleasure  or  comfort  in  each  year, 
would  suffice  to  retain  the  old 
companion.  The  first  stage  of  being 
thus  astray  in  the  wilderness  of 
London  is  marked  by  a  wild  gallop- 
ing to  and  fro,  with  an  occasional 
pause  to  gaze  down  cross-streets. 
At  length,  hopeless  and  wearied, 
the  lost  one  sinks  into  a  slow  trot, 
occasionally  lifting  his  hollow  an- 
xious eyes  to  scan  an  approach- 
ing face,  and  almost  seeming  to 
shake  his  head  in  despair  as  he 
lowers  them  again.  Then  comes 
the  period  of  ravenous  hunting  in 
gutters  and  corners  for  chance 
scraps,  of  gazing  fixedly  down  kit- 
chen areas,  of  sleeping  coiled  up 
on  door-steps,  and  of  pertinacious 
haunting  of  neighbourhoods  where 
some  hand  has  once  bestowed  a 
morsel.  All  those  avenues  of  stone 
which  we  call  streets  are,  to  the 
poor  starveling,  more  barren  of  food 
than  the  desert,  but  he  knows  how 
the  interiors  abound  in  meat  and 
drink ;  he  knows,  too,  that  any 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


551 


chance  passenger,  whose  face  at- 
tracts his  canine  sympathies,  may 
introduce  him  to  one  of  these  scenes 
of  plenty,  and  he  attaches  himself, 
for  a  time,  humbly  and  wistfully, 
to  some  one  whose  visage  hits  his 
fancy,  and  who,  perhaps,  is  never 
aware  of  the  thin  shadow  which 
follows  his  footsteps.  At  last  both 
appetite  and  strength  have  depart- 
ed, the  recollection  of  his  home  has 
become  an  uncertain  dream,  and 
he  retires  into  a  corner  to  die,  un- 
less, in  some  slum,  the  interesting 
family  of  the  rat-catcher,  the  coster- 
monger,  the  dog-stealer,  or  the 
sporting  cobbler,  seizing  him  joy- 
fully as  their  lawful  prey,  proceed 
to  ascertain  by  experiment  what 
capacity,  not  for  nourishment  but 
for  agony,  may  be  still  left  in  him. 
By  recent  regulations  the  police  are 
authorised  to  conduct  to  their  nearest 
station  these  unfortunates,  and  to 
transmit  them  from  thence  to  the 
Home  at  Holloway.  We  once  visited 
the  retreat,  situated  in  a  courtyard 
in  the  outskirts  of  that  fashionable 
suburb.  Our  entrance  was  signal- 
ised by  the  hasty  withdrawal  of  a 
number  of  cats,  whose  stealthy  pro- 
files were  presently  seen  on  the  sur- 
rounding walls,  wearing  all  the 
aspect  of  guilty  evasion,  for,  in 
fact,  their  enterprise  had  been  pre- 
datory, and  directed  against  the 
dogs'  food.  The  dogs  themselves, 
seated  in  rows  on  the  floor  and  on 
benches,  were  few  in  number  and 
choice  in  kind — high-bred  deep- 
jowled  bloodhounds,  whose  home 
had  been  the  castle-yard  of  some  great 
seigneur — poodles  who  would  have 
Leen  ornaments  to  the  bench  of 
any  court  of  judicature — weak-eyed, 
jdnk-nosed,  querulous  Maltese  in 
blue  ribbons — toy-terriers  in  splen- 
did collars  like  orders  of  knighthood 
— pugs  with  muzzles  so  short  that 
one  wondered  where  their  tongues 
could  be — and  intelligent  sky es  who 
whined  and  frisked  at  the  approach 
of  well-clad  visitors ;  all  of  them  at 
that  moment  being  doubtless  sought 
for  throughout  London  by  young 
men  of  good  character,  in  genteel 


liveries,  whose  places  were  en- 
dangered by  the  carelessness  which 
had  caused  the  loss  of  the  favour- 
ites. On  inquiring  where  the  com- 
moner sorts  of  dogs  might  be,  we 
found  that,  as  regarded  them,  the 
Home  might  have  been  properly 
described  as  their  long  home,  inas- 
much as  all  who  were  not  likely  to 
be  claimed  were  immediately  put 
to  death  and  buried.  It  seemed 
dubious  whether  the  animals  thus 
permanently  relieved  from  want, 
would,  if  consulted,  regard  this 
method  of  disposal  as  a  high  fa- 
vour j  and,  moreover,  so  very  in- 
expensive a  provision  did  not  seem 
to  call  for  large  contributions. 
Later  inquiries,  however,  have  pro- 
duced answers  describing  a  more 
favourable  arrangement ;  and  it 
seems  that  only  those  whose  life 
may  be  considered  a  burthen  to 
them  are  now  destroyed,  the  rest 
having  situations  procured  for 
them  of  a  kind  that  was  not  quite 
clearly  apparent  to  us ;  farmed  out, 
perhaps,  like  parish  apprentices, 
and,  let  us  hope,  at  least  as  well 
cared-for. 

It  would  seem,  then,  that  the 
fancy  in  which  we  indulged  at  the 
beginning  of  this  paper,  of  more 
genial  relations  being  established 
between  the  dominant  and  the  less 
fortunate  races  of  the  earth,  is  not 
without  prospect  of  realisation. 
The  Societies  we  have  mentioned 
may  in  course  of  time  be  extended 
till  they  cease  to  be  separate  soci- 
eties any  longer,  by  including  all 
the  right-minded  and  right-hearted 
of  the  human  race,  each  of  whom 
will  be  as  vigilant  as  any  official  to 
prevent  and  detect  cruelty.  To 
lead  "  a  dog's  life  of  it ;;  may  come 
to  mean  universally  a  not  unpleas- 
ant state  of  existence — "  slaving 
like  a  horse  "  will  denote  a  whole- 
some and  moderate  share  of  labour 
— and  "  monkey's  allowance  "  may 
represent  a  fair  amount  of  half- 
pence in  proportion  to  the  kicks. 
As  time  goes  on,  the  enthusiast 
may  perhaps  begin  to  catch  glimp- 
ses of  the  renewal  of  that  other 


552 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


[May 


period  which  tradition  and  fable 
point  to  in  the  past,  when  the  close 
kinship  existing  between  the  ar- 
ticulate and  inarticulate  sylvan 
races  led  to  a  deeper  mutual 
understanding  and  more  intimate 
communion.  In  times  when  the 
doctrine  that  all  classes  ought  to 
be  represented  in  Parliament  is 
favourably  received,  the  next  step 
would  obviously  be  to  elect  mem- 
bers for  brute  constituencies,  or 
at  least  to  agitate  for  that  result. 
The  effect  of  a  great  cattle -meet- 
ing in  Smithfield,  conducted  with 
much  lowing  and  bellowing,  and 
followed  by  large  processions  of 
horned  animals  through  our  prin- 
cipal thoroughfares,  could  hardly 
fail  to  produce  important  constitu- 
tional changes.  A  charge  of  cab- 
horses  out  on  strike,  conducted  by 
some  equine  Beales  against  the 
park-palings  with  a  view  to  pas- 
turing inside,  might  extract  large 
concessions  from  a  weak  Cabinet 
— while  a  monster-meeting  of  ag- 
grieved dogs  under  the  clock-tower 
at  Westminster,  howling  their  com- 
plaints to  the  moon,  and  vocifer- 
ously invoking  "  a  plague  on  both 
our  Houses,"  might  be  attended 
with  legislative  results  not  inferior 
to  those  which  Mr  Bright  antici- 
pated when  he  advised  the  coercion 
of  Parliament  by  a  like  expedient. 
Later,  when  progress  shall  happily 
have  brought  us  to  government  by 
pure  majorities,  that  epoch  may 
commence  which  ^Esop  seems  to 
hint  at  in  the  fable  where  the  lion 
talks  of  turning  sculptor  and  re- 
presenting the  beast  astride  of 
the  man.  Once,  while  pursuing 
this  somewhat  fantastic  train  of 
thought,  we  beheld  in  a  kind  of 
vision,  such  as  visited  Bunyan  and 
Dante,  a  scene  of  imaginary  retri- 
bution awaiting  the  human  race  at 
the  hands  of  the  oppressed.  Mul- 
titudes of  human  beings  were  sys- 
tematically fattened  as  food  for  the 
carnivora.  They  were  frequently 
forwarded  to  great  distances  by 
train,  in  trucks,  without  food  or 
water.  Large  numbers  of  infants 


were  constantly  boiled  down  to 
form  broth  for  invalid  animals. 
In  over-populous  districts  babies 
were  given  to  malicious  young  cats 
and  dogs  to  be  taken  away  and 
drowned.  Boys  were  hunted  by 
terriers,  and  stoned  to  death  by 
frogs.  Mice  were  a  good  deal  oc- 
cupied in  setting  man-traps,  baited 
with  toasted  cheese,  in  poor  neigh- 
bourhoods. Gouty  old  gentlemen 
were  put  into  the  shafts  of  night- 
cabs,  and  forced  to  totter,  on  their 
weak  ancles  and  diseased  joints,  to 
clubs,  where  they  picked  up  fashion- 
able young  colts,  and  took  them,  at 
such  pace  as  whipcord  could  ex- 
tract, to  St  John's  Wood,  to  visit 
chestnut  fillies.  Flying  figures  in 
scarlet  coats,  buckskins,  and  top- 
boots  were  run  into  by  packs  of 
foxes.  Old  cock -grouse  strutted 
out  for  a  morning's  sport,  and  came 
in  to  talk  of  how  many  brace  of 
country  gentlemen  they  had  bagged. 
The  fate  of  gamekeepers  was  appal- 
ling ;  they  lived  a  precarious  life  in 
holes  and  caves ;  they  were  per- 
petually harried  and  set  upon  by 
game  and  vermin ;  held  fast  in 
steel  traps,  their  toes  were  nibbled 
by  stoats  and  martens;  finally, 
their  eyes  picked  out  by  owls  and 
kites,  they  were  gibbeted  alive  on 
trees,  head  downwards,  when  pole- 
cats mounted  sentry  over  them, 
favouring  the  sufferers  with  their 
agreeable  presence  till  the  termin- 
ation of  their  martyrdom.  In  one 
especially  tragic  case,  a  corpulent 
and  short-sighted  naturalist  in 
spectacles  dodged  about  painfully 
amid  the  topmost  branches  of  a 
wood,  while  a  Mias  underneath, 
armed  with  a  gun,  inflicted  on  him 
dreadful  wounds.  A  veterinary 
surgeon  of  Alfort  was  stretched  on 
his  back,  his  arms  and  legs  secured 
to  posts,  in  order  that  a  horse  might 
cut  him  up  alive  for  the  benefit  of 
an  equine  audience ;  but  the  gen- 
erous steed,  incapable  of  vindictive 
feelings,  with  one  disdainful  stamp 
on  the  midriff  crushed  the  wretch's 
life  out. 

Though    these  visions   are  but 


1870.] 


Our  Poor  Relations. 


553 


such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of, 
yet,  nevertheless,  is  their  fabric  not 
altogether  baseless.  Besides  the 
signs  which  we  have  enumerated 
as  indicating  that  the  relationship 
of  the  tribes  of  the  earth  with  the 
human  family  are  more  conscien- 
tiously recognised  than  of  old,  ani- 
mals have  lately  achieved  the  im- 
portant success  of  acquiring  their 
own  especial  organ  in  the  press.'* 
We  do  not  mean  that  animals  per- 
form the  part  either  of  editor  or  con- 
tributors to  this  periodical  —  we 
wish  they  did.  What  a  poem  would 
the  ostrich  write  with  his  claw  on 
the  sand  of  the  desert,  and  how 
priceless,  compared  with  the  verses 
even  of  laureates,  would  be  the 
transcript  thereof  !  "  Me*  Larmes, 
by  a  Crocodile" — sensational,  no 
doubt,  beyond  French  or  English 
precedent,  excelling  Sand,  or  Sue, 
or  Braddon — would,  as  a  serial, 
make  the  fortune  of  any  magazine. 
Could  the  lion  translate  for  us  that 
far  gaze  of  his,  which,  disregarding 
the  Sunday  visitors  in  front  of  his 
cage,  is  fixed  on  some  imaginary 
desert  horizon — what  extract  from 
ancient  or  modern  poetry  could 
compete  with  it  1  What  a  variety 
of  subject  and  of  style  would  thus 
open  on  us,  far  beyond  the  diversi- 
ties of  human  authorship — lyric, 
epic,  dramatic,  descriptive  —  de- 
fiant outburst  and  passionate  la- 
ment— life  in  innumerable  phases, 
domestic,  romantic,  gloomy,  rap- 


turous, cynical,  and  cheerful !  Even 
without  such  aid  we  constantly, 
though  unconsciously,  acknowledge 
their  kinship  with  humanity.  The 
fox,  the  bear,  the  bee,  the  eagle,  the 
lion,  the  hog,  the  serpent,  the  dove, 
are  all  types  of  men  and  women. 
Prophetic  language  calls  the  worm 
our  sister;  and  aphilosopherof  these 
times  defines  the  Frenchman  of  the 
Revolution  as  a  "tiger-ape."  We 
have  ourselves  heard  an  indignant 
lady  characterise  a  too  insinuating 
swain  as  "  that  crocodile ; "  and 
lately,  at  a  civic  feast  abounding 
in  calipash  and  calipee,  we  ob- 
served, or  fancied  we  observed,  that 
many  of  the  guests  combined,  as  in 
Byron's  line,  "  the  rage  of  the  vul- 
ture "  with  "  the  love  of  the  turtle." 
And  do  we  not  stand  in  almost 
humiliating  relation  to  the  inevi- 
table crow,  who  spends  so  much  of 
his  valuable  time  in  imprinting  his 
autograph  on  the  corners  of  all  our 
eyes,  seeming  thereby  to  mark  us 
for  his  own  ?  Deeply  impressed 
with  the  closeness  and  reality  of 
these  connections,  and  deriving  no 
inconsiderable  share  of  the  pleasure 
of  life  from  our  keen  sense  of  them, 
it  has  been  to  us  not  only  a  plea- 
sure but  a  solemn  duty,  often  post- 
poned, indeed,  but  never  aban- 
doned, thus  to  break  ground  in  the 
corners  of  a  great  subject,  and  to 
record  with  pride  the  sentiments 
of  affection  and  respect  which  we 
entertain  for  OUR  POOR  RELATIONS. 


*  'The  Animal  World.     A  Monthly  Advocate  of  Humanity.'     Published  by 
the  Royal  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  105  Jermyn  Street. 


554* 


Trade-Unions. 


[May 


TRADE-  UNIONS. 


MUCH  has  been  written  and  spoken 
about  Trade-Unions,  and  yet  pub- 
lic opinion  has  not  settled  down 
into  a  positive  and  definite  opinion 
respecting  their  nature  and  policy. 
They  are  actively  at  work  over  the 
whole  country.  They  possess  an 
enormous  organisation,  which  is 
every  day  extending  itself  more 
and  more  over  the  working  popula- 
tion of  the  nation.  They  wield  a 
power  which  can  vie  with  almost  any 
other  existing  in  modern  society, 
and  not  unfrequently  is  even  supe- 
rior to  that  exercised  by  the  law. 
Their  path  is  marked  always  by  a 
great  exhibition  of  power,  and  often 
by  the  most  illegal  and  formidable 
violence.  They  move  vast  masses 
of  men  with  the  discipline  and  con- 
centration of  an  army ;  and  they 
carry  out  a  system  of  government 
which  coerces  large  numbers  of  the 
people.  Though  unprotected,  and 
even  forbidden  by  the  law,  they 
have  again  and  again  broken  the 
peace  of  society  by  outrages  rang- 
ing from  every  form  of  coercion 
up  to  murder.  They  have  measured 
their  strength  with  the  Crown  and 
with  Parliament,  and,  strange  to 
say,  have  not  yet  come  off  defeated. 
When  the  whole  country  was  shud- 
dering over  the  recollection  of 
deeds  of  crime,  they  extorted  from 
Parliament  a  special  enactment  in 
their  favour.  Statesmen  have  stood 
aghast  at  their  proceedings ;  they 
appointed  a  Royal  Commission  to 
inquire  into  their  nature  and 
their  conduct.  That  Commission 
uttered  an  ambiguous  voice,  and  the 
Thornecliffe  union  answers  by  deeds 
that  the  power  of  the  Unions  is  un- 
shaken. Men  of  great  intellectual 
ability  have  tried  to  grapple  with 
the  phenomenon ;  economical  and 
social  science  has  brought  its  light 
to  bear  on  the  examination  of  its 
character  ;  and  still  no  final  judg- 
ment has  been  pronounced  on  the 
great  question,  whether  its  exis- 


tence is  compatible  with  the  welfare 
of  society.  No  one  disputes  that 
the  Unions  apply  to  large  bodies  of 
men  who  owe  them  no  allegiance 
a  coercion  which  flagrantly  defies 
the  first  principles  of  liberty; 
and  yet  that  coercion  goes  on  un- 
checked and  unpunished.  Their 
continued  existence  is  itself  a  mys- 
tery. It  is  obvious  that  bodies  which 
break  out  into  such  conduct,  and 
yet  not  only  sustain  themselves, 
but  expand  in  strength  and  num- 
bers, cannot  be  made  up  of  pure 
evil.  They  must  possess  some- 
where in  their  organisation  prin- 
ciples of  good,  which  give  them 
vitality  and  endurance.  They  must 
command  a  sympathy  which  is 
strong  enough  to  bear  them  on ;  and 
that  they  do  possess  such  a  hold 
on  the  minds  of  many  good  and 
able  men  is  revealed  by  many  indi- 
cations. Political  economists  of  the 
first  rank  defend  their  principles. 
Statesmen,  whose  love  of  order  and 
liberty  is  undeniable,  nevertheless 
support  their  cause  with  warm  and 
unflinching  energy.  The  problems 
raised  by  their  existence  are  debat- 
ed with  genuine  power  and  zeal 
on  both  sides  j  but  neither  scien- 
tific authority  nor  political  philos- 
ophy has  discovered  their  solution. 
Like  thunder-clouds,  they  advance 
against  the  wind,  and  can  boast  of 
converts  of  the  class  of  Mr  Mill. 
They  present  a  battle-field  of  con- 
fusion, contradiction,  and  perplex- 
ity. Political  opinion  knows  not 
what  to  do  with  them. 

The  welfare  of  a  whole  nation 
demands  that  this  perplexity  and. 
hesitation  should  cease.  Some 
practical  decision  must  be  adopted ; 
either  the  Unions  must  be  effectu- 
ally controlled,  or  the  dominion  of 
the  whole  working  classes  of  the 
country  must  be  surrendered  into 
their  hands.  The  call  for  a  thorough 
examination  of  the  problem  is  more 
urgent  than  ever.  The  report  of 


1870.] 


Trade-Unions. 


555 


the  Royal  Commission  is  no  final 
judgment,  it  is  not  even  a  complete 
re-view  of  all  the  elements  of  the 
problem.  It  avowedly  eschews  the 
discussion  of  some  of  the  most  im- 
portant economical  principles  in- 
volved in  the  objects  aimed  at  by 
Trade  -  Unions.  It  fails  to  cover 
the  whole  of  the  ground  in  dispute. 
It  does  not  furnish,  therefore,  the 
full  information  which  the  public 
mind  requires  for  pronouncing  a 
decision.  The  contest,  therefore, 
between  the  friends  and  the  ene- 
mies of  Trade-Unions,  rages  on  with 
unabated  vehemence  amidst  pro- 
tricted  uncertainty  on  the  part  of 
the  Government,  the  Parliament, 
arid  the  public.  We  cannot  help 
being  convinced  that  this  perplex- 
ity arises  in  no  small  measure  from 
the  want  of  a  precise  statement  of 
the  economical,  and,  so  to  speak, 
natural  elements  of  the  problem. 
The  economical  principles,  we  freely 
admit,  are  not  the  only  ones  that 
must  be  weighed  in  the  solution. 
There  are  other  considerations, 
drawn  from  the  very  nature  of 
social  life,  as  it  exists  in  a  free  and 
civilised  community,  which  must 
be  largely  taken  into  account.  To 
be  guilty  of  bad  political  economy, 
if  such  a  charge  could  be  success- 
fully proved,  assuredly  would  not 
be  conclusive  of  the  right  of  Trade- 
Unions  to  exist ;  but  no  fair  man 
would  deny  that  if  the  definite  con- 
clusion was  established  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  that  Trade-Unions  pro- 
moted creeds  which  were  founded 
upon  real  error,  and  were  highly 
injurious  to  the  wealth  and  pros- 
perity of  the  people,  the  disposition 
to  tolerate  the  proceedings  by  which 
they  seek  to  accomplish  their  ob- 
jects would  be  rapidly  changed  in 
character.  We  are  not  affirming 
liere  that  the  political  economy  of 
tae  Trade-Unions  is  unsound  and 
mischievous ;  we  only  assert  that 
it  is  of  the  highest  importance  that 
its  true  character  should  be  ascer- 
tained. A  Trade-Union  is  an  in- 
stitution strictly  belonging  to  the 
domain  of  political  economy.  It 


seeks  to  carry  out  by  practical 
measures  results  which  are  dis- 
tinctly economical.  It  aims  at  im- 
proving the  social  condition  of  the 
working  classes  :  it  seeks  the  high- 
est remuneration  of  labour;  and  for 
this  purpose  adopts  methods  which 
it  conceives  will  most  effectually 
accomplish  this  design.  We  do 
not  say  that  it  must  stand  or  fall, 
must  continue  or  be  suppressed, 
according  to  the  verdict  which  its 
doctrines  may  receive  from  the  tri- 
bunal of  economical  science ;  but 
since  it  is,  in  theory  at  least,  a  purely 
economical  institution,  it  concerns 
the  public  welfare  in  the  highest 
degree,  that  the  ends  sought  by  so 
mighty  a  force,  wielding  so  real  a 
power  over  the  means,  the  liberty, 
and  the  mode  of  existence,  of  such 
immense  bodies  of  men,  should  be 
thoroughly  explored. 

Influenced,  then,  by  a  strong  feel- 
ing of  the  necessity  for  such  an  in- 
vestigation, we  proceed  to  state,  to 
the  best  of  our  ability,  and  with  as 
much  precision  as  we  can  attain, 
the  determining  elements  of  this 
great  problem.  Trade-Unions  have 
for  their  object  the  attainment  of 
the  highest  practicable  remunera- 
tion for  labour.  Wages,  the  com- 
pensation given  to  the  so-called 
working  classes  for  their  toil,  is  their 
specific  field  of  action.  They  stand 
on  the  distinction  between  capital 
and  labour — between  the  employer 
and  the  workmen  ;  and  they  con- 
fess that  it  is  with  the  interests  of 
the  latter  exclusively  that  they  con- 
cern themselves.  The  producers  of 
wealth  are  thus  arrayed  by  them 
into  two  classes,  whose  pecuniary 
interests  are  held  to  be  antagonis- 
tic. Their  aim  and  intention — their 
raison  d'etre — is  avowed  to  be,  by 
the  organising  of  an  intelligent 
and  effective  combination,  to  give 
strength  to  the  labourer  in  his  de- 
mand for  remuneration  from  his 
employer.  We  need  not  tarry  here 
on  the  well-known  truth  that  this 
distinction  does  not  correspond 
accurately  with  facts,  and  that 
most  of  the  employers  are  them- 


556 


Trade-  Unions. 


[May 


selves  workmen  and  labourers,  and 
receive  a  portion  of  their  remuner- 
ation regularly  as  wages ;  and,  on 
the  other  side,  that  most  members 
of  Trade-Unions  are  capitalists  and 
possess  capital,  either  as  tools  or  in 
some  other  form.  For  the  practical 
part  of  this  discussion,  the  classifi- 
cation adopted  may  be  regarded  as 
sufficiently  accurate.  It  rests  on  the 
general  fact  that  the  employer  is  the 
man  who  contracts  for  wages  with 
the  labourer,  and  owns  the  product 
which  results  from  the  application 
of  capital  and  labour.  Wages,  then, 
imply  a  contract  entered  into  for 
a  certain  definite  remuneration,  and 
a  contract  virtually  implies  a  bar- 
gain. Wages  and  profit,  the  re- 
muneration of  both  the  capitalist 
and  the  labourer,  are  derived  from 
one  common  fund — the  gross  pro- 
duce of  the  industry  carried  on  by 
both;  and  the  bargain  thus  ulti- 
mately becomes  the  question  of  its 
distribution,  its  division  between 
the  two  parties  who  concurred  in 
generating  the  wealth.  We  thus 
reach  the  first  element  of  the  pro- 
blem— the  gross  produce,  and  the 
obvious  interest  which  each  of  the 
two  parties  has  that  it  should  be  as 
large  as  possible.  The  more  wealth 
that  there  is  to  be  divided,  the  bet- 
ter off  is  the  community,  taken  as  a 
whole,  and  the  greater  are  the  means 
for  remunerating  the  services  and 
the  sacrifices  of  all.  Any  policy 
or  practice,  therefore,  which  tends 
directly  to  restrict  the  amount  of 
wealth  produced,  is  so  far  bad  and 
injurious.  But  this  principle  must 
not  be  interpreted  as  being,  by  itself 
alone,  decisive  of  any  method  of  em- 
ploying capital  and  labour  :  it  may 
easily  be  limited  by  considerations 
of  another  order.  It  is  possible,  for 
instance,  that  in  a  particular  coun- 
try the  institution  of  slavery  might 
bring  out  the  creation  of  the  largest 
quantity  of  wealth ;  yet  it  would  be 
justly  maintained  on  the  other  side 
that  it  was  better  to  be  poorer  than 
to  have  slaves.  It  is  equally  con- 
ceivable that  in  certain  states  of 
society  the  largest  amount  of  agri- 


cultural produce  might  be  raised 
by  a  population  living  under  a  low 
standard  of  civilisation,  and  that  a 
high  civilisation  might  be  accounted 
well  bought  at  the  price  of  a  lower 
agricultural  produce.  The  prin- 
ciple, then,  of  providing  for  the 
largest  practicable  production  of 
wealth  is  not  an  absolute  one,  but 
it  is  dominant  within  its  own  legiti- 
mate range,  all  other  circumstances 
being  the  same.  Those  regulations 
of  industry  which  interfere  with 
the  greatness  of  its  yield  are  vicious, 
and  call  for  removal.  They  injure 
the  wellbeing  of  the  receivers  of 
wages,  as  well  as  of  the  whole  peo- 
ple generally. 

Secondly,  the  numbers  of  -  the 
population  are  a  most  determining 
factor  of  this  great  problem.  The 
quantity  of  the  wealth  produced  is 
limited  :  the  number  of  those  who 
are  to  partake  of  it  must  necessari- 
ly largely  influence  the  size  of  the 
share  which  will  ultimately  fall  to 
each.  It  is  substantially  a  question 
of  food.  It  is  of  the  utmost  conse- 
quence that  the  true  state  of  the 
facts,  the  real  and  most  positive 
law  of  existence,  should  be  thor- 
oughly understood  by  all.  All  ani- 
mals possess  a  power  of  multiplica- 
tion which  surpasses  the  power  of 
the  land  to  provide  food  for  their 
sustenance.  By  one  force  or  other, 
their  numbers  are  kept  on  a  level 
with  the  supply  of  food.  If  more 
are  born,  they  perish  by  the  work- 
ing of  an  inevitable  law.  Man 
forms  no  exception  to  this  para- 
mount necessity :  human  beings  can 
be  generated  in  indefinitely  larger 
numbers  than  the  land  is  able  to 
support.  The  wider  expansion  of 
the  population  is  kept  down  by  a 
power  which,  if  its  workings  are 
obscure,  is  nevertheless  inexorable. 
Pressure  must  exist  somewhere 
under  all  possible  forms  of  society, 
which  prevents  the  unlimited  multi- 
plication of  the  race.  The  opera- 
tion of  this  law  is  easily  disguised 
by  a  state  of  civilisation  such  as  is 
found  in  England.  The  relation 
of  the  inhabitants  to  the  supply  of 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


557 


food  is  obscured  in  this  country  by 
the  circumstance  that  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  food  of  its  inhabitants  is 
derived  from  foreign  lands ;  hence 
it  is  less  obvious  that  the  number 
of  English  men  and  women  alive  in 
England  is  proportionate  to  the 
power  of  the  land  to  maintain  them. 
Yet  it  is  not  the  less  real  on  that  ac- 
count. By  means  of  her  coal,  and 
other  resources,  England  is  able 
to  produce  commodities  for  which 
other  nations  will  give  her  food  in 
exchange ;  and,  were  it  not  that 
science  had  so  enormously  extended 
tho  facilities  for  the  transport  of 
heavy  weights,  England  would  have 
seen  more  clearly  than  she  does 
now  the  close  dependence  of  the 
numbers  of  her  people  on  their 
ability  to  acquire  food.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  may  be  said  that 
though  the  numbers  of  the  popu- 
lation must  ultimately  be  deter- 
mined by  the  food  obtained  from 
the  land,  still,  many  more  human 
beings  might  be  supported  in  Eng- 
land by  a  different  distribution  of 
the  food  available  for  sustenance. 
That  is  so,  no  doubt.  The  rich 
consume  much  more  food  than  is 
necessary,  and  waste  a  great  deal 
more  besides.  It  is  perfectly  true, 
therefore,  that  a  rigid  allotment  of 
the  quantity  of  food  actually  raised 
at  a  given  time  would  provide  a 
full  sufficiency  for  many  who  do 
not,  as  it  is,  procure  enough,  and 
probably  also  save  many  from  in- 
direct but  yet  real  starvation.  But 
even  after  this  operation  had  been 
completed,  the  irrepressible  law 
would  assert  its  power.  These 
well-fed  beings  must  not  multiply 
beyond  the  supply  of  food,  and,  if 
that  remains  stationary,  must  have 
no  more  children  than  would  re- 
place the  parents,  or  else  a  reduction 
of  comfort,  and  in  the  end  death,  in 
one  form  or  other,  would  inevitably 
correct  the  excess.  It  cannot  be 
otherwise :  it  is  the  law  of  existence 
imposed  on  all  animals.  We  do 
not  say  that  in  such  a  country  as 
England  many  would  literally  die 
of  hunger,  though  this  happened 


in  the  past,  and  happens  in  our 
own  day,  in  Ireland,  in  Orissa,  and 
other  regions  desolated  by  fam- 
ines :  but  the  deficiency  of  food 
would  generate  want  of  clothing, 
insufficient  shelter,  fever,  and  other 
maladies  destructive  of  human  life. 
France  furnishes  a  striking  illus- 
tration of  the  working  of  this  law. 
That  country  has  often  been  quoted 
by  Mr  Mill  and  other  political  eco- 
nomists as  an  example  of  success- 
ful adaptation  of  population  to 
food.  But  by  what  process  is  this 
achieved?  Dr  Barthillon  will  in- 
form us.  In  the  seven  departments 
surrounding  Paris,  the  death-rate 
of  infants  under  one  year  of  age 
amounts  to  a  mortality  varying 
from  288  to  378  in  1000.  This 
gigantic  destruction  of  human  life 
may,  no  doubt,  be  partly  explained 
by  the  action  of  moral  causes,  but 
these  moral  causes  themselves  are 
in  no  small  degree  affected  by  the 
general  wellbeing  of  the  people ; 
and,  in  any  case,  it  reveals  how 
effectual  and  how  stern  is  the 
limit  imposed  on  numbers  by  the 
never-ceasing  action  of  natural  law. 
Whatever  power  aims  at  dealing 
with  the  distribution  of  the  pro- 
duce of  industry,  above  all  in  the 
matter  of  food — be  it  the  State,  or 
Politicians,  or  Philosophers,  or 
Clergy,  or  Trade-Unions — all  alike 
must  reckon  with  this  mighty  force, 
this  supreme  law,  which  declares 
that  the  undue  multiplication  of 
human  beings  will  ever  be  corrected 
by  death. 

The  third  element  of  our  pro- 
blem is  founded  on  a  practical,  if 
not  conscious,  recognition  of  this 
law.  Misery  and  death  are  not  mere 
avengers  of  evil.  Man's  nature 
has  been  so  constituted  by  his  Crea- 
tor, that  the  penalty  which  punishes 
also  calls  forth  the  will  and  the 
effort  to  arrest  the  continuance  of 
the  malady.  The  desire  to  better 
himself,  to  remove  what  distresses  or 
pains,  to  reach  to  greater  good,  to  a 
higher  state,  is  implanted  in  the 
lowest  depths  of  man's  being.  From 
this  great  central  need  all  civilisa- 


558 


Trade-Unions. 


[May 


tion  has  sprung.  Some  few  popula- 
tions have  lived  on  under  such  cir- 
cumstances of  barbarous  existence 
as  never  to  have  learnt  progress, 
and  when  they  have  come  in  con- 
tact with  civilisation,  to  have  been 
incapable  of  assimilating  its  ele- 
ments, and  to  have  dwindled  by 
the  side  of  the  superior  race.  But 
it  has  been  wholly  otherwise  with 
the  vast  majority  of  mankind.  Peo- 
ples have  been  seen  to  grow  and 
to  expand ;  and  this  fact  by  it- 
self incontestably  demonstrates  that 
they  have  learnt  how  to  deal  suc- 
cessfully with  the  law  of  popula- 
tion. They  have  lessened  the 
amount  of  human  suffering,  and 
by  the  acquisition  of  wealth  have 
risen  to  a  higher  standard  of 
life.  The  methods  by  which  they 
have  harmonised  numbers  with 
food  have  been  various.  Sometimes 
the  sovereign  power  has  interfered 
in  the  contraction  of  marriage ; 
sometimes  a  low  morality  has  sanc- 
tioned the  destruction  of  infants; 
swarms  have  emigrated  and  re- 
lieved pressure  at  home,  or  else 
energetic  and  intelligent  industry 
has  for  a  while  kept  the  supply  of 
food,  and  the  necessaries  depend- 
ent on  food,  on  a  level  with  the  in- 
habitants of  the  land.  But  a  prin- 
ciple yet  more  powerful  than  all 
these  has  been  incessantly  at  work, 
and  by  its  beneficent  operation  has 
effected  a  still  higher  harmony  be-  - 
tween  numbers  and  wealth.  It  is 
summed  up  in  the  word  civilisa- 
tion. Its  dwelling-place  is  human 
feeling,  the  habits  contracted  by 
moral  and  reasonable  beings,  the 
tone  of  mind  of  the  people,  their 
ultimate  feeling  respecting  human 
life  and  the  conditions  which  ren- 
der it  worth  the  having.  It  creates 
a  standard  of  comfort  and  enjoy- 
ment, however  moderate,  which 
comes  into  direct  antagonism  with 
the  instinct  of  multiplication  as  soon 
as  civilisation  has  advanced  so  far 
as  to  adopt  such  a  standard,  and  to 
root  it  in  the  feelings  of  the  people. 
The  tendency  to  reproduce  encoun- 
ters a  very  powerful  check  in  the 


thought  of  the  misery  which  im- 
prudence is  sure  to  entail  on  par- 
ents and  offspring.  Thus  the  men 
reflect  before  they  commit  them- 
selves to  marriage.  It  accustoms 
them  to  think  of  what  the  fate  of 
their  children  may  be  in  the  fu- 
ture ;  it  inspires  the  thought  in 
the  young  man  to  wait  till  he 
can  acquire  a  cottage,  or  have  per- 
manent employment  in  a  factory, 
or  can  see  his  way  reasonably 
against  a  possible  descent  into 
misery.  This  power  is  the  result- 
ant of  many  forces,  of  moral,  so- 
cial, and  physical  elements  combin- 
ed. And  precisely  as  the  absence 
of  this  principle,  of  this  desire  to 
secure  comforts  rendered  neces- 
sary by  habit,  demoralises  a  man, 
and  may  bring  him  and  his  family 
down  to  the  margin  where  the 
waves  of  starvation  define  the  cir- 
cle of  existence,  so  its  continued 
presence  tends  to  generate  a  pro- 
gressive rise  in  that  standard  of  habit 
which  is  the  direct  antagonist  of 
excessive  reproduction.  A  people 
which  has  accustomed  itself  to  live 
on  wheaten  bread,  for  instance, 
will  check  reckless  multiplication 
more  effectively  than  one  that 
consents  to  live  on  potatoes  only. 
Not  only  does  it  escape  the  demor- 
alising influence  of  the  long  period 
of  idleness  which  the  scant  tillage 
required  for  this  root  imposes  on 
those  whose  sole  resource  it  is ;  but 
further,  also,  which  is  much  more 
important  yet,  it  admits  of  a  descent 
to  an  inferior  food  before  civilisa- 
tion is  submerged,  and  that  descent 
calls  forth  energetic  exertion  and 
resistance.  The  desire  to  save  be- 
comes intensified,  waste  is  checked, 
the  effort  to  hold  on  for  better  times, 
and  not  to  plunge  into  immediate 
despair,  is  called  forth  into  vigor- 
ous activity.  The  disagreeableness 
of  these  operations  acts  power- 
fully on  the  inclination  to  marry. 
It  is  well  known  that  in  such  a 
country  as  England,  prosperous 
trade  multiplies  marriages,  and 
times  of  depression  are  marked  by 
a  diminution  both  of  marriages  and 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions, 


559 


births.  The  desire  to  regain  the 
lost  standard  of  comfort  works 
powerfully  on  every  class  of  the 
people.  The  rich  apply  their  wealth 
and  their  intelligence  to  mitigate 
the  sufferings  of  their  poorer  neigh- 
bours ;  they  spend  less  on  direct 
consumption ;  they  are  willing  to 
apply  their  wealth  to  additional 
draining,  to  agricultural  labour,  and 
other  reproductive  works;  they 
assist  in  providing  the  temporary 
relief  of  emigration.  By  these  and 
similar  efforts  the  struggle  is  carried 
on  against  the  depression  and  its 
causes  :  population  is  checked  on 
the  one  side,  on  the  other  the  store 
of  capital  is  augmented. 

Such  are  the  chief  processes  by 
which  civilisation,  when  conducted 
on  sound  and  on  broad  economical 
bases,  contends  against  that  law  of 
reproduction  which,  if  uncontrol- 
led, is  limited  by  death  only.  We 
have  described  them  at  greater 
length,  because,  though  well  known 
to  all  who  have  studied  this  great 
subject,  they  are  still  sadly  unfa- 
miliar to  a  large  portion  of  the  pub- 
lic, and  not  least  to  many  of  those 
who,  by  such  institutions  as  Trade- 
Unions,  practically  deal  with  the 
problem  of  the  numbers  and  the 
condition  of  the  people. 

There  remains  to  be  mentioned, 
in  the  fourth  place,  as  a  constitu- 
ent element  of  the  problem  before 
us,  the  motives  which  act  on  the 
capitalist  and  the  labourer  to  induce 
them  to  devote  their  respective  ac- 
tions to  the  production  of  wealth. 
The  labourer,  it  is  manifest,  toils 
simply  to  support  life.  Under  the 
ordinary  circumstances  of  humanity, 
his  power  to  accumulate  capital  is 
small — indeed  can  hardly  be  said 
to  exist.  Individuals  amongst  the 
working  classes  rise  into  the  class 
of  capitalists,  but  the  great  bulk  of 
the  wage-receiving  population  are 
content  if  they  can  but  maintain 
themselves  by  their  daily  labour  to 
the  end  of  their  days.  Here  the 
instinct  of  reproduction  is  strong 
enough  to  prevent  the  accumula- 
tion of  capital.  Men  who  are 


generally  satisfied  with  their  con- 
dition will  people  up,  to  use  a 
now  common  expression,  to  that 
limit.  Their  standard  of  life  may 
be  raised;  but,  the  standard  settled, 
numbers  will  forbid  any  important 
acquisition  of  capital  by  the  gen- 
eral body.  At  the  same  time,  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
prospect  of  acquiring  large  remu- 
neration for  labour  is  a  great  stim- 
ulant to  energy  and  intelligence, 
and  that  energy  and  intelligence 
play  an  exceedingly  prominent 
part  in  the  raising  of  the  standard. 
This  consideration  is  of  great  mo- 
ment in  judging  the  policy  of  Trade- 
Unions,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  motive 
which  determines  the  accumulation 
of  capital  is  the  expectation  of  an 
adequate  reward  for  the  sacrifice 
which  it  involves.  If  there  is  an 
increase  of  capital  —  if  a  larger 
quantity  of  the  wealth  of  a  nation 
is  devoted  to  the  promotion  of  a 
new  field  of  industry — it  can  come 
only  from  saving ;  and  to  save 
means  not  to  consume  all  one's 
income,  in  whatever  form  it  may 
be  realised,  in  the  way  of  enjoy- 
ment. An  augmentation  of  capital 
necessarily  implies  that  present 
gratification  has  been  given  up  for 
the  sake  of  future  profit.  The 
man  who  applies  a  portion  of  his 
annual  wealth  to  an  industrial  un- 
dertaking, be  it  draining,  or  extra 
manuring,  or  the  opening  of  a  mine, 
or  the  building  of  ships  and  fac- 
tories, gives  up  the  pleasure  of 
spending  for  the  sake  of  acquiring 
greater  riches.  He  will  make  this 
sacrifice  of  present  pleasure  the 
more  energetically  just  in  propor- 
tion as  the  hope  of  future  reward 
holds  out  brighter  expectations. 
This  is  not  a  law  of  political  econ- 
omy; it  is  a  principle  of  human 
nature,  of  which  it  is  the  duty  of 
all  sound  political  economy  to  take 
cognisance.  The  Highland  chief- 
tain of  the  past  felt  small  inclina- 
tion to  devote  his  means  to  the 
improved  cultivation  of  his  lands. 
The  prospect  of  adequate  compen- 


560 


Trade-  Unions. 


[May 


sation  in  the  accumulation  of  in- 
creased wealth  was  too  dark  under 
the  agricultural  and  social  condi- 
tions of  his  day.  He  preferred  to 
gratify  his  pride  by  doling  out  a 
scanty  subsistence  to  idle  followers 
who  camped  on  the  hillside,  and 
surrounded  his  court  with  the  os- 
tentatious display  of  a  vast  reti- 
nue of  dependants.  Again,  before 
steam  and  mechanical  science  had 
enlarged  the  power  of  man  to  give 
marvellous  productiveness  to  in- 
dustry, in  Holland  and  other  coun- 
tries the  rate  of  profit  on  the  em- 
ployment of  capital  was  so  feeble 
as  greatly  to  weaken  the  motive  to 
divert  wealth  from  unproductive  to 
productive  consumption — to  make 
men  willing  to  forego  present  en- 
joyment for  the  sake  of  increasing 
their  wealth  in  the  future.  If  no 
skill  or  effort  were  able  to  procure 
more  than  one  per  cent  of  interest 
on  any  safe  investment — if  agricul- 
ture had  reached  the  limit  at  which 
additional  draining  or  manuring 
yielded  no  return  of  importance — 
society  would  have  reached  the 
stationary  state  when  men  con- 
sume their  incomes  as  they  re- 
ceive them,  when  progress  in  well- 
being  would  have  come  to  an  end, 
and  when  industry  would  be  fed 
by  no  higher  motive  than  the  fear 
of  decay  and  starvation.  But  we 
have  only  to  turn  our  eyes  to  a 
thriving  colony  to  see  the  reverse 
of  this  picture.  There  a  virgin 
soil  yields  enormous  returns  to  the 
relatively  small  labour  bestowed  on 
tillage;  industry  meets  ample  re- 
wards from  the  abundance  of  its 
produce ;  and  there  every  nerve  is 
strained  to  devote  every  possible 
saving  to  the  clearing  of  woods,  the 
stocking  of  farms,  and  the  improve- 
ment of  roads  and  rivers.  Wealth, 
as  rapidly  as  it  is  accumulated,  is 
applied  with  eager  energy,  not  to 
luxurious  enjoyment,  but  to  capital 
— to  the  construction  of  every  kind 
of  improvement  which  will  secure 
the  riches  that  offer  themselves  to 
labour.  Profits  are  so  high  as  to 
fill  men's  minds  with  incessant 


thoughts  about  building  and  clear- 
ing and  stocking. 

Such  are  the  elements  of  the 
great  economical  problem  with 
which  Trade -Unions  profess  to 
deal.  They  stand  forth  as  the  ad- 
vocates of  one  of  the  parties  in 
the  joint  production  of  wealth. 
They  proclaim  that  the  workman 
requires  help  for  the  attainment 
of  his  right,  and  that  help  they 
propose  to  give  him  by  means  of 
combination.  Let  him  not  stand 
alone,  they  say ;  let  him  act  in 
union  with  his  fellow  -  workmen, 
and  their  joint  action  will  secure  for 
him  his  due.  Accordingly  Trade- 
Unions  are  associated  combina- 
tions, with  the  requisite  organisa- 
tion of  government,  subordination, 
and  money.  These  organisations 
are  constructed  for  each  trade 
separately,  but  they  give  great 
facility  to  many  trades  to  act 
together  for  a  common  purpose. 
Moreover,  their  power,  and  the 
machinery  by  which  it  is  worked, 
are  not  only  directed  against  the 
other  sharer  in  the  product  of  in- 
dustry—  the  capitalist  —  but  are 
also  made  to  exercise  considerable 
pressure  on  those  of  their  fellow- 
workmen  who  refuse  to  join  the 
Union.  This  is  the  most  grave 
feature  in  this  complex  machine, 
for  it  obviously  comes  in  contact 
with  the  fundamental  principle  of 
liberty.  This  pressure  frequently 
becomes  coercion,  carried  out  not 
unfrequently  by  conduct  which  the 
law  pronounces  to  be  criminal ;  and 
it  therefore  becomes  a  duty  of  su- 
preme social  and  political  import- 
ance to  understand  clearly  the 
spirit  and  the  policy  of  these  asso- 
ciations. 

The  ends  which  Trade-Unions 
pursue  must  be  divided  into  two 
classes.  First,  they  seek  to  obtain 
the  best  possible  wages  at  a  given 
time  and  place ;  and,  secondly, 
they  have  framed  a  definite  policy 
for  regulating  the  economical  posi- 
tion of  the  labouring  classes. 

With  respect  to  the  first  of  these 
objects,  it  cannot  be  disputed  that 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


561 


a  single  labourer,  acting  by  him- 
self alone,  without  connection  with 
his  fellow-workmen,  is  obviously 
we.'ik  in  bargaining  with  an  em- 
ployer. The  conditions  are  not 
perfectly  equal  on  both  sides.  The 
labourer  is  in  danger  of  destitu- 
tion ;  the  master  may  be  little, 
probably  not  at  all,  inj  ured  by  his 
refusal  to  work.  Thus  stated,  the 
question  must  be  decided  in  favour 
of  combination  ;  the  determination 
of  the  workmen  to  stand  by  one  an- 
other in  obtaining  adequate  wages 
is  unassailable  in  respect  of  prin- 
ciple. But  then  this  statement 
does  not  cover  the  whole  case.  Is 
the  working  man  really  single  and 
un associated  ?  Does  he  stand  alone 
face  to  face  with  his  rich  master, 
and  has  he  no  support  from  the 
co  operation  of  others  1  No  doubt 
a  master,  or  group  of  masters,  may 
perform  an  act  of  tyranny  on  a 
particular  man,  but  such  an  excep- 
tional case  is  not  the  one  under 
discussion.  We  are  dealing  here 
with  an  ordinary  labourer  who 
debates  with  an  employer  the  wage 
he  shall  receive.  Is  his  an  isolated 
bargain,  in  which  the  labourer  is 
truly  and  practically  alone  1  Orders 
have  come  in  to  the  master,  and  he 
is  in  need  of  men  ;  he  offers  a  spe- 
cific wage  to  the  workman,  and  the 
olfer  is  rejected.  What  must  be 
the  next  step  of  the  master  ? — to 
seek  out  another  man,  and  to  re- 
peat the  offer.  The  offer  is  again 
rejected ;  and  the  question  then 
becomes,  Is  there  any  connection, 
conscious  or  unconscious,  between 
these  two  acts,  these  two  refusals 
of  the  two  men  1  Manifestly  there 
is  a  very  real  solidarite,  an  intimate 
and  true  union  between  them ;  and 
that  union  is  their  common  know- 
ledge of  the  state  of  the  market, 
their  perception  of  the  strength  of 
the  demand  for  labour  compared 
with  its  supply.  Both  the  men 
feel  it  :  each  knows  that  the  mas- 
ter will  not  get  his  work  done  on 
cheaper  terms,  and  that,  as  the 
orders  must  be  executed,  he  will 
perforce  accept  the  rate  of  wages 


they  ask  for.  This  practical  con- 
nection of  the  labourers  with  one 
another  is  strong  enough  to  raise 
wages  :  they  need  no  help  in  their 
bargaining;  when  trade  is  brisk, 
wages  rise.  This  is  a  truth  which 
even  the  Trade -Unions  acknow- 
ledge ;  for  the  account  they  give  of 
their  action  in  this  particular  of 
the  rise  and  fall  of  wages  is,  that 
they  are  quiet  when  wages  advance, 
but  that  they  resist  a  fall.  The 
sphere  of  their  action,  therefore,  in 
which  they  can  render  assistance 
to  the  individual  labourer  by  com- 
bination, is  reduced  to  the  case  of 
trade  growing  slack,  and  the  mas- 
ters offering  diminished  wages. 
Here,  we  admit  at  once,  the  con- 
nection of  the  one  workman  with 
the  other  is  at  an  end.  The 
master  can  without  loss  discharge 
the  labourer  who  holds  out  for 
the  old  wages,  for  the  supply  of 
labour  now  exceeds  his  wants, 
and  with  hunger  staring  the  la- 
bourer in  the  face,  he  knows 
that  the  second  man  will  accept 
the  wages  refused  by  the  first. 
The  labourer  may  thus  stand  at 
a  disadvantage.  When  trade  is 
prosperous  the  master  inevitably 
must  concede  the  rise  of  wages 
claimed  by  each  man,  if  that  claim 
is  founded  on  a  true  estimate  of 
the  demand;  and  this  information  he 
may  acquire  from  the  feeling  of  the 
market.  But  when  the  position  is 
reversed,  he  has  no  means  of  know- 
ing whether  the  offer  of  the  master 
is  unjust.  If  it  is  an  unreasonable 
attempt  at  depression,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  the  assistance  from  a 
Union,  which  enables  him  to  live, 
may  furnish  him,  in  concert  with 
his  brother  Unionist,  with  the 
means  of  enforcing  justice  on  the 
employer.  But  the  question  arises, 
Is  aTrade-Union  the  bestmachinery 
which  can  be  devised  for  providing 
material  support  to  workmen  for  re- 
sisting a  fall  of  wages  ?  And  then 
there  is  the  still  more  important 
question,  What  means  has  the  Union 
for  acquiring  the  necessary  infor- 
mation on  which  to  ground  its  de- 


562 


Trade-Unions. 


[May 


cree  as  to  the  wages  to  be  demand- 
ed ?  It  is  always  a  complicated 
question ;  each  case  and  each  trade 
has  its  own  specialties.  The  know- 
ledge must  be  obtained  of  a  large 
number  of  facts  derived  from  the 
most  various  sources,  and  generally 
most  difficult  to  ascertain  and  to 
appreciate.  What  warrant  does  the 
organisation  of  a  Trade-Union  fur- 
nish of  the  ability  to  investigate 
the  causes  and  the  limits  of  a  retro- 
gression in  a  trade  ?  nay,  what  secu- 
rity does  it  present  that,  even  if  it 
possesses  the  ability,  it  would  also 
have  the  will  to  exercise  it  1  The 
evidence  before  the  Royal  Commis- 
sion has  disclosed  the  principle  on 
which  the  Unions  act.  "  They  look 
only  at  their  own  interests  ;  they 
take  account  of  nothing  else."  Yet 
surely  the  question  at  issue  must  be 
looked  at  from  the  master's  point  of 
view  as  well  as  from  the  workman's. 
His  position  and  his  education  en- 
able him  to  discover  more  easily 
and  more  surely  than  the  labourer 
the  causes  which  have  brought 
about  the  slackness  of  business, 
the  probability  of  their  lasting,  and 
the  extent  to  which  they  may  carry 
the  contraction  of  the  trade.  These 
are  essential  elements  for  the  for- 
mation of  a  trustworthy  judgment 
on  the  amount  of  wages  which  the 
business  can  afford.  An  employer 
who  believes  that  the  slackness  is 
due  to  temporary  causes,  will  pause 
before  he  drives  away  valuable  work- 
men from  his  factory  j  on  the  other 
hand,  if  the  drooping  orders  have  a 
deeper  and  more  abiding  source,  a 
prompt  recognition  of  the  fact,  by  a 
corresponding  reduction  of  wages, 
may  be  the  best  and  kindest  intima- 
tion to  the  labourer  to  prepare  for 
harder  times,  or,  it  may  be,  for  a 
change  of  occupation.  It  is  now 
an  admitted  truth,  that  the  forestal- 
lers  who  buy  up  corn,  when  a  de- 
ficient harvest  is  ascertained,  render 
a  most  valuable  service  to  the  poor, 
by  forcing  them  to  economise  in 
time.  The  same  principle  may  ren- 
der equally  good  service  in  other 
trades. 


"  Oh/;  reply  the  Trade-Unions, 
"  these  nicer  calculations  are  not  our 
province.  We  adopt  more  direct 
and  more  effectual  methods.  When 
wages  sink  below  what  we  think 
right,  we  have  recourse  to  the  only 
process  which  will  accurately  test 
whether  the  master  is  honest  and  ac- 
curate in  his  diminution  of  wages, 
or  whether  he  is  seeking  to  enrich 
himself  by  defrauding  the  labourers 
of  their  due.  In  no  other  way  can  it 
be  ascertained  what  the  real  facts 
of  the  situation  are."  In  reply  to 
this  we  will  not  urge  that  such 
a  mode  of  making  the  experiment, 
so  reckless  and  so  coarse,  may  often 
plunder  an  employer  of  his  property, 
in  his  unwillingness  to  encounter 
the  ruinous  loss  of  a  stoppage  ;  we 
will  point  out  rather  that  a  strike 
is  an  exceedingly  costly  proceeding ; 
that  the  organisation  which  is  pre- 
pared in  readiness  to  deliver  the 
blow,  is  extremely  expensive  ;  that 
the  wisdom  of  the  policy  which  de- 
liberately encounters  this  expense 
depends  on  the  assumption  that 
the  reduction  of  wages  proposed  by 
the  masters  has  no  foundation  in 
the  actual  state  of  the  trade.  If  this 
assumption  is  erroneous  —  if  the 
business  no  longer  yields  the  same 
profit,  and  can  be  maintained  only 
by  consenting  to  sales  at  a  lower 
price — then  a  strike,  with  its  vast 
cost  and  protracted  suffering,  has 
been  a  wanton  and  self-inflicted 
calamity.  The  history  of  strikes 
records  endless  failures  to  combat  a 
fall  of  wages,  which  neither  masters 
nor  workmen  could  avert.  Intense 
distress  has  preyed  on  whole  dis- 
tricts, huge  bodies  of  men  have 
been  fed  out  of  funds  destined  for 
support  in  old  age  and  sickness, 
the  production  of  wealth  has  been 
interrupted,  and  the  means  of  all 
have  been  fearfully  diminished,  and 
yet  at  last  the  strike  has  failed  to 
accomplish  its  object,  the  workmen 
have  been  compelled  to  surrender, 
and  "  the  inexorable  logic  of  facts  " 
has  proclaimed  that  all  this  misery 
and  this  loss  were  a  pure  and  wan- 
ton waste. 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


563 


The  advocates  of  Trade-Unions, 
therefore,  are  called  upon  to  show 
that  the  expense  incurred  in  the 
maintenance  of  the  organisation  for 
carrying  out  a  strike,  and  the  vast 
loss  occasioned  by  the  cessation  of 
industry  and  the  support  of  multi- 
tudes in  enforced  idleness,  are  pro- 
fitable investments  of  the  subscrip- 
tions of  the  Unionists,  and  are  com- 
pensated by  adequate  advantages 
which  atone  for  the  failure  which 
often  attends  their  action.  The 
funds  of  the  Union  have  vanished, 
and  its  members  have  endured,  so 
far  as  these  unsuccessful  strikes  are 
concerned,  a  large  amount  of  use- 
less suffering :  where  is  the  gain 
which  makes  up  for  and  justifies 
th  ese  sacrifices  1  Granted  that  a  suc- 
cession of  defeats  is  not  necessarily 
decisive  of  a  campaign ;  but  where 
is  the  victory  that  reconciles  the 
judgment  to  the  destruction  which 
it  has  cost  to  attain  it1?  Many 
strikes  are  successful,  is  the  reply; 
the  masters  often  yield  the  disput- 
ed point,  and  the  constant  fear  of 
a  strike  effectually  conquers  the 
perpetual  impulse  of  selfishness  in 
the  masters  to  appropriate  an  un- 
just share  of  the  profits  of  industry 
to  the  injury  of  the  labourers.  We 
hold  this  answer  to  be  insufficient 
as  a  justification  of  the  machinery 
of  Unions  for  ascertaining  the  true 
rate  of  wages.  The  unsuccessful 
strikes  are  too  numerous  and  too 
disastrous  to  be  compensated  by 
the  pecuniary  gain  won  by  the  en- 
forcement of  the  disputed  wages. 
There  is  no  reasonable  ground  for 
the  presumption  that  the  difference 
of  wages  extorted  from  masters 
bears  any  proportion  to  the  loss 
caused  by  the  great  diminution 
of  wealth  caused  by  a  strike.  The 
waste  of  the  food  and  clothing  of  the 
capital  supplied  by  the  Union  to  the 
mon  on  strike,  and  the  non-produc- 
tion of  that  wealth  which  a  contin- 
uance of  work  would  have  created, 
constitute  unliquidated  items  which 
tho  balance-sheets  of  Unions  do 
not  settle.  We  heartily  wish  to 
speak  with  entire  fairness  on  this 

VOL.  CVJI. — NO.  DCLV. 


important  point.  We  are  willing  to 
admit  freely  that  if  the  failure  of  a 
strike  shows  that  the  master  judges 
more  correctly  the  position  of  the 
trade  than  the  men,  the  successful 
strike  may  demonstrate  that  the 
masters,  in  some  cases,  did  not  give 
the  men  their  due.  We  say  "  in 
some  cases  ;"  because  no  fair  advo- 
cate of  Unions  would  deny  that 
not  unfrequently  when  the  men 
come  off  conquerors  in  the  struggle, 
the  knowledge  of  the  injury  done 
to  their  mills  and  factories  by  the 
cessation  of  work  drives  the  masters 
into  submission  to  demands  which 
cannot  be  conceded  except  at  the 
sacrifice  of  profits  which  are  incon- 
testably  their  own.  Some  deduc- 
tion— we  believe  it  to  be  a  consi- 
derable one — must  be  made  on  the 
score  of  this  motive,  from  the  co- 
gency of  the  proof  that  successful 
strikes  show  that  the  men  were  re- 
ceiving inadequate  wages.  There 
still  remains,  we  are  satisfied,  an 
immense  balance  of  loss  in  the  cost 
of  Unions  and  their  strikes  which 
is  not  compensated  on  the  profit 
side  of  the  account. 

The  same  consideration  furnishes 
the  same  reply  to  the  alleged  effi- 
cacy of  the  agency  of  fear.  Every 
strike  is  a  proof  that  the  masters 
are  pressed  with  demands  which 
they  feel  to  be  so  unreasonable 
as  to  necessitate  resistance ;  and 
strikes  are  more  than  numerous 
enough  to  show  that,  even  in  the 
opinion  of  the  men  themselves,  fear 
alone  of  the  losses  entailed  by  a 
strike  is  not  strong  enough  to  com- 
pel their  masters  to  grant  the  terms 
which  the  men  insist  upon  as  their 
due.  The  men  strike  because  the 
masters  are  not  sufficiently  afraid 
of  loss  to  be  willing  to  grant  de- 
mands which  they  think  intoler- 
able. Twelve  strikes  on  an  average 
occur  each  year,  we  are  told  by  the 
secretary  himself,  Mr  Applegarth, 
in  the  case  of  the  Amalgamated 
Society  of  Carpenters  and  Joiners. 
Twelve  times,  then,  in  each  year, 
the  fear  of  a  strike,  in  this  single 
trade,  is  not  powerful  enough  to 
2  Q 


564 


Trade-  Unions. 


[May 


prevent  the  masters  from  incurring 
the  risks  and  dangers  of  resistance. 
And  on  which  side  does  the  proba- 
bility lie  of  being  right  as  to  the 
wages  which  the  business  can  afford? 
It  is  the  masters  who  buy  the  raw 
material,  and  who  sell  the  manu- 
factured produce,  and  consequently 
are  acquainted  with  the  true  state 
of  the  market.  On  the  side  of  the 
labourers  there  is  little  more  than 
a  dogged  determination  to  fight  for 
whatever  may  be  got.  "  It  appears 
in  evidence/'  says  the  Report  of 
the  Royal  Commissioners,  "  that  in 
many  cases  leaders  of  Unions  fail 
to  consider  whether  the  circum- 
stances of  the  trade  are  such  as  to 
call  for  or  admit  of  a  rise  of  wages. 
It  is  with  them  rather  a  question 
of  the  relative  strength  of  the  two 
parties."  It  is  a  contest  between 
men  who  possess  information  and 
men  who  possess  none ;  between 
those  who  can  assign  a  reason  for 
their  conduct,  and  those  who  refuse 
to  listen  to  any  reason,  but  try  to 
discover  by  an  appeal  to  brute  force, 
at  the  cost  of  much  suffering  and 
loss  to  themselves,  whether  there 
is  a  reason  or  not.  But,  replies  Mr 
Applegarth,  at  any  rate  the  system 
is  successful ;  "  our  men  agitate  in 
a  very  businesslike  manner,  and 
the  result  has  been  that  they  have 
got  their  hours  reduced  and  the 
wages  increased."  Twelve  strikes 
a-year — a  strike  a-month — do  not 
tell  of  any  definite  result  being 
acquired  at  all.  The  battle  is  ever 
renewed  ;  it  cannot  be  said,  then, 
that  a  very  permanent  victory  is 
won.  Wages  still  alter,  and  still  the 
appeal  is  not  to  a  study  of  the  con- 
dition of  the  trade,  but  to  a  trial  of 
loss  and  suffering ;  and  it  is  certain 
that  many  of  these  appeals  end  in 
failure,  and  the  misery  endured  has 
been  wasted  without  result.  The 
incessant  recurrence  of  strikes,  by 
itself  alone,  demonstrates  the  ca- 
priciousness  and  recklessness  of 
such  a  method  of  proceeding. 
And  what  do  these  strikes  sub- 
stantially impute  to  the  masters  1 
An  amount  of  folly,  ignorance,  and 


perverseness,  inconsistent  with  ra- 
tional beings.  They  imply  that 
men  who  are  well  informed  as  to 
the  actual  position  of  the  business, 
from  pure  selfishness  and  avarice, 
refuse  to  their  workmen  wages 
which  they  can  afford,  and,  conse- 
quently, which  are  due,  and  prefer 
incessant  fighting,  with  infinite  in- 
jury to  themselves,  to  granting  those 
reasonable  terms  which  Mr  Apple- 
garth  boasts  that  the  Unions  ul- 
timately extort.  That  men  who 
form  no  reasonable  estimate  of 
what  wages  ought  to  be,  and  whose 
one  simple  plan  is  to  try  by  fight- 
ing how  much  they  can  get,  should 
rush  into  strikes  is  intelligible ;  but 
that  men  who  understand  the  sit- 
uation, and  can  compute  the  cost 
of  manufacture  and  the  probable 
price  of  sale,  should  conspire  to 
withhold  what  they  know  to  be 
due,  and  encounter,  for  the  chance 
of  securing  an  unjust  profit,  twelve 
strikes  a-year,  is  utterly  beyond 
comprehension.  And  then  the 
vastness  of  the  conspiracy  which 
it  is  assumed  the  masters  have 
formed — a  permanent  conspiracy, 
lasting  month  after  month,  year 
after  year — not  to  do  what  is  right, 
and  so  to  defraud  their  workmen. 
The  masters  are  a  class  of  individ- 
uals placed  in  every  variety  of  po- 
sition :  is  it  conceivable  that  all 
should  hold  out  in  this  nefarious 
plot  against  the  constant  loss  in- 
flicted by  strikes  ;  that  none  should 
fall  away  into  ways  of  rectitude ; 
none  feel,  if  not  the  call  of  human- 
ity, at  any  rate  the  promptings  of 
self-interest ;  none  prefer  the  grant- 
ing to  the  labourers  that  share  of 
the  produce  which  truly  belongs  to 
them,  to  the  losses  and  the  chances 
of  a  gamble  for  unjust  gain  1 

Still,  it  may  be  replied,  the  mas- 
ters may  not  be  gamblers  or  con- 
spirators ;  but  they  are  men ;  and 
it  is  in  human  nature  that  they 
should  be  slow  to  raise  wages  when 
trade  is  on  the  rise,  and  quick  to 
reduce  when  orders  are  slack  and 
prices  are  giving  way.  How  can 
individual  labourers  assert  their 


1370.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


565 


rights  against  such  a  tendency  ? 
"What  can  give  the  strength  which 
they  are  legitimately  entitled  to 
bat  some  kind  of  association  with 
each  other,  so  as  to  secure  joint 
action  1  If  the  Union  is  so  igno- 
runt  of  the  true  rate  at  which,  un- 
der the  given  circumstances,  wages 
should  be  paid,  and  its  action  is 
little  better  than  blind  hazard,  it 
still  remains  equally  true  that  the 
labourer,  under  that  ignorance,  can 
never  know  whether  the  master 
is  not  taking  an  unfair  advantage 
of  him.  There  is  reason  in  this 
r<;ply.  We  do  think  that  the 
workman  needs  help  to  obtain  an 
equitable  bargain.  But  then  this 
does  not  at  once  justify  Unionism. 
It;  only  raises  the  question,  whether 
those  Unions  are  the  best  machinery 
that  he  can  employ  for  this  pur- 
pose? But  even  without  any  as- 
sistance from  combination,  he  does 
not  stand  alone  and  unprotected. 
When  trade  is  brisk  he  easily  per- 
ceives the  desire  of  the  masters  to 
procure  good  workmen.  There  is 
no  difficulty  in  his  making  good  his 
claim  to  better  wages.  When  the 
market  assumes  a  falling  aspect, 
the  position  is  still  secure.  There 
are  real  guarantees  for  justice, 
though  they  may  sometimes  be 
somewhat  slow  in  their  operation. 
If  wages  fall  below  the  rate  which 
the  business  can  really  afford,  com- 
petition will  certainly  spring  up 
amongst  the  masters.  Some  of 
tli em  will  seek  to  attract  the  su- 
perior workmen  into  their  service, 
by  a  rate  of  wages  above  the  level 
to  which  the  labour-market  has 
unduly  sunk  ;  and  the  law  of  hu- 
man life  and  human  action  would 
be  violated  if  a  demand  existed  for 
a  commodity  at  a  price  higher  than 
that  assigned  to  it  by  an  arbitrary 
decree,  whether  expressed  or  under- 
stood, and  the  commodity  be  unable 
to  fetch  its  real  value.  Nothing 
but  a  monopoly,  sustained  by  force, 
could  prevent  the  rise  ;  and  mani- 
festly no  such  monopoly  can  be 
maintained  by  masters  under  the 
free  air  of  competition.  An  unjust 


depression  cannot  last  long.  The 
waters  which  have  ebbed  away  too 
fast  will  be  rolled  back  by  a  natural 
force.  The  workman  who  can  fur- 
nish labour  of  a  higher  value  will 
not  be  long  in  recovering  his  right. 
And  if  redress  is  certain — but  yet 
that  implies  a  moderate  period  of  de- 
lay— the  question  resolves  itself  into 
a  comparison  between  the  amount 
of  loss  occasioned  by  this  delay  and 
the  amount  of  the  cost  involved  in 
Trade-Unions  and  strikes.  It  seems 
to  us  inconceivable  that  any  sane 
person  should  doubt  the  result  of 
the  comparison.  Trade  -  Unions, 
tried  by  the  test  of  the  expenditure 
they  entail  contrasted  with  the  gain 
they  accomplish,  can  receive  no 
other  judgment  than  condemnation. 
If  no  other  consideration  came  to 
their  aid  beyond  the  gain  of  time 
which  they  occasionally  effect  in 
establishing  the  true  rate  of  wages 
in  the  labour-market,  they  would 
long  ago  have  ceased  to  exist. 

There  is  an  additional  and  peril- 
ous foundation  on  which  Unions 
sustain  themselves  in  the  particular 
question  which  we  are  now  discus- 
sing— the  position  of  the  labourer 
in  bargaining  for  the  determination 
of  the  right  rate  of  wages.  It  is 
one  of  feeling.  The  labourers  are 
profoundly  conscious  that  they  do 
not  know  whether  the  masters  are 
justified  in  lowering  the  rate  :  dis- 
trust springs  up  in  their  inmost 
hearts ;  for  is  it  not  one  of  the  parties 
to  the  bargain  who  settles  its  terms 
without  consultation  with  the  other1? 
and  is  it  not  in  human  nature  that 
large  masses  of  men,  whose  fortunes 
are  thus  affected  by  the  action  of  a 
few,  should  resent  this  uncertainty, 
and  feel  themselves  irresistibly  im- 
pelled to  seek  to  learn  the  true  state 
of  the  market  by  actual  experi- 
ment 1  The  proof  may  be  rough 
and  costly,  still  it  satisfies  natural 
feeling;  and  unless  some  satisfac- 
tion is  given  to  such  a  sentiment, 
Unions  will  be  unassailable  by  law 
or  reason. 

Here  we  encounter  an  element 
in  English  trade  which  has  received 


666 


Trade-  Unions. 


[May 


little,  if  indeed  any,  notice  from 
political  economists,  although  it 
exercises  an  enormous  influence  in 
aiding  this  painful  and  injurious 
uncertainty  respecting  the  right  rate 
of  wages.  England  manufactures 
for  the  whole  world.  Every  nation 
is  a  customer  at  her  shops  and 
warehouses.  Her  goods  are  bought 
by  all  countries  :  she  is  the  shop  to 
which  most  nations  resort  for  the 
supply  of  a  large  portion  of  their 
wants.  As  a  manufacturer  and  a 
shopkeeper,  England  falls  under 
the  laws  which  govern  every  kind 
of  business.  She  depends  on  the 
power  of  buying  which  her  custo- 
mers may  possess  :  she  shares  their 
fortunes.  If  adversity  befall  them, 
they  buy  little  of  her  goods  ;  if 
their  means  increase,  she  finds  a 
larger  and  readier  sale  for  her  wares. 
Every  event  which  acts  upon  their 
wealth  rebounds  upon  her  trade. 
Thus  when  civil  war  consumed  the 
capital  of  America,  and  her  cotton- 
fields  ceased  to  be  cultivated,  the 
power  of'America — one  of  her  very 
best  customers — to  buy  in  English 
markets  was  fearfully  reduced;  and, 
still  worse,  the  loss  of  the  raw  mate- 
rial dealt  a  calamitous  blow  to  Eng- 
lish trade  all  over  the  world.  No 
great  war  can  be  carried  on  without 
affecting  the  fortunes  of  the  univer- 
sal shopkeeper,  for  war  destroys 
wealth,  and  with  diminished  riches 
come  diminished  purchases  of  Eng- 
lish merchandise.  A  bad  harvest 
in  a  distant  region  may  weigh  on 
English  commerce  as  heavily  as  a 
wet  autumn  at  home.  The  protec- 
tionist tariff  of  America,  that  evil 
offspring  of  the  civil  strife,  tells  se- 
verely on  English  factories ;  it  les- 
sens the  production  of  wealth  in 
both  countries.  There  are  fewer 
products  of  industry  created,  and 
there  is  less  to  enjoy  on  both  sides. 
No  great  act  of  commercial  legisla- 
tion can  well  be  carried  out  in  any 
country  without  being  sensibly  felt 
in  England,  for  better  or  for  worse. 
The  adoption  of  free-trade  by  a  dis- 
tant State  may  stimulate  the  looms 
of  Manchester;  the  backsliding  of 


a  colony  into  protection  may  carry 
stagnation  and  ruin  to  Birmingham. 
English  trade  is  essentially  trade 
exposed  to  endless  vicissitudes  of 
mind,  politics,  and  weather,  on 
every  part  of  the  globe's  surface. 
England  cannot  be  the  workshop  of 
all  nations  without  sharing  their 
fortunes. 

It  is  easy  to  perceive  the  direct 
and  gigantic  influence  which  the 
peculiarities  of  this  position  exer- 
cise over  the  briskness  or  flatness 
of  English  trade,  and  the  wages 
which  it  can  afford  to  labour.  In 
one  year  large  profits  and  high 
wages  may  be  realised  with  ease, 
'amidst  the  universal  satisfaction  of 
the  whole  population  ;  in  another, 
from  causes  entirely  beyond  the 
control  of  either  capitalist  or  la- 
bourer, factories  may  be  brought  to 
working  at  reduced  time,  or  to 
ceasing  at  others,  and  wages  may 
go  down,  to  the  great  distress  of  in- 
nocent multitudes.  But  the  sting 
of  this  situation  lies  in  its  uncer- 
tainty; and  it  is  hard  to  overrate 
the  mischief  which  springs  from 
this  source.  No  calculation  can  be 
made  with  confidence  as  to  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  demand  in  almost 
any  large  department  of  business. 
Fluctuations,  the  most  unforeseen 
and  the  most  violent,  may  spring 
up  without  notice  in  every  market. 
The  manufacturer  who  has  built  a 
new  mill  may  find  on  its  comple- 
tion that  demand  has  slackened,  or 
the  raw  material  has  become  inac- 
cessible, or  prices  have  given  way 
below  the  margin  of  profit;  the 
workman  who  has  fitted  out  his 
house  and  married  a  wife  may  dis- 
cover that  he  has  involved  himself 
in  all  the  consequences  of  impru- 
dence. Thus  a  sense  of  insecurity 
diffuses  itself  throughout  the  whole 
community.  No  one  feels  safe  ; 
all  are  uneasy  at  what  the  morrow 
may  bring ;  all  look  out  for  some 
protection  that  shall  give  stability 
to  their  fortunes.  The  absence  of 
the  means  of  judging  the  true  na- 
ture of  the  situation  greatly  aggra- 
vates its  evils.  The  master  counts 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


567 


up  his  estimate  of  the  causes  that 
are  at  work,  and  reduces  wages ;  the 
workman  is  incapable  of  ascertain- 
ing whether  his  estimate  is  correct 
or  hasty,  and  he  looks  with  pro- 
found distrust  on  a  measure  which 
sterns  to  protect  the  master  at  his 
own  expense.  This  uncertainty  is 
most  pernicious  in  its  relation  to  the 
great  problem  of  adapting  the  num- 
bers of  the  population  to  a  high 
standard  of  comfort.  It  leaves 
the  labourers  without  data  for  dis- 
covering what  prudence  allows  or 
forbids.  Official  documents  disclose 
to  us  the  rapid  increase  of  marriages 
which  follow  high  prices  and  high 
wages  ;  but  what  if  this  impulse 
upwards  is  only  the  prelude  of 
collapse  1 

This  movable  and  undulating  sur- 
face, this  undulating  field  of  Eng- 
lish industry,  constitutes  the  foun- 
dation on  which  Trade-Unions  are 
constructed.  It  is  the  unsteadi- 
ness of  the  markets,  involving  a 
perpetual  sliding -scale  for  wages, 
which  above  every  other  cause 
gives  a  reason  for  existence  to 
Unions,  which  makes  them  seem 
natural,  and  invests  them  with  a 
hold  on  public  sympathy.  This 
is  the  cause  which  creates  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  necessity  for  bargain- 
ing, which  places  employer  and 
labourer  face  to  face  as  antagon- 
ists in  a  contest  in  which  it  is 
impossible  to  say  what  right  is, 
and,  consequently,  which  excites 
the  feeling  that  the  man  who  has 
hunger  in  his  immediate  view  is  not 
evenly  matched  with  his  opponent. 
It  is  not  so  with  trades  in  which 
there  is  a  comparative  steadiness  of 
demand  and  prices.  There  are  no 
T  Inions  for  agricultural  labourers  ; 
no  effort,  we  believe,  has  been  made 
to  form  any ;  and  yet  agricultural 
vages  have  surely  and  permanently 
risen.  We  are  assured  by  Mr  Hope 
that  the  rise  in  Scotland  amounts 
to  40  or  50  per  cent  in  recent  years. 
The  climate  of  England,  it  is  true, 
is  uncertain,  and  the  harvests  are 
unequal ;  yet  they  are  true  to  a 
general  average,  which  admits  of 


being  reckoned  on  with  confidence. 
As  a  fact,  therefore,  in  this  field  of 
labour,  population  has  been  able  so 
to  adjust  itself  to  the  demand  for 
labour  as  to  render  a  permanent 
improvement  of  wages  possible. 

We  grant,  then,  that  this  uncer- 
tainty of  English  trade,  this  obscur- 
ity which  necessarily  arises  from 
the  multitude  of  countries  and 
of  varying  commercial  situations 
which  it  covers,  furnishes  a  justifi- 
cation for  bargaining.  There  can- 
not always  be  clear  proof  that  a 
reduction  of  wages  proclaimed  by 
masters  is  based  on  a  trustworthy 
knowledge  of  the  real  condition 
of  the  trade.  Some  assistance  is 
required  by  the  working  classes  ; 
but  then  the  question  recurs,  Is  a 
Trade-Union  the  machinery  best 
adapted  to  furnish  the  help  re- 
quired 1  It  seems  to  us  that  this 
very  uncertainty  which  we  have 
described  supplies  a  strong  argu- 
ment against  the  employment  of 
such  an  organisation.  The  leaders 
of  a  Union,  who  direct  its  move- 
ments, know  still  less  than  the 
masters  what  are  the  causes  weigh- 
ing on  the  prosperity  of  the  trade  ; 
they  can  furnish  no  security  for 
the  bargain  being  intelligently  and 
reasonably  conducted.  A  trial  of 
strength,  experiment  by  striking, 
is  the  only  method  with  which  they 
arc  acquainted.  No  one  can  dis- 
pute the  excessive  expensiveness  of 
such  a  mode  of  proceeding.  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  the  labour- 
ers lose  more  than  they  gain  by  its 
adoption.  Then,  again,  it  is  a 
capital  point  in  this  great  matter 
that  the  machinery  of  Trade-Unions 
puts  vast  power  in  the  hands  of 
leaders,  who  are  obviously  exposed 
to  severe  temptation  to  direct  it  to 
other  purposes  than  mere  bargain- 
ing. And  we  address  this  very 
important  remark,  not  to  the  gen- 
eral public,  but  to  the  working  men 
themselves.  If  the  funds  of  the 
Union  are  raised  and  applied  to  any 
other  end  than  the  enforcement  of 
legitimate  wages  by  bargaining,  it 
is  their  money  which  is  lost,  it  is 


568 


Trade-  Unions. 


[May 


they  who  are  the  sufferers,  it  is 
their  wives  and  their  children  who 
have  to  endure  the  misery.  The 
combativeness  which  refuses  to  sub- 
mit to  a  diminution  of  reward 
which  is  not  seen  to  be  inevitable 
is  very  natural  and  very  intelligible ; 
but  it  is  not  the  less  on  that  account 
a  ruinous  folly  if  it  has  no  founda- 
tion of  reason.  The  leaders  possess 
the  enjoyment  of  power;  their  gain 
is  clear  and  assured  ;  and  they  make 
no  corresponding  stake  which  can 
be  forfeited  on  failure.  It  behoves 
the  labourers  who  may  be  victims, 
and  who  certainly  make  the  sac- 
rifice, to  consider  whether  they 
may  not  test  the  fairness  of  the 
wages  offered  to  the  workers  by 
some  process  that  shall  be  at  once 
cheap  and  rational.  The  courts  of 
arbitration,  which  have  been  tried 
with  success  in  the  Potteries,  at 
Nottingham  and  elsewhere,  offer 
the  precise  solution  of  the  problem 
which,  is  to  be  desired.  They  are 
effective  if  honestly  carried  out,  and 
they  cost  nothing.  Composed  of 
masters  and  workmen  in  equal  num- 
bers, they  furnish  an  opportunity 
for  discussing  on  equal  terms  a  pro- 
blem of  which  neither  party  in 
general  possesses  all  the  elements. 
The  noble  manner  in  which  Lanca- 
shire bore  the  sufferings  caused  by 
the  cotton  famine  is  a  striking  proof 
of  the  grand  spirit  in  which  Eng- 
land's workmen  can  bear  ills  which 
their  reason  has  taught  them  to  be 
unavoidable.  Courts  of  arbitration 
are  peculiarly  adapted  to  convince 
the  labourers  of  the  real  truth 
of  the  situation  ;  and  this  common 
knowledge  of  the  facts  by  both 
parties  is  the  only  solid  and  trust- 
worthy guarantee  for  harmony  and 
peace.  Irresponsible  leaders  of  a 
vast  organisation,  disposing  of  large 
funds,  and  enjoying  the  pleasures 
of  authority  and  command,  are  very 
different  persons  from  representa- 
tives chosen  simply  to  confer.  Rea- 
sonable conduct  may  be  expected 
of  the  one,  the  ways  of  force 
are  natural  to  the  other.  But 
for  the  successful  working  of  such 


courts,  two  conditions  are  indis- 
pensable. The  whole  trade,  mas- 
ters and  workmen  alike,  must  be 
thoroughly  imbued  with  a  fair  and 
equitable  spirit;  and,  secondly,  the 
labourers  must  have  imbued  them- 
selves with  the  great  economical 
truth,  that  it  is  not  within  the 
compass  of  their  power  to  fix  an 
arbitrary  rate  of  wages — to  procure 
at  pleasure,  under  the  fluctuating 
circumstances  of  English  trade,  "  a 
fair  day's  wages  for  a  fair  day's 
work."  When  prices  have  given 
way,  or  demand  is  slack,  or  raw 
materials  have  become  scarce  and 
more  difficult  to  obtain,  to  insist 
on  a  particular  rate  of  wages  as  the 
natural  due  of  the  workman,  is 
simply  to  eat  up  the  capital  and 
fortunes  of  the  master.  No  bar- 
gaining can  avert  the  inevitable  re- 
moval of  his  wealth  from  industry 
by  the  capitalist,  and  the  conse- 
quent ruin  of  the  workman.  He 
will  not  receive  the  wages  that  he 
desires;  for  wealth  will  cease  to  be 
produced,  and  there  will  be  no 
fund  from  which  he  can  procure 
them. 

But,  reply  Trade-Unions,  we  do 
not  stand  solely  on  the  need  which 
the  workmen  have  for  help  in  bar- 
gaining for  wages  with  their  mas- 
ters ;  we  admit  that  the  problem  is 
complex,  and  must  be  met  by  the 
application  of  wider  principles.  We 
take  up  economical  ground,  we 
assert  economical  doctrine,  and  our 
institutions  carry  out  economical 
principles  by  rules  which  aim  at 
the  permanent  improvement  of  the 
condition  of  the  working  classes. 
This  language  brings  us  to  the 
second  division  of  our  subject. 
In  our  first  we  have  laid  before  our 
readers  the  general  principles  of  the 
relation  which  wages  bear  to  capi- 
tal ;  we  have  stated  the  fundamen- 
tal laws  which  govern  this  relation. 
We  have  shown  that  there  are  forces 
at  work  which  require  controlling, 
natural  powers  which  must  be  reg- 
ulated by  knowledge,  intelligence, 
and  self-denial.  In  this  great  and 
universal  struggle,  the  methods  by 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI I. 


5C9 


I 


which  the  combat  must  be  carried 
or,  are  very  diverse ;  and  it  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  that  those 
only  should  be  employed  which 
will  bear  the  scrutiny  of  sound  and 
severe  science.  The  Tra.de- Unions 
profess  to  stand  upon  economi- 
cal science  :  they  allege  that  they 
aim  at  right  ends,  and  that  they 
seek  to  accomplish  them  by  pro- 
cesses which  good  political  econo- 
my will  ratify  as  legitimate  and 
efficient.  They  have  adopted  rules 
for  the  regulation  of  the  numbers 
of  apprentices,  for  the  use  of  ma- 
chinery, for  the  controlling  indi- 


vidual exertion,  and  the  subordi- 
nating it  to  a  general  law.  They 
thus  interfere  with  the  personal 
liberty  of  the  workman,  and  they 
contend  that  the  welfare  of  the 
whole  class  is  promoted  by  the  in- 
terference. We  propose,  on  a  fu- 
ture occasion,  to  test  the  correct- 
ness and  policy  of  these  doctrines 
and  proceedings  by  the  standard 
of  political  economy.  None  are 
more  deeply  concerned  to  know 
than  the  working  classes  them- 
selves whether  they  are  sustained 
or  condemned  by  the  impartial 
judgment  of  science. 


EARLS    DENE.— PART    VII. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


THERE  was  once  upon  a  time 
a  certain  philosopher  who,  by  the 
mere  exercise  of  his  will,  could  die 
whenever  he  pleased  ;  could  put 
himself  into  a  state  of  trance,  dur- 
ing which  his  soul,  like  all  living 
souls,  retained  its  own  individual- 
ity, but  wandered  at  large  into  in- 
finite space  and  infinite  time,  where 
there  are  no  special  conditions  of 
life  and  energy ;  where  there  are 
no  parts  or  atoms,  but  all  things 
are  merged  in  one  vast  whole.  We 
realise  much  the  same  kind  of  sen- 
sation whenever  we  enter  the  great 
city  of  all  great  cities. 

In  every  other  place  we  live. 
Every  other  spot  of  earth  has  an 
individuality  of  its  own  ;  and  when 
we  are  in  any  other  spot  than  this, 
\\e  also  have  ours,  consciously  felt 
by  ourselves  and  recognised  by 
those  about  us.  Every  other  place 
is  a  place  of  traffic,  of  pleasure,  of 
history,  of  study,  of  torpor,  or  of 
some  one  of  a  hundred  other  things, 
a.;  the  case  may  be ;  and  every  in- 
hibitant  of  it  is  more  or  less 
in  keeping  with  its  characteristic 
quality  in  an  understood  and  ap- 
preciated degree— in  a  word,  can 
feel  himself,  and  feel  and  be  felt 
by  others,  so  as  to  have  a  se- 


parate existence  from  the  mass. 
But  London  has,  of  all  places  in 
the  world,  the  power  of  absorbing 
existences,  and  of  merging  them  in 
its  own.  It  is  more  a  city  of  plea- 
sure even  than  Paris ;  more  of 
traffic  than  New  York ;  more  of 
history  than  Home  ;  more  of  study 
than  Oxford  ;  more  of  torpor  than 
Denethorp.  And  it  is  all  this,  and 
the  opposite  to  all  this,  and  a  great 
deal  else  besides,  at  one  and  the 
same  time.  No  one  can  possibly 
feel  his  own  individual  existence. 
On  entering  the  universal  city  he 
is  lost  in  the  whole,  like  a  rain- 
drop in  the  sea ;  like  the  soul  of 
Hermotimus  in  the  soul  of  the  uni- 
verse itself. 

Doubtless  it  is  a  glorious  sensa- 
tion, even  though  it  may  consider- 
ably diminish  our  self-conceit,  to 
quit  the  small  for  the  great ;  to 
exchange  our  own  narrow  bodies 
for  the  vast  body  of  humanity 
itself.  But  it  is  not  quite  so  glo- 
rious a  sensation  when  this  vast 
body,  as  multiform  in  its  aspects  as 
Proteus  himself,  chooses  to  assume 
to  us  its  most  evil  guise ;  when  it 
wears  the  aspect  of  infinite  hunger 
and  of  infinite  cold.  Then  a  man 
would  fain  still  farther  imitate  the 


570 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


philosopher  in  question  by  recover- 
ing once  more  his  separate,  his  in- 
dividual life,  however  narrow  and 
confined  it  might  be,  and  however 
miserable ;  for  it  is  better  to  feel, 
if  starve  one  must,  that  one  at  least 
starves  as  a  man,  and  not  as  a  mere 
atom  of  a  vast  starving  machine. 
It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  Felix 
was  not  among  those  to  whom  a 
return  to  his  old  life  was  possible. 
He  had  chosen  to  follow  his  fate  to 
London ;  and  now  he  must  drain 
whatever  cup  he  might  find  there, 
whether  of  gold  or  of  gall,  and  whe- 
ther he  chose  or  no. 

Certainly  luck  had  so  far  been 
against  him  ;  for  his  present  posi- 
tion could  not  be  called  altogether 
the  result  of  imprudence.  Had 
the  theatre  not  been  burned,  he 
with  his  few  wants  and  solitary 
manner  of  existence  could  have 
lived  on  as  well,  in  a  pecuniary 
sense,  as  he  had  lived  in  Paris, 
and  have  dreamed  of  future  fame 
and  thought  of  Angelique  as  well 
here  as  there.  As  time  went  on, 
too,  his  position  would  doubt- 
less have  improved,  for  he  was 
really  a  skilful  and  promising  mu- 
sician ;  and  if  merit  seldom  "  suc- 
ceeds" by  its  own  force,  it  seldom 
altogether  fails.  But  now  he  was, 
by  the  destruction  of  the  house  at 
which  he  was  engaged,  entirely 
thrown  out  of  work ;  for  engage- 
ments are  by  no  means  so  plentiful 
as  those  who  require  them — at  least 
they  were  not  so  in  those  days, 
whatever  the  case  may  be  now. 
Besides,  he  had  of  course  long  since 
spent  the  small  sum  of  money  that 
he  had  brought  with  him  from 
Paris.  He  had  saved  nothing  ;  he 
had  lost  his  violin  ;  and  he  had 
made  no  friends  who  could  be  of 
any  assistance  to  him. 

Of  course  there  were  many  others 
worse  off  than  he.  He  was  not 
burdened  with  a  wife  and  a  dozen 
children ;  he  was  not  in  feeble 
health  ;  he  was  not  seventy  years 
old.  Surely,  he  thought  to  himself 
that  night,  as  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands of  young,  healthy,  and  un- 


burdened men  have  thought  before 
him,  there  must  be  some  way  of 
getting  a  living,  even  if  in  order  to 
do  so  he  should  have  to  desert  his 
profession  for  a  while  ;  and  before 
he  fell  asleep,  as  he  did,  and  sound- 
ly, he  had  come  to  grieve  for  his 
violin,  not  as  for  a  good  instru- 
ment, but  as  for  a  dear  friend ;  for 
its  own  sake,  that  is,  far  more  than 
for  the  daily  bread  which  it  repre- 
sented. None  but  the  artist  can 
tell  how  dear  to  the  heart  that 
mysterious  thing  called  a  musical 
instrument  may  be  which  use  and 
association  have  endowed  with  what 
seems  like  sympathetic  life  ;  with  a 
soul  made  up  of  all  the  fancies  and 
all  the  passions  and  all  the  thoughts 
with  which  its  strings  have  trem- 
bled since  it  first  was  made  to 
speak.  But  there  is  consolation 
in  thinking  that  a  not  inglorious 
death  has  saved  what  we  love  from 
danger  of  desecration  :  whatever 
might  prove  to  be  the  fate  of  the 
master,  the  soul  which  his  hands 
had  made  was  safe  among  the  stars. 
And,  now  that  he  was  put  to  it,  and 
with  this  thought  for  a  consolation, 
after  all,  he  came  to  think  also, 
there  are  many  worse  hindrances 
in  the  way  of  winning  the  world's 
battle  than  that  of  having  nothing 
to  lose.  Must  not  the  man  inev- 
itably conquer  who  has  to  choose 
between  victory  and  death  ?  With 
Angelique  true  to  him,  what  would 
he  not  do  1  Love  and  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation — the  poetry  and 
the  prose  of  life — came  to  his  aid, 
and  filled  him  with  the  full  courage 
which  is  the  last  thing  that  a  man 
should  lose.  Nor  did  the  morning 
bring  about  a  reaction. 

But,  alas !  courage,  youth,  health, 
and  independence  are  not  talismans. 
Even  they,  united,  cannot  without 
external  aid  obtain  employment  at 
a  day's  notice  ;  nor,  very  often,  for  a 
great  many  days.  And  then  Felix  had 
disadvantages.  He  could  scarcely 
speak  English,  and  he  had  lost  the 
only  instrument  that  he  knew  how 
to  handle.  And  so,  after  three  or 
four  days  of  ineffectual  search  and 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.—  Part  VI I. 


57J 


exertion,  he  began  to  feel  his  courage 
ooze  away  with  his  physical  strength. 
Love  and  fame,  indeed  !  He  was 
fast  reaching  a  condition  in  which 
he  would  forfeit  the  highest  throne 
in  the  palace  of  art,  and  Angelique 
to  boot,  for  bread,  and  yet  be  nei- 
ther the  worse  artist  nor  the  worse 
lover.  "  Omnia  vincit  amor,"  say 
the  poets;  but  they  are  wrong,  as 
those  who  have  known  what  the 
v/ord  hunger  really  means  know 
well.  Omnia  vincit  fames,  they 
should  say ;  only  it  would  not  be 
pretty — and,  besides,  it  would  not 
scan. 

After  all,  to  say  this  is  not  to 
prove  so  guilty  of  treason  to  ro- 
mance as  might  at  first  be  thought. 
In  these  days  Love  has  ceased  to 
hold  a  monopoly  of  romantic  mate- 
rial. Poverty  competes  with  it  on 
terms  which,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
are  fully  equal ;  even  as  the  story 
which  the  winter  forest  has  to  tell, 
which  brings  no  tears  indeed,  but 
fills  the  heart  with  barren  deso- 
Iition,  is  to  the  full  as  effective 
as  the  song  of  a  spring  flower. 
Hunger,  as  the  handmaid  of  po- 
verty, has  a  romance  of  its  own — 
and  a  terrible  one  too. 

There  is  a  well-known  natural 
impulse  that  leads  men  to  the 
scenes  of  their  great  disasters  as 
well  as  to  those  of  their  great 
(rimes.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
;  fter  having  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  next  day  in  aimlessly  wan- 
dering about  the  streets,  Felix,  to- 
Avards  evening,  found  himself  once 
more  in  front  of  the  debris  of  the 
theatre.  Nor  did.he  find  himself 
there  alone;  for  the  impulse  that 
had  brought  him  thither  had 
brought  many  of  his  companions 
in  misfortune  to  the  same  spot.  He 
con  versed  with  several  of  them,  and 
more  than  once  had  occasion  to  re- 
gret on  their  account — though  not, 
as  yet,  for  a  moment  on  his  own — 
that  he  had  refused  the  charity  that 
had  been  offered  to  him  last  night. 
The  very  few  shillings  that  he  had 
still  about  him  were  very  soon  his 
own  no  more;  and  he  began  to  long 


for  the  purse  that  he  had  scorned. 
While  talking  with  one  of  the  most 
unfortunate  of  the  victims  of  the 
fire,  and  thinking  this  very  thought, 
he  felt  a  slap  upon  his  shoulder ; 
and  on  looking  round  suddenly 
and  rather  angrily,  saw  the  easily- 
remembered  form  of  Barton  him- 
self, as  fresh  from  his  hearth-rug 
as  a  child  from  its  cradle. 

"  Why,  man  alive ! "  said  the  lat- 
ter, "  do  you  mean  to  say  you've 
been  standing  on  this  very  spot 
ever  since  yesterday  ? " 

Felix,  wholly  unversed  in  English 
types,  and  remembering  the  inci- 
dent of  the  purse,  not  unnaturally 
took  Barton  for  some  eccentric  mil- 
lionaire. It  is  true  that  the  man 
was  shabby  in  appearance ;  but 
then  there  is  nothing  incompatible 
in  general  seediness  with  million- 
airism — rather  the  other  way.  If 
a  man  is  particularly  well  dressed, 
it  is  far  more  likely  that  he  carries 
his  capital  upon  his  back  than  when, 
by  carelessness  about  dress,  he  im- 
plies that  he  has  no  need  to  culti- 
vate personal  appearance.  So  he 
made  him  a  polite  answer,  and,  in 
the  course  of  a  conversation  that 
followed,  took  occasion  to  explain 
to  him  the  case  of  his  companion. 
In  a  trice,  Barton's  hand  was  in  his 
pocket,  which,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, contained  just  ten  guineas 
besides  the  contents  of  Mark  War- 
den's purse.  In  another  second  it 
was  as  empty  as  when  he  left  Shoe 
Lane.  The  unfortunate  scene- 
shifter  stared  at  the  gift,  as  well  he 
might ;  but,  not  having  the  same 
scruples  as  Felix,  did  not  for  a 
moment  refuse  it.  He  was  about 
to  express  his  gratitude,  when  Bar- 
ton interrupted  him. 

"  Damn  you !"  he  said, fiercely,  "if 
you  say  a  word  I'll  pitch  you  among 
the  bricks.  Come,';  he  said  to 
Felix— "come  and  drink.  That 
infernal  prig  Warden  made  me  mix 
my  liquors  last  night.  A  bad  habit, 
that ;  it  makes  one  so  dry  in  the 
morning.  What  shall  it  be  1  The 
customary  small  beer1?  Or  what 
do  you  favour  on  such  occasions  1 


572 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


I  myself  always  take  a  hair  of  the 
dog."  So  saying  he  took  Felix  by 
the  arm,  and  led  him  to  a  bar 
close  by,  to  which  the  tire  had 
brought  a  considerable  increase  of 
custom. 

Barton  asked  for  brandy,  and 
made  his  companion  have  some 
also,  whether  he  would  or  no.  Then 
he  had  some  more.  Then  he  en- 
tered into  general  conversation  with 
the  other  customers,  and  treated 
them  liberally,  never  forgetting 
himself.  At  last  he  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  in  order  to  pay. 

"  By  the  daughters  of  Danaus ! "  he 
said  to  Felix,  "  cleaned  out  again  ! 
Just  lend  me  half-a-crown,  will  you  1 

Felix  felt  in  his,  also  ;  but  he 
knew  beforehand  that  the  search 
would  be  vain,  and  so  it  proved. 

"  No  good,  is  it  1  Never  mind. 
Just  step  outside  ;  and,  when  you 
see  me  come  out,  do  as  I  do.  Tom 
— another  go." 

The  barman  turned  to  execute 
the  order ;  and  scarcely  had  Felix 
passed  the  door  when  Barton  dashed 
out  at  full  speed,  calling  to  him  to 
follow.  He  did  so  mechanically, 
until  his  new  friend,  having  dodged 
round  several  corners,  suddenly 
stopped,  and  broke  into  a  boister- 
ous laugh. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  he  said  ; 
"  we're  brothers,  though  you  are  a 
Frenchman.  I  always  swear  bro- 
therhood with  a  man  whose  pockets 
are  empty.  Bad  policy,  no  doubt ; 
but  I  never  knew  a  good  fellow 
yet  who  hadn't  empty  pockets,  or  a 
man  with  empty  pockets  who  wasn't 
a  good  fellow,  in  one  way  or  another. 
I  think  we  gave  them  a  good  view 
of  our  heels  just  now.  Well,  well 
— it  won't  hurt  them  for  once  ;  I've 
paid  them  many  a  long  score  in  my 
time.  But  I  say,  old  fellow,  I  am 
positively  cleaned  out.  My  name's 
Barton, — called  Dick  Barton  by  his 
few  friends,  and  something  else 
Barton,  which  I  wont  tell  you,  by 
his  many  enemies — of  whom  some 
say  he  is  himself  the  worst.  But 
that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
What's  yours?" 


"  Felix  Creville." 

"  All  right.  I  like  to  know  what 
a  man  likes  to  be  called.  For  the 
rest,  the  fewer  questions  one  asks 
any  man  the  better.  Where  shall 
we  go  now  1  I  feel  prodigiously 
inclined  for  a  steak ;  but  my  credit's 
run  dry  just  now.  How  are  you 
off  for  that  useful  commodity1?" 

It  was  lucky  for  Felix  that  he 
was  quick  at  guessing,  for  Barton's 
English  Was  not  well  suited  to  un- 
practised foreign  ears.  "  I  know 
no  place/'  he  answered. 

"  I  thought  every  fiddler  got  tick 
as  a  matter  of  course — as  drunk  as 
a  fiddler,  you  know,  all  over  the 
world  ;  that's  because  a  fiddler  can 
get  his  liquor  for  a  tune,  and  can 
drink  all  day  long  if  he  likes  for 
nothing.  But,  as  you  don't  know 
any  place,  we  must  use  our  wits, 
that's  all.  One  can't  stand  here  for 
ever.  Talking  of  standing,  a  good 
thought !  Let's  take  to  the  road." 

"To  the  road?"  asked  Felix, 
puzzled. 

"  Yes  ;  cry  '  Stand  and  deliver!' 
— gentlemen  in  distress,  you  know 
— ha,  ha,  ha  !  Claude  Duval  was 
your  countryman,  wasn't  he  1  Any 
way,  Turpin  was  mine — and  a  name- 
sake too,  by  the  way.  Which  shall 
it  be — Hounslow  or  the  Scrubbs? 
Any  way  we  shall  be  safe,  whichever 
way  we  go.  '  Cantabit  vacuus  cor  am 
latrone  viator.'  " 

Certainly  if  Felix  had  at  first 
fancied  that  he  had  found  a  million- 
aire, he  was  sufficiently  undeceived. 
But  his  heart  also  was  apt  to  warm 
to  an  empty  pocket ;  it  certainly 
warmed  towards  one  who  had 
shown  himself  so  free-handed  when 
his  pocket  had  been  full. 

"  I  am  myself  without  a  sou — 
without  a  penny,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  do  not  know  how  to  get  one. 
And  I  must  leave  my  lodging ;  my 
landlady  will  need  to  be  paid.  But 
I  have  yet  a  piece  of  bread  in  the 
cupboard,  and  perhaps  part  of  a 
sausage " 

"Well,  you  are  a  good  fellow, 
though  you  do  call  yourself  a  gen- 
tleman !  I  consent.  I'll  eat  half 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VII. 


573 


your  bread  and  a  quarter  of  your 
sausage  ;  for  needs  must  when  the 
devil  drives.  And  then,  why,  we'll 
go  forth  and  conquer  or  die,  like 
brothers  in  arms.  What  else  have 
you  got  besides  the  bread  and  sau- 
sage?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  eat,  you  know. 
A  watch,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  I.     Furniture  1  " 

"  No." 

"Nor I.  Books?  No?  Nor  I, 
b  ir  my  old  Horace — but  that's  to  be 
b  iried  with  me.  But,  damn  it,  man, 
you  must  have  something.  Every- 
body has  something.  How  many 
shirts  have  you  ? " 

Felix  stared  considerably,  and 
coloured  also — for  his  wardrobe  was 
by  no  means  extensive.  "  How 
many  shirts  1 "  he  repeated. 

**  Yes,  how  many  shirts — more 
than  one,  I  mean  1  Two  ? " 

"  I  have  two." 

"  JBene  !  One  more  than  I  have. 
Good  condition  1 " 

"  Nearly  new." 

"  Then,  Optime  I  My  one  is  not 
by  any  manner  of  means.  What 
else  have  you?" 

"  Some  music " 

"  Not  worth  a  straw." 

«  A  hat '; 

"  Not  worth  two  straws.  Hats 
i  ever  are.  Well?" 

«  A  valise " 

"  That'll  do  !  " 

"  And  that's  all." 

"  And  your  violin  ?  Ah,  I  for- 
got. That  fire  last  night  was  like 
Mantua — nimium  vicina  Cremonce. 
All  right.  One  valise,  one  shirt — 
that'll  serve  for  to-day,  with  strict 
management;  and  hang  to-morrow  ! 
Where  do  you  live  ? " 

The  question  was  a  breach  of  the 
etiquette  that  considerately  treats 
PS  a  sacred  mystery  the  dwelling- 
place  of  a  man  who  has  confessed 
liimself  to  be  without  what  is  even 
more  necessary  than  a  dwelling- 
place.  But  Felix  answered  it. 

"  Come,  then.  Let  us  first  con- 
hurae  the  bread  and  sausage.  What 


luxury !  to  keep  two  whole  shirts 
all  at  once.  Lead  on.  I  am 
devilishly  ready  for  that  bread  and 
sausage.  Well,  well,  such  is  life  ; 
grilled  bones  and  port  last  night, 
to-day  a  mouthful  of  sausage  and 
— porter.  Positive  yesterday,  com- 
parative to-day,  perhaps  to  morrow 
superlative  —  who  knows  ?  Any 
way,  I  suppose  that  at  least  the 
comparative  goes,  as  you  say  in 
France,  song  dire  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  it  does  not,  though. 
I  have  shown  you  the  limit  of  my 
hospitality." 

"  Then  a  mouthful  of  sausage 
and  thirst.  For  your  noblest  ele- 
ment, as  some  philosophic  ass 
called  it,  I  have  a  certain  dislike 
that  I  cannot  overcome ;  or  rather, 
I  have  such  reverence  for  it  that  I 
would  put  it  to  no  such  profane 
use  as  that  of  drinking.  I  shall  die, 
sir,  as  my  grandfather  before  me." 

"And  how  was  that?" 

"  Sir,  my  grandfather  was  an 
honest  north-country  farmer,  who 
entertained  that  reverence  for  water 
which  I  inherit.  I  may  say,  in 
passing,  that  I  inherit  nothing  else, 
except  the  name  of  Barton.  He 
was  a  fine  old  fellow.  I  was  not 
born  in  Lilliput,  as  you  see ;  but 
he  would  have  beaten  me  by  a  head 
and  neck.  One  evening,  after  mar- 
ket-day, he  was  thrown,  or  possibly 
he  fell  without  being  thrown,  from 
his  horse  upon  the  road,  face 
downward.  He  was  perfectly  con- 
scious, however,  and  found  that 
his  face  had  fallen  upon  a  rut,  in 
which  lay  two  tablespoonfuls  of 
yesterday's  rain — just  enough,  in 
fact,  and  no  more,  to  cover  his  lips 
and  his  nostrils.  Sir,  in  order  to 
breathe  as  freely  as  you  or  I,  he  had 
only  to  suck  up  that  water  and 
swallow  it — it  would  not  have  been 
more  than  half  a  mouthful.  But 
no.  '  Not  a  drop  of  water  have  I 
drunk  these  sixty  years,'  he  says  to 
himself,  *  and  I  won't  bring  shame 
on  my  grey  hairs  by  beginning 
now/  Sir,  the  consequence  was 
that  he  was  literally  drowned  in 
those  two  tablespoonfuls  of  water, 


574 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


a  martyr  to  principle.  I  hope  I 
shall  not  choke  myself  with  your 
sausage ;  but  if  I  do,  may  I  not 
prove  unworthy  of  my  descent  from 
my  great  ancestor.  And  so — but 
here  we  are." 

After  having  disposed  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  cupboard,  Barton  took 
the  valise  and  the  shirt  to  the 


nearest  pawnbrokers.  Presently  he 
returned,  threw  down  a  shilling  or 
two  upon  the  table,  and  then,  by 
their  side,  set  two  bottles  of  brandy 
that  he  had  procured  with  the  re- 
mainder of  the  few  shillings  that  he 
had  raised. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  we'll  make 
a  night  of  it ! " 


CHAPTER    V. 


It  was  in  company  with  this 
strange  specimen  of  a  tribe  of 
Bohemia  with  which  Parisian  ex- 
perience had  not  brought  him  in 
contact,  that  Felix  was  introduced 
to  those  extreme  depths  to  which 
allusion  was  made  in  the  last  chap- 
ter. That  men  do  somehow  man- 
age to  exist  in  those  depths  without 
actually  drowning  is  certain;  but 
how  they  do  it  is  a  mystery  even  to 
themselves.  At  one  time  they  only 
had  one  coat  between  them,  so  that 
when  one  had  occasion  to  go  out, 
the  other  had  to  stay  at  home.  For 
income,  Felix  managed  to  earn  a 
few  shillings  from  time  to  time 
by  copying  music,  and  Barton  dis- 
played great  genius  in  the  borrowing 
of  half-crowns;  but  then  the  latter 
were  generally  absorbed  by  brandy 
before  they  reached  .the  common 
purse.  At  last  even  this  unsatis- 
factory method  of  supply  came  to 
an  end ;  for  the  world  will  not 
keep  on  lending  half-crowns  for 
ever.  The  most  intimate  friend- 
ship will  not  stand  it ;  and  Barton 
was  not  a  man  who  made  intimate 
friends.  And  then  the  brandy  be- 
gan to  run  dry  also ;  and  then  Bar- 
ton, having  slept  through  three 
miserable  days,  without  eating  or 
speaking,  woke  up,  and  said — 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  this  will  never 
do.  I've  stayed  with  you  because 
I  liked  you,  and  because  you  offered 
to  share  your  last  bite  with  me,  and 
because  I  thought  I  could  help  you 
up  again;  and  here  have  I  been 
knocking  under  to  this  damned 
liquor,  as  usual.  It  won't  do,  and 
shan't.  You're  a  damned  good 


fellow,  and  I'm  a  beast — that's  the 
fact.  So  I've  been  thinking  what 
could  be  done.  I  thought  I  might 
go  back  to  Cambridge,  and  take 
pupils  —  I  don't  suppose  they've 
forgotten  my  iambics  there  yet. 
But  then  I  know  I  should  infallibly 
come  to  grief  there  again,  just  as  I 
did  before ;  and,  upon  my  soul !  I 
don't  think  I  could  stand  the  place 
now,  any  more  than  the  place  could 
stand  me  then.  So  then  I  thought 
of  literature.  I've  done  a  little  in 
that  line  already;  and  I  know  I 
could  do  well  enough  if  I  could 
only  stick  to  work.  So  let  me  have 
the  coat  this  morning,  old  fellow. 
Til  go  and  call  upon  a  man  I  know 
at  the  '  Trumpet,'  and  one  or  two 
places.  I  must  get  hold  of  a  nip  of 
brandy  somehow,  just  to  screw  me 
up  to  my  day's  work,  or  else  I 
shouldn't  be  able  to  say  a  word  to 
any  one;  but,  bar  that,  I  swear  I 
won't  touch  a  drop  for  another  three 
days — unless  it's  absolutely,  neces- 
sary, as  it  is  now." 

In  this  way  did  he  talk  when  he 
was  sober.  But  as  soon  as  he  did 
get  some  work  from  the  'Trumpet,' 
and  had  been  paid  for  it,  not  an- 
other stroke  of  work  would  he  do 
till  the  coin  was  spent,  and  he  had 
slept  himself  sober  again. 

But  editors  and  publishers,  used 
as  they  were  to  this  kind  of  thing 
in  the  good  old  Grub  Street  days, 
still  could  not  be  expected  to  stand 
it  any  more  than  other  employers  of 
labour  when  it  prevented  the  labour 
being  done.  Barton's  work  was 
admirable,  and  even  excellent ;  but 
he  soon  began  to  find  that  less  and 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene— Part  VII. 


575 


less  was  required  of  him,  until  at 
la^t  he  found  himself  once  more  on 
his  last  legs,  and  once  more  with 
nothing  to  drink. 

Felix  meanwhile  toiled  like  a 
slave,  and  sought  for  toil  like  a  free 
mm.  But  though  the  want  of 
energy  and  self-command,  which  in 
Burton  amounted  almost  to  a  dis- 
ease for  which  he  could  not  be  held 
responsible,  are  doomed  to  fail,  it 
does  not  follow  that  sobriety  and 
industry,  and  willingness  both  to 
find  work  and  to  do  it,  are  doomed 
to  succeed.  Felix  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  destiny  that  had  mated  him 
with  such  a  companion.  Why,  then, 
in  the  name  of  that  destiny,  did  he 
not  free  himself  from  the  burden  of 
one  who  had  no  claim  upon  him, 
any  more  than  he  upon  Barton  1 
They  were  a  strange  pair  to  find 
themselves  in  this  situation  to- 
gether. It  is  true  that  both  were 
Bohemians — but  this  was  the  only 
similarity;  and  Bohemianism  is  not 
a  quality  that  makes  all  who  pro- 
fess it  necessarily  brothers.  And 
yet  these  two,  diametrically  oppo- 
site as  were  their  characters  and 
circumstances,  in  all  respects  save 
one,  had  now  been  living  together 
for  weeks  as  though  they  had  been 
far  more  than  brothers — that  is  to 
s  ly,  as  though  they  had  been  friends. 
At  first,  no  doubt,  Felix  had  been 
to  a  certain  extent  passive  in  the 
matter,  and  had  rather  submitted 
to  than  sought  the  companionship 
of  a  man  whom  he  could  not  in  the 
least  understand.  It  was  not  likely 
that  the  French  musician,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  world  save  its 
artistic  side,  and  that  in  an  un- 
English  fashion,  could  comprehend, 
fir  less  appreciate,  one  to  whom 
the  artistic  side  of  the  world  was 
wholly  non-existent ;  who  classed 
all  musicians  under  the  generic 
title,  which  he  always  used  con- 
temptuously, of  "Fiddlers;"  whose 
whole  soul  seemed  to  be  absorbed 
in  Greek,  of  which  his  companion 
Itad  no  knowledge — and  in  getting 
brutally  drunk,  with  which  he  had 
no  sympathy.  Still  he  not  only 


endured  this  comradeship,  but  could 
not  help  feeling  a  sort  of  real  affec- 
tion for  the  comrade  in  his  difficul- 
ties whom  chance  had  given  him. 
Besides,  every  man  has  his  follies; 
and  Felix,  most  assuredly,  had  great 
ones.  For  instance,  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  that,  had  Dick  Barton 
actually  been  the  millionaire  for 
whom  he  had  at  first  taken  him,  as 
many  of  the  million  pounds  as  he 
pleased  would  have  been  his  own ; 
and  that  the  same  would  have  been 
the  case  had  it  been  a  question  of 
sharing,  not  a  million  pounds,  but 
two  farthings.  So  he  committed 
the  folly  of  taking  the  will  for  the 
deed.  Again,  it  was  part  of  his 
Bohemian  gospel  that  a  man  is 
quite  justified  in  turning  his  back 
upon  a  prosperous  friend,  but  that 
to  desert  even  a  chance  comrade 
when  he  is  down  in  the  world  is  as 
base  a  thing  as  a  man  can  well  do. 
So  he  committed  the  wild  folly  of 
standing  by  Dick  Barton,  as  he  felt 
sure  that  Dick  Barton  stood  by  him 
in  point  of  goodwill.  And  so  it 
was  that  he  had,  in  effect,  to  strive 
his  best  to  make  work,  which  was 
insufficient  to  support  one,  support 
two — if,  indeed,  Barton  can  be  held 
to  count  for  no  more  than  one.  As 
for  Barton's  motives,  who  can  or 
need  ascribe  motives  good  or  bad 
to  such  a  man  1  And,  after  all,  far 
stranger  relations  between  men 
spring  up  than  this — not,  perhaps, 
in  respectable  society,  where  they 
associate  according  to  form  and 
rule,  but  certainly  in  that  vague 
and  ill-defined  outside  world  in 
which  they  go  against  form  and  rule 
by  preference. 

But  still,  bravely  as  Felix  toiled, 
and  bravely  as  Barton  talked  of 
toiling,  it  was  not  long  before  the 
two  friends  fell  into  so  deplorable 
a  condition,  that  a  day  or  two  at 
most  must  inevitably  see  them 
numbered  among  the  lodgers  of  the 
hotel  a  la  belle  etoile. 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  this  will  never 
do,"  said  Barton  once  more,  as  he 
instinctively  reached  out  his  hand 
to  where  the  bottle  of  brandy  ought 


570 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


— or  rather  ought  not — to  have 
been. 

Felix  looked  up  from  his  copying. 
Assuredly  no  one  could  have  recog- 
nized in  the  worn  face,  with  its  pale 
colour,  sunken  cheeks,  and  dim 
eyes,  the  development  either  of  the 
peasant  of  the  Jura  or  of  the 
Parisian  art-student.  His  coming 
to  London  had  proved  a  wild- 
goose  chase  indeed,  and  something 
worse. 

"  The  London  press  is  in  the 
hands  of  idiots,"  Barton  went  on. 
"  I  could  conduct  it  all  single- 
handed  ten  times  as  well  as  it  is 
conducted  now;  and  they  know  it. 
And  yet  they  won't  throw  me 
enough  work  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together.  The  fact  is,  I'm  too  good 
for  them.  I  should  rout  out  their 
damned  cliques,  and  frighten  the 
fools  out  of  whatever  they  have  in 
the  place  of  their  wits.  The  fact  is, 
a  man  should  never  be  quite  so  clever 
as  his  employers,  and  Fin  a  long 
stretch  cleverer  than  mine.  Upon 
my  soul,  I  think  I  shall  enlist;  and 
if  I  get  run  through  or  knocked  on 
the  head  by  one  of  your  damned 
Frenchmen — why,  so  much  the 
better  for  Dick  Barton.  '  Here  lies 
Dick  Barton,  who  never  did  any- 
thing because  he  did  everything 
too  well — Nepiai)  oude  isasin  hoso 
pleon  hemisu  pantos;'  that'll  do  for 
an  epitaph.  By  the  way,  I've  got 
to  go  to  the  theatre  to-night." 

"  The  theatre  T 

"Yes— for  the  Trumpet.  'To 
such  base  uses  may  we  come  at 
last !'  I,  who  have  criticised  Sopho- 
cles, am  now  to  criticise  Jones  1" 

"  What  is  the  play  ?" 

"  Hell  knows.  Something  musi- 
cal—that's all  I  know.  But  I've 
got  the  bill  somewhere." 

"  Musical — and  they  send  you  V 

11  That's  the  very  reason,  I  sup- 
pose. If  it  had  been  a  new  edition 
of  Sophocles  they'd  have  sent  it  to 
you.  But,  after  all,  what  does  it 
matter  1  A  tune's  a  tune,  and  a 
song's  a  song,  I  suppose/' 

"  Not  quite,  I  should  say." 

"  Well,  I  confess  I  never  saw  any 


difference  between  one  tune  and 
another.  But  it  can  only  be  asses 
that  read  musical  criticisms  ;  and 
it's  easy  enough  to  tickle  their  long 
ears  somehow,  so  that  they  mayn't 
find  out  one's  ignorance.  Tiiat's 
my  whole  theory  of  the  matter." 

"  And  a  very  detestable  one  too." 

"  Not  at  all.  Cast  not  your  pearls 
before  swine,  as  somebody  or  other 
says  somewhere.  But  it's  time  I 
was  off.  Where's  the  coat  ? — oh, 
blast  it!" 

No  wonder  that  he  began  to 
swear,  for  the  coat,  which  had  once 
been  the  undivided  property  of 
Felix,  required  the  most  tender  and 
delicate  handling  to  adapt  itself  to 
the  big  frame  of  Barton  ;  and  now, 
with  a  sudden  cry,  as  it  were,  it 
split  from  tail  to  collar,  and  became 
an  undivided  coat,  in  any  sense,  no 
more. 

Barton  first  looked  ruefully  at 
the  result  of  his  attempt,  and  then 
burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  The  mis- 
fortune was  serious,  but  was  not, 
at  the  same  time,  without  its  comic 
element. 

"There!"  he  went  on;  "what 
in  the  devil's  name  is  to  be  done 
now  1  One  can't  get  mine  out  of 
pawn  to-night,  that's  certain — nor 
to-morrow,  unless  I  write  this  re- 
view. I  know — give  me  one  of 
those  pens,  and  a  scrap  of  your 
paper.  The  music-paper  will  do — 
it'll  look  all  the  better.  I'll  give 
you  another  lesson  in  the  art  of 
criticism." 

He  placed  the  play-bill  before 
him  and  began  to  write  with  his 
usual  rapidity. 

"  There,"  he  said  at  the  end  of 
about  half  an  hour,  during  which 
Felix  had  been  wearily  proceeding 
with  his  copying — "  There,  I  think 
that'll  do  for  the  swine.  Just  see 
that  I  haven't  made  any  technical 
blunders,  or  called  anything  by  a 
wrong  name." 

So  Felix  read,  "' Theatre. 

Last  night  this  house  re-opened 
under  the  able  and  enterprising 
management  of  Mr  Green ' " 

"A  manager  is  always  able  and 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VI T. 


577 


enterprising,"  interrupted  Barton, 
"just  as  a  critic  is  always  able  and 
impartial.  That's  only  common 
form  business.  Go  on." 

"  '  For  performances  in  which  the 
highest  class  of  music  is  to  hold  a 
distinguished  place/  " 

"  That's  a  quotation  from  the  bill. 
Go  on." 

"  '  With  this  view  we  are  glad  to 
find  that  he  has  engaged  the  ser- 
vices of  that  eminent  Parisian  com- 
poser, Monsieur  Louis  Prosper' — 
Grand  Lieu  !  Prosper  !  Est-il  pos- 
sible?" And  Felix  leaped  sud- 
denly from  his  seat. 

"Why,  what's  wrong1?"  asked 
Barton.  "It's  all  out  of  the  bill, 
so  far." 

"  Wrong  *{  On  the  contrary  it 
is  all  right !  Here — give  me  the 
coat — fasten  it  together  anyhow 


— I  go  to  the  theatre  instead  of 
you." 

"  What — and  write  the  review  ?" 

"  Bah  !  Never  mind  the  review  ; 
that'll  keep  now.  You  may  be  an 
'  able  and  impartial  critic  ; '  but  you 
touch  not  that  which  regards  Louis 
Prosper." 

"  What — is  he  a  friend  of  yours  1 
Is  he  good  for  half-a-crown  ?" 

"  For  something  better,  I  hope, 
than  your  half-a-crown  !" 

And  so,  from  his  bare  and  miser- 
able garret,  without  a  shirt  to  his 
back,  which  was  covered  only  by 
the  rags  of  what  had  once  been  a 
coat,  but  which  now  consisted  of 
little  more  than  rents  and  pins,  the 
Marquis  de  Croisville  went  forth 
to  apply  for  aid  to  the  Jew  fiddler, 
who  was  at  that  moment  ruling  his 
orchestra  with  a  jewelled  hand. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


Neither,  therefore,  of  the  lovers 
of  Mademoiselle  Angelique  Lefort 
was  just  now  in  a  flourishing  con- 
dition, inasmuch  as  one  was  within 
an  ace  of  starvation,  and  the  other 
had  a  bullet  in  his  body,  at  about 
as  inconvenient  a  season  as  can 
well  be  imagined. 

Mr  Prescot,  Lieutenant  Moun- 
tain, Captain  Seward,  and  the  sur- 
geon himself,  who  had  acquired 
considerable  experience  of  gun- 
si  lot  wounds,  not  only  in  the  Pen- 
insula and  the  Low  Countries,  but 
in  such  more  accessible  and  scarcely 
less  instructive  places  as  Chalk 
Farm  and  Wormwood  Scrubbs, 
were  unanimous  in  thinking  that 
IFugh  Lester  would  never  open  his 
eyes  again. 

Those  were  not  the  days  when 
mere  bare  human  life,  even  if 
bought  at  the  price  of  honour,  was 
considered  among  those  who  did 
regard  honour  as  being  of  any  very 
great  value  in  itself;  and  had  such 
an  opinion  yet  acquired  its  full 
force,  none  of  these  four,  who  had 
seen  death  in  many  forms,  would 
have  necessarily  been  much,  if  at 


all,  affected  by  the  sight  of  one 
dead  body  the  more.  Not  one  of 
them  would  have  refused  to  risk  his 
own  life  in  a  similar  encounter  a 
hundred  times  if  necessary.  Prescot 
had  killed  his  man  at  least  once  be- 
fore ;  and  the  other  three  had  seen 
death  wholesale,  in  the  hospital  and 
in  the  field.  Not  one  was  in  the 
least  likely  to  be  troubled  with 
morbid  misgivings  about  the  ter- 
mination of  any  meeting  between 
gentlemen,  however  lamentable  it 
might  be.  But,  nevertheless,  not 
one  felt  very  much  at  ease  with 
himself  just  now.  It  was  not 
good  to  see  this  young  man,  who 
but  a  minute  ago  had  been  full  of 
health  and  high  spirit,  with  a  long 
and  prosperous  arid,  to  all  appear- 
ance, happy  life  before  him,  sud- 
denly sent  out  of  the  world  for 
having  been  guilty  of  an  excess  of 
chivalry.  Kemorse  is  of  course  too 
strong  a  word;  but  certainly  Mr 
Prescot  did  feel  that  his  satisfaction 
had  been  unsatisfactory.  He  would 
not  indeed  have  retired  from  the 
contest  even  in  order  to  recall  his 
opponent  to  life,  for  to  give  up  a 


578 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


contest  was  not  in  his  nature  ;  but 
lie  would  willingly  have  paid  a 
great  many  thousand  pounds,  and, 
as  men  go,  it  is  something  to  be 
•willing  to  do  even  so  much ;  and, 
if  one  has  the  great  many  thousand 
pounds  to  give,  the  will  to  give 
them  is  a  great  deal  more  than 
something. 

In  fact,  he  did  what  he  could  by 
accompanying  the  unconscious  form 
of  his  late  opponent  to  the  public- 
house  which  was  not  far  off,  and 
where  it  was  laid  upon  a  bed  until 
it  should  be  removed  to  Earl's 
Dene.  Then  he  went  away  with 
Lieutenant  Mountain ;  for,  though 
he  had  no  serious  consequences  to 
apprehend  for  himself,  it  was  still 
necessary  that  he  should  at  least 
leave  the  immediate  neighbourhood 
for  the  present. 

It  was  of  course  upon  Captain 
Seward  that  devolved  the  most 
difficult  duty  of  all— that  of  telling 
Miss  Clare  that  she  was  now  child- 
less indeed.  He  would  rather  have 
been  the  principal  in  any  number 
of  duels;  but  it  had  to  be  done; 
and  besides,  he  had  in  his  keep- 
ing those  last  five  letters  of  his 
own  principal,  of  which  one  was 
for  her.  So  he  drove  himself, 
not  too  quickly,  back  to  Earl's 
Dene,  and  asked  to  see  Miss  Clare 
privately. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  more 
formidable  task  than  to  have  to  tell 
a  woman  of  the  unexpected  death 
of  one  whom  she  loves.  At  all 
events  Captain  Seward  thought  so 
now;  for  he  had  never  seen  Miss 
Clare  before,  and  did  not  know  how 
she  took  things — that  is  to  say, 
whether  she  would  faint  or  scream, 
or  merely  burst  into  tears. 

"  Miss  Clare,"  he  said,  with  as 
much  sympathy  as  he  could  manage, 
"  I  am  Captain  Seward  of  the  — th 
— at  Eedchester,  you  know.  Could 
you  prepare  yourself  for  news — 
you  know — most  painful — in  fact 
— if  you  could — it  would  be  better." 

She  bowed,  as  a  sign  that  she 
was  ready  to  hear  it,  whatever  it 
might  prove  to  be. 


The  gallant  Captain  began  to 
stammer  again.  At  last, 

"  Damn  it,  madam,"  he  burst 
out ;  "  my  friend,  Hugh  Lester 
—  there  has  been  a  meeting  — 
and—" 

Miss  Clare  neither  fainted  nor 
screamed  nor  burst  into  tears. 

"You  mean  a  duel1?"  she  only 
asked,  though  in  a  fever  of  fear. 

"  It  couldn't  be  helped,  indeed, 
I  assure  you.  I  did  my  best — as 
his  friend  you  know — but " 

Miss  Clare  suddenly  stepped  for- 
ward, and  grasped  the  mantel- 
piece, partly  to  support  herself — 
partly  because  her  hands  needed  to 
clutch  something. 

"  And  he  is  dead  ! "  she  said. 

Seward  remained  silent,  and  only 
hung  down  his  head.  Thus  he  did 
not  see  that  violent  grasp  of  the 
hand,  nor  the  trembling  of  the 
lines  of  the  mouth,  which  belied 
the  hard  coldness  of  the  words 
which  he  heard. 

"  I  need  not  ask  if  he  was  in  the 
right,  or  how  he  behaved,"  she  con- 
tinued in  the  same  strange  tone, 
after  a  pause. 

"  Admirably." 

"  Then " 

She  said  no  more,  but  only  showed 
by  a  slight  gesture  that  she  wished 
to  be  alone. 

"  What  a  monster  of  a  woman  !  " 
thought  Captain  Seward  to  himself 
as,  having  silently  laid  the  letter 
upon  the  table  before  her,  he  left 
the  room  and  the  house.  But  he 
was  wrong,  as  he  would  have  owned 
could  he  have  read  her  heart.  It  is 
the  calm  and  stern  woman  who  is 
to  be  pitied  when  a  sudden  blow 
falls  upon  her  far  more  than  her 
who  is  able  to  find  relief  in  hys- 
terics. Unfortunately,  however, 
this  is  not  the  order  in  which 
compassion  is  bestowed  ;  and  men 
forget  that  the  fullest  heart  is  al- 
ways the  last  to  overflow. 

"  Am  I  never  to  expiate  my  sin  1 " 
she  thought  bitterly.  "  Am  I  ever 
to  prove  a  curse  to  those  whom  I 
love  most  1 — and  Hugh " 

Then  she  did  break  down ;  and 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  V1L 


579 


Captain  Seward  would  have  called 
her  monster  no  more.  But  she  was 
one  who  would  have  died  rather 
than  shed  a  tear  in  the  sight  of  a 
stranger.  Reserve  with  her  was 
both  a  habit  and  an  instinct,  even 
in  grief ;  which  is  often  the  case 
with  those  whose  pride  is  genuine, 
and  not  mere  affectation.  It  is  ter- 
ribly pathetic,  this  proud  modesty 
of  soul,  which  is  ashamed  even  in 
th'3  sight  of  sympathy. 

Of  course  the  ill  news  had  reached 
Earl's  Dene  of  itself  as  soon  as,  if 
not  before,  it  had  been  brought 
officially  by  Captain  Seward.  The 
external  coldness  of  Madam  Clare 
was  certainly  not  imitated  either 
by  her  guest  or  by  her  household. 
On  the  contrary,  the  one,  without 
giving  herself  time  to  think  or  to 
realise,  rushed  to  the  side  of  her 
hostess,  and  the  others  into  the 
wildest  confusion.  The  kitchen 
amply  made  up,  in  the  matter  of 
hysterics,  for  what  was  wanting  in 
the  drawing-room.  But  Miss  Ray- 
mond's impulse  to  console  her 
friond  was  baulked.  Madam  Clare 
was  invisible  even  to  her.  She 
was  reading  the  letter  that  Hugh 
had  addressed  to  her  before  he 
fell. 

1 1  was  a  dreadful  revelation  to 
her,  from  which  not  even  her  infin- 
ite sorrow  could  take  away  the  bit- 
terness of  disappointment ;  and 
when  she  learned,  as  the  reader 
will  have  guessed,  that  her  nephew 
was  still  living,  her  infinite  joy  was 
unable  to  make  her  forget  what 
she  had  felt  in  her  sorrow. 

And  so  it  was  for  this  that  she 
had  toiled  and  taken  much  thought, 
and  done  her  duty  in  her  station, 
and  made  friends  and  foes,  and 
fought  hard,  and  spent  the  wealth 
of  her  affection,  which  was  none 
the  less  plentiful,  because  the  trea- 
suro-house  was  old — for  this,  that 
the  glory  of  Earl's  Dene  should 
pass  into  the  hands  of  a  girl  little 
above  the  rank  of  a  servant,  who 
intended  to  go  upon  the  stage,  and 
who  was  a  Frenchwoman  and  a  Pap- 
ist to  boot !  She  was  quite  as  preju- 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


diced  now  as  she  had  been  in  her 
rather  wild  youth  :  it  was  only  the 
direction  of  her  prejudices  that  was 
changed.  And  then,  too,  she  was 
unconsciously  put  out  by  finding 
that  the  penetration  of  which  she 
was  so  proud  bad  been  at  fault  all 
along  ;  that  she  had  been  suspect- 
ing Marie,  while  the  true  enemy 
had  been  Angelique.  But  worst 
of  all  was  the  feeling  that  Hugh 
himself  had  deceived  her  in  the 
matter. 

It  was  not  that,  like  some  mothers, 
she  foolishly  and  vainly  grieved  at 
finding  out  that  she  held  only  the 
second  place  in  her  son's  affection. 
She  was  much  too  wise  and  sensible 
for  that.  On  the  contrary,  she 
wished  to  see  him  married  before 
she  died,  and  she  wished  him  to 
choose  one  whom  he  could  love. 
But  then  she  was  much  too  fond  of 
managing  everything  and  every- 
body, not  to  wish  to  manage  that 
most  important  matter  with  her 
own  hands.  If  Hugh  had  only 
seen  fit  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
heiress  of  New  Court,  she  would 
have  been  more  than  satisfied ;  and 
this  for  several  reasons,  one  of 
which  was  altogether  new. 

An  election  in  those  days  was 
not  a  cheap  amusement.  No  one 
except  Mr  White  and  Madam  Clare 
had  the  least  idea  of  what  had  to 
be  spent  upon  the  contest  for  Dene- 
thorp.  Of  course  it  had  been  the 
policy  of  the  Yellows  to  make  it  a 
battle  of  purses,  seeing  that  that  of 
their  champion  was  on  the  whole 
the  best  supplied;  and  Miss  Clare's, 
though  long,  was  not  inexhaustible. 
Her  unencumbered  estate  had  for 
the  first  time  to  learn  what  is  meant 
by  a  mortgage  ;  and  the  thought 
vexed  Miss  Clare's  soul,  who  had 
set  her  heart  upon  leaving  it  to  her 
heir  in  as  free  a  condition  as  she 
had  herself  received  it.  Now  New 
Court  "marched"  with  Earl's  Dene. 
Even  had  the  owner  of  the  former 
not  personally  been  an  eligible 
match,  the  two  properties  seemed 
made  to  be  married  ;  and  how 
could  the  pecuniary  wounds  re- 
2R 


580 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


ceived  during  the  contest  be  more 
satisfactorily  cured  ? 

So  much  for  the  state  of  Miss 
Clare's  mind  daring  the  weary 
time  that  passed  while  Hugh  lay 
in  the  delirium  of  the  fever  caused 
by  his  wound,  and  utterly  incapable 
of  taking  the  least  interest  in  what 
was  going  on  among  either  his 
friends  or  his  foes.  Of  course 
Miss  Raymond  quitted  Earl's  Dene 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  carried  off 
her  companion  with  her,  who  left 
Denethorp  willingly.  Nothing 
more  could  be  done  there  now  ; 
and,  should  Hugh  finally  re- 
cover, the  letter  that  had  been  de- 
livered to  her  by  Captain  Seward 
would  prove  by  no  means  a  bad 
card  in  the  game  that  she  was 
playing  with  Fortune  and  Miss 
Clare. 

Meanwhile,  in  spite  of  Hugh's 
condition,  his  friends  by  no  means 
slackened  their  exertions  in  his 
behalf.  On  the  contrary,  they 
worked  all  the  harder  for  their 
wounded  chief,  out  of  whose  bullet 
they  coined  plenty  of  telling  points. 
Of  course,  Warden  now  came  to 
the  front  more  than  ever,  if  pos- 
sible; and  at  last,  when  the  day 
came,  to  the  surprise  of  none  but  to 
the  frantic  disappointment  of  many, 
the  poll  closed  with  an  undoubted 
majority  in  favour  of  Mr  Lester. 
Thanks  mainly  to  the  doctor's  son, 
Earl's  Dene  had  held  its  own. 

But  still  it  was  a  tame  and  un- 
exciting end  to  that  long  and  ex- 
citing canvass.  Neither  candidate 
was  present  tomake  his  final  speech  : 
to  chair  the  conqueror  in  his  pre- 
sent state  was  of  course  out  of  the 
question  :  and  the  beauty,  fashion, 
and  royalty  of  Earl's  Dene  put  in 
no  appearance.  Mark  Warden  from 
the  balcony  of  the  King's  Head 
had  to  receive  on  the  part  of  his 
friend  both  the  cheers  of  the  Blues 
and  the  rotten  eggs  of  the  Yel- 
lows. 

Now,  it  will  doubtless  be  remem- 
bered that  the  partisans  of  the 
latter  colour  formed  the  strongest 
mob,  and  that  they  included  the 


mill-hands  almost  to  a  man.  Under 
a  system  of  universal  suffrage 
Prescot  would  have  been  returned 
triumphantly.  It  may,  therefore, 
be  readily  imagined  that,  although 
Mark  Warden  represented  the  vic- 
tor, the  rotten  eggs  were  far  more 
plentiful  than  the  cheers,  seeing 
that  the  losing  was  the  popular 
side.  Had  Hugh  Lester  been  able 
to  show  himself,  and  had  Alice 
Raymond  been  there  to  fill  the 
market-place  with  the  glory  of  her 
smile  and  of  her  blue  ribbons,  and 
had  Madam  Clare  had  the  good 
sense  not  to  accompany  her,  the 
Yellows  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  taken  their  beating  pretty 
well ;  for  they  liked  Hugh  person- 
ally, and  the  smile  of  a  pretty  girl 
has  its  influence  even  with  a  mob. 
But  as  things  stood,  smarting  as 
they  were  under  the  sting  of  de- 
feat, deprived  of  any  ordinary  way 
of  letting  off  their  rage,  and  with 
no  spectacle  of  triumph  to  amuse 
them,  the  beer  with  which  they 
were  filled  to  repletion  turned  sour, 
and  things  began  to  look  ill  for  the 
peace  of  the  town. 

But  an  English  mob  is  slow  to 
ferment.  So  long  as  Mark  Warden 
was  endeavouring  from  the  balcony 
to  thank  the  electors  of  Denethorp 
in  the  name  of  his  friend  Mr  Lester 
for  having  stood  so  well  by  Church 
and  State,  and  to  congratulate  the 
town  generally  upon  its  new  repre- 
sentative, his  hearers  contented 
themselves  with  drowning  his  voice 
in  a  torrent  of  groans  for  himself, 
for  Lester,  and,  above  all,  for  Ma- 
dam Clare,  and  of  cheers  for  Pres- 
cot, and  by  assiduously  pelting  him 
with  eggs,  potatoes,  and  the  other 
missiles  in  use  on  such  occasions, 
till  he  was  obliged  to  make  a  final 
bow  and  retire.  But,  when  this 
little  piece  of  vengeance  was  over 
and  there  was  nothing  external  to 
itself  to  engage  its  attention,  the 
crowd  was  thrown  upon  its  own  re- 
sources. 

It  is  rather  a  strong  remark  to 
make  about  anything,  seeing  how 
many  hideous  things  there  are  in 


1370.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


581 


the  world  •  but  still,  on  the  whole, 
it  may  fairly  be  said  that  the  most 
hideous  of  all  is  an  angry  mob.  It 
is  literally  a  thing,  or  rather  a 
monster ;  for  it  ceases  to  be  made 
up  of  men  with  distinct  personali- 
ties of  their  own.  Even  in  the 
dullest  and  quietest  of  places  an 
angry  mob  at  once  takes  the  guise 
of  its  fellows  in  the  great  cities  of 
the  world.  All  are  alike — alike  in 
stupidity,  in  madness  and  in  brut- 
ality ;  and  while  an  English  mob 
is  certainly  not  worse  than  those  of 
other  countries,  it  is  certainly  not 
batter — except  in  the  matter  of 
girlie.  Now  the  Mayor  of  Dene- 
tliorp  happened  to  be  a  man  of 
sense,  and,  not  liking  the  look  of 
things — for  he  had  heard  that  the 
malcontents  of  Denethorp  had  been 
reinforced  by  some  roughs  from 
Eedchester  and  by  some  more 
dangerous  roughs  from  B it- 
self who  had  scented  carrion  from 
afar,  with  the  strange  instinct  of 
their  kind — he  sent  an  express  to 
the  Redchester  barracks  to  ask  for 
the  loan  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  for 
the  night,  and  then  went  home  to 
entertain  some  of  the  leading  con- 
servatives at  a  dinner  of  triumph 
and  congratulation.  Mark  War- 
don  did  not  remain  to  enjoy  his 
hospitality,  however,  but  hurried 
olF  at  once  to  Earl's  Dene.  By  de- 
grees all  the  respectable  inhabitants 
of  the  place  had  left  the  streets ; 
and  the  worse  portion  of  the  crowd 
was  left  to  itself. 

After  a  few  drunken  fights  had 
taken  place,  a  few  black  eyes  been 
given,  and  a  few  of  those  who  dared 
to  wear  the  colours  of  victory  knock- 
ed down  and  well  kicked  and  tram- 
pled upon,  the  signal  for  mischief 
was  given  by  a  very  small  boy,  who, 
for  mere  fun,  threw  a  stone  through 
one  of  the  windows  in  the  front  of 
tli  e  King's  Head.  In  another  min- 
ute the  inn  had  not  a  window  left  un- 
broken. After  this  glorious  achieve- 
ment the  mob,  with  a  cheer  of 
triumph,  marched  into  the  High 
Street,  and  performed  the  same 
Operation  upon  the  shops  and 


houses  at  first  of  those  who  were 
known  to  be  Tories,  and  afterwards 
indiscriminately.  At  the  end  of 
the  High  Street  it  turned  to  the 
left,  and  soon  afterwards,  finding 
itself  in  front  of  Mr  Warden's 
house,  repeated  the  performance 
upon  its  windows  also,  including 
that  which  Lorry  had  at  last  re- 
membered to  have  mended  only 
the  very  day  before.  The  brass 
plate  was  of  course  torn  off,  and 
far  greater  damage  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  been  done,  had 
not  so*tne  one  in  the  crowd  sudden- 
ly cried  out, 

"  To  Market  Street !  Let's  knock 
up  Lester's  French  drab  !  " 

It  was  a  suggestion  exactly  cal- 
culated to  charm  a  mob  already 
heated  with  easy  triumphs.  To 
attack  a  young  girl  and  a  weak  old 
man  is  exactly  the  sport  in  which 
such  a  Hydra  revels,  when  its 
blood  is  well  up.  With  an  evil 
shout  and  a  final  discharge  at  the 
house  of  the  surgeon,  who  was 
dining  with  the  mayor  while  poor 
Lorry  was  trembling  in  the  coal- 
hole, the  crowd  turned,  and  almost 
ran  to  Market  Street. 

"Twenty- three  !  "  called  out  a 
dozen  of  its  voices,  and  it  stopped. 

But  the  hospitality  of  the  mayor 
had  by  this  time  been  broken 
into  by  the  news  of  what  was 
going  on  in  the  town.  He  was  by 
no  means  a  man  of  commanding 
presence,  nor  did  he  possess  too 
much  courage  ;  but  no  one  could 
say  of  him  afterwards,  as  has  some- 
times been  said  of  mayors  on 
similar  occasions,  that  he  did  not 
at  all  events  try  to  do  his  duty  like 
a  man.  He  had  already  sent  a 
second  express  to  Redchester,  to 
hurry  the  dragoons  ;  and  now,  at- 
tended by  many  of  his  guests,  he 
gained  the  window  of  a  house  op- 
posite to  No.  23  by  entering 
through  the  back-door,  and  attempt- 
ed to  make  himself  heard. 

But  it  was  not  likely  that  he 
should  succeed  in  doing  what  Mark 
Warden  had  failed  to  do.  His 
second  word  was  drowned  by  a 


582 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


yell,  and  by  a  crash  of  stones  upon 
tbe  house  of  the  bootmaker  who 
was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  the 
Leforts  for  lodgers.  The  situation 
was  so  dangerous  that  the  mayor 
retired  from  his  exposed  position, 
and  small  blame  to  him. 

But  Monsieur  Lefort  came  for- 
ward to  his  own  window.  Mrs  Price 
had  been  far  more  formidable  to  this 
French  gentleman  than  all  the  can- 
aille of  the  town  could  possibly  be. 
He  turned  very  pale,  indeed  ;  but  it 
was  because  of  the  insulting  shouts 
that  reached  Marie's  ears  as  well  as 
his  own.  Having  sent  his  daugh- 
ter, who,  brave  as  she  was,  was  cer- 
tainly not  too  brave  to  tremble, 
with  the  two  children  into  a  back 
room,  he  went  straight  to  the  win- 
dow and  displayed  to  the  crowd 
below  the  barrel  of  some  ancient 
weapon  of  the  blunderbuss  order. 

As  an  answer  to  this  piece  of 
bravado  went  up  a  roar,  half  of 
anger,  half  of  laughter;  and  then 
a  stone  went  up  also,  sufficiently 
well  aimed  to  hit  the  old  French- 
man on  the  shoulder. 

The  sting  of  the  stone  roused 
up  the  spirit  of  combat  in  him 
who  felt  it.  Hitherto  he  had  been 
a  gentleman  defying  canaille,  and 
a  father  defending  his  children  ; 
but  now  he  was  a  Frenchman  who 
had  received  a  blow.  He  retired 
at  once  from  the  window,  but  it 
was  only  to  fill  his  weapon  with 
powder  and  ball. 

"  Let's  rout  out  the  lot  of  'em  !  " 
cried  some  one. 

The  mob  answered  with  a  con- 
fused burlesque  of  the  shouts  of 
the  hunting  field,  and  a  charge  was 
made  at  the  street-door  of  the 
house,  which,  barred  and  bolted  as 
it  was,  could  not  resist  the  rush 
for  long.  In  a  minute  or  two  it 
gave  way,  and  the  two  or  three 
men  who  were  immediately  press- 
ing against  it  were  sent  flying  into 
the  entrance  passage,  and,  in  a 
second,  trampled  under  the  feet  of 
their  followers.  The  shop  was 
soon  in  the  wildest  disorder,  and  a 
few  of  the  invaders,  eager  for  mis- 


chief, were  beginning  to  mount 
the  stairs.  Marie  was  on  her  knees, 
praying  to  saints  and  angels  with 
all  her  strength ;  the  bootmaker  and 
his  wife  had  followed  the  example 
of  Lorry. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  shot 
was  heard,  and  then  a  cry  from  the 
street. 

Marie  sprang  from  her  knees  in 
wild  alarm ;  and  the  mob  was 
hushed  for  an  instant  into  silence. 
But  only  for  an  instant ;  for  in 
another  there  went  up  to  the  skies 
such  a  roar  as  Denethorp  had  never 
heard.  Stones  flew  like  hail  and 
at  random,  many  recoiling  upon 
the  heads  of  those  who  threw 
them.  Meanwhile  not  a  few  of  the 
rioters,  discontented  with  this  bar- 
ren mode  of  attack,  rushed  into  the 
house  itself,  and  were,  little  by 
little,  and  step  by  step,  forcing 
those  who  had  already  entered  it 
up  the  stairs.  It  seemed  only  a 
question  of  time  whether  the  se- 
cond story  itself  should  be  reached ; 
whether  Marie's  own  room  should 
be  invaded  by  this  horrible  tide. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  But, 
thank  heaven,  "  when  bale  is  hext, 
boot  is  next"  —  so  it  is  always. 
The  longing  ears  of  the  Mayor 
were  at  last  gladdened  by  the  sound 
of  the  galloping  of  hoofs  upon  the 
hard  pavement,  and  by  the  ring  of 
steel.  In  another  instant,  the  end 
of  the  street  that  opened  upon  the 
market-place  was  filled  with  a  wel- 
come vision  of  shining  helmets  and 
scarlet  coats  and  drawn  swords. 

"  Halt ! " 

The  sharp  word  of  command 
rang  through  the  street,  and  the 
coward  heart  of  the  Hydra  shrank 
and  shrivelled.  Captain  Seward, 
who  was  in  command  of  the  troop, 
leaving  his  men  where  they  were, 
rode  forward  alone  through  the 
crowd,  as  coolly  and  carelessly  as  if 
it  had  consisted  of  so  much  brush- 
wood, towards  the  house  where  the 
Mayor  was  beckoning  to  him  from 
the  window  ;  and  not  a  man  op- 
posed his  passage.  It  is  nonsense 
to  say  that  an  English  mob  has  any 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VII. 


583 


peculiar  respect  for  the  law.  But 
it  has  a  peculiar  fear  of  the  law 
when  reminded  of  its  strength  by 
the  sight  of  a  sword  or  a  truncheon ; 
and  this  goes  far  to  supply  the  want 
of  respect.  Before  the  officer  had 
reached  the  door  the  street  was 
empty. 

All  was  well,  then,  after  all,  ex- 
cept for  the  breaking  of  glass — and, 
as  his  son-in-law  was  a  glazier — 


well,  it's  an  ill  wind  that  blows 
nobody  good ! 

So  thought  the  Mayor,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  Captain  Seward. 
But  so  did  not  think  Marie. 

Poor  Monsieur  Lefort,  too  proud 
to  leave  the  window,  had  been 
struck  on  the  temple  during  that 
last  wild  storm  of  stones ;  and, 
when  she  emerged  from  her  own 
room,  she  found  him  dead. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Hugh's  wound  had  left  him  in  a 
very  feeble  state  of  convalescence, 
so  that  he  was  now  just  in  that 
condition  which  a  woman,  however 
much  of  manliness  she  may  have 
in  her  character,  is  likely  to  fix 
upon  as  giving  her  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  bringing  a  man  to  task, 
and  in  which  a  man  is  no  match 
for  the  weakest  of  women.  For  it 
is  impossible  to  rebel  against  an 
affectionate  nurse,  even  were  it  not 
a  trouble;  and,  when  a  Madam 
Clare  is  the  nurse,  and  a  Hugh 
Lester  the  patient,  the  impossibi- 
lity is  more  impossible  still. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said  to  him  two  or 
three  days  after  he  had  left  his 
bed,  "  you  must  have  been  expect- 
ing me  to  talk  to  you." 

He  summoned  up  all  the  energy 
that  Mr  Prescot  and  two  doctors 
luid  left  him  among  them,  for  he 
knew  what  was  coming. 

"I  hope,"  she  went  on,  "that 
your  illness  has  given  you  an  op- 
portunity of  considering  1 " 

He  waited  for  her  to  continue. 

"At  least,  if  you  have  not  con- 
sidered, I  hope  you  will  now." 

"  I  have  considered  it,"  he 
said. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  And  now 
wo  shall  understand  each  other 
ODce  more." 

u  Aunt,"  he  answered,  "  I  am 
afraid  you  do  not  understand." 

"  But  you  had  considered  the 
matter,  did  you  not  say1?" 

"  I  have,"  he  said  gravely — he 
had  become  very  much  graver  of 


late,  independently  of  his  illness — 
"  and — I  am  not  changed." 

"What?  Is  it— can  it  be  still 
possible " 

"  Am  I  not  engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"  Engaged  !  You  must  be  in- 
fatuated." 

"  But  what  objection " 

"  What  objection  ?  I  wonder 
you  can  ask  such  a  question." 

"  She  is  a  lady." 

"  No,  Hugh — she  is  not  a  lady ; 
and,  if  she  were,  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  I  cannot  argue  such 
an  absurd  question." 

"  My  dear  aunt " 

"  No.  I  do  not  call  her  a  lady 
who  has  acted  as  she  has  done." 

"  And  how  has  she  acted  ?  What 
has  she  done  ? " 

"Hugh,  your  folly  goes  beyond 
all  bound." 

"  I  will  not  argue  with  you,  aunt. 
You  do  not  know  her." 

"  Nor  do  you,  it  seems." 

"  But  even  if  I  did  not  trust  her, 
as  I  do,  and  even  if  I  did  not — love 
her,  she  has  my  word.  And  now, 
too,  that  she  has  no  friend  but  me 
— now  that  she  has  lost  her  only 
protector,  and  lost  him  on  my  ac- 
count  " 

"  Is  the  successful  candidate 
bound  to  marry  every  girl  who 
loses  her  protector  in  an  election 
riot?  Surely  you  are  talking  the 
wildest  folly.  You  cannot  love 
her — it  is  impossible.  It  is  a  boy's 
fancy,  of  which  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed." 

"  It  is  no  boy's  fancy,  aunt.    And 


584 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


it  is  a  question  of  honour,  too.  I 
could  not  give  her  up,  even  if  I 
would." 

"  Oh,  Hugh — remember  that  we 
are  mother  and  son.  If  you  did 
but  know ;' 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  with 
a  greater  show  of  affection  than  he 
had  ever  witnessed  in  her.  Tender- 
ness is  a  better  weapon  of  attack 
than  pride  ;  and  he  was  moved. 

"  My  dear  aunt  —  my  dearest 
mother — I  do  know — I  do  remem- 
ber. But  I  know  also  that  I  am 
doing  what  is  right,  and  that  you 
will  acknowledge  that  I  am  doing 
what  is  right  in  the  end.  You 
cannot  ask  me  to  give  up,  to  break 
my  word  to  her  I  love  when  she  is 
most  helpless.  In  this  I  cannot  obey 
you,  nor  could  you  wish  me  to.  In 
everything  else " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  excitedly,  "  in 
everything  but  in  what  concerns  the 
most  important  step  in  your  whole 
life — in  everything  but  just  where  I 
require  your  obedience  most !  That 
is  not  trust — that  is  not  obedience. 
Hugh,  if  you  persist  in  this  folly  of 
yours,  we  cannot  be  as  we  have 
always  been  ;  and  I  shall  care  about 
nothing  any  more.  If  you  have  a 
right  to  choose  who  shall  be  your 
wife,  I  have  a  right  to  choose  who 
shall  be  my  daughter.  Decide  be- 
tween her  and  me.  I  will  speak  no 
more  about  it  now ;  and  I  pray  that 
you  may  see  things  in  a  better 
light." 

And  so  the  conversation  ended 
for  the  present,  leaving  Miss  Clare 
angry  and  her  nephew  exhausted. 
Neither  recurred  to  the  subject  for 
some  days ;  on  the  contrary,  both 
studiously  avoided  it.  But  the 
truce  was  hollow,  and  both  alike 
felt  that  the  great  struggle  was  to 
come.  Miss  Clare  was  perfectly 
sincere  in  saying  that  she  would  be 
infinitely  distressed  by  a  breach  be- 
tween herself  and  her  nephew  :  she 
would  have  been  right  had  she  said 
that  it  would  have  rendered  her 
heart-broken.  It  would  be  far 
better  for  her  that  he  had  died  than 
that  they  should  become  estranged. 


But  to  give  way  was  a  thing  of 
which  she  was  incapable.  She  had 
never  given  way  to  anybody  in  her 
life  ;  and  it  was  much  too  late  to  be- 
gin now,  whatever  distress  her  ob- 
stinacy might  cause  herself  or  any 
one  else.  Besides,  she  thought  with 
equal  sincerity  that  it  was  her 
bounden  duty  not  to  let  Hugh  and 
Earl's  Dene  go  to  the  destruction 
that  she  was  sure  must  needs  spring 
from  so  gross  a  mesalliance. 

"  Hugh,"  she  accordingly  said  to 
him  a  day  or  two  before  he  was  to 
leave  for  London,  "  I  suppose  you 
will  be  seeing  Alice  Raymond  again 
before  very  long  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  call  there  at  once, 
of  course.  Have  you  any  message 
for  her?" 

"  I  will  give  you  a  letter  for  her. 
What  a  dear  girl  she  is !  I  got 
quite  to  look  upon  her  as  my  other 
child." 

Hugh  let  this  pass,  and  said  no- 
thing. 

"  She  will  make  an  admirable 
wife — and  she  is  so  unspoiled  and 
unaffected.  So  different  from  most 
other  girls." 

Hugh  began  to  hum  a  tune 
mildly. 

"  Do  you  not  think  so,  Hugh  1 " 

"  I  think  she  is  a  charming  girl 
indeed,  aunt." 

"It  is  not  every  day  that  one 
finds  a  pretty  girl  so  natural  and  so 
amiable — so  good.  How  delight- 
ful it  would  be  if  you  took  it  into 
your  head  to  ask  her  to  be  my 
daughter  indeed.  But  perhaps  you 
have  taken  it  into  your  head  al- 
ready 1  If  so " 

She  spoke  almost  appealingly, 
and  with  a  forced  smile.  Hugh 
felt  the  weight  of  her  suggestion, 
in  spite  of  its  having  been  made  so 
wholly  without  tact;  for,  as  has 
been  said,  he  felt  to  the  full  the 
influence  of  all  family  and  social 
traditions,  and  it  had  always  been 
the  part  of  Earl's  Dene,  like  "Felix 
Austria"  to  increase  itself  by  mar- 
riage. But  he  was  now  under  the 
influence  of  something  much  strong- 
er than  family  and  social  tradition. 


1670.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VII. 


585' 


I 


"  But  the  lady  herself  might  have 
something  to  say  to  that  arrange- 
ment," he  answered,  as  lightly  as 
he;  could. 

Miss  Clare's  face  brightened  a 
little,  with  a  faint  ray  of  hope. 

"  Nothing  unpleasant,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  do  not  fancy  that  you, 
at  least,  would  find  the  lady  of  New 
Court  very  cruel." 

He  saw  that  his  manner  had 
somehow  given  her  a  wrong  im- 
pression, which  it  was  his  duty  to 
correct  at  once,  especially  as  it  was 
evident  that  her  suggestion  had 
been  made  seriously  and  in  full 
earnest. 

"  Aunt,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  you 
know  that  such  a  thing  is  quite 
impossible." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not  know  it.  Why 
should  it  be  impossible  ?  You  are 
both  nearly  of  an  age,  both  of  near- 
ly equal  position — the  advantage 
being  yours  in  both  cases  —  you 
both  have  the  same  tastes,  you  like 
each  other  —  why  in  the  world 
should  it  be  impossible  ? " 

Hugh  was  silent ;  but  his  silence 
expressed  his  thought  only  too  well. 

"You  do  not  mean,  of  course," 
she  went  on,  in  a  low  and  con- 
strained voice,  "  that  you  are  still 
indulging  in  any  folly  about — about 
her  servant1?" 

'•About  Miss  Lefort,  you  mean? 
I  do  not  consider  it  folly." 

Miss  Clare  was  silent  in  her  turn. 
The  inevitable  battle  was  about  to 
begin. 

"What  you  say  is  impossible," 
he  continued.  "  I  cannot  ask  Miss 
E  lymond  to  be  my  wife.  I  am  not 
free ;  and  I  would  not  be  free  even 
if  I  could." 

"  And  " — this  scornfully — "  can 
you  possibly  imagine  that  I  should 
open  my  arms  and  receive  Miss 
Li  fort  as  a  daughter  ] " 

"I  had  hoped  so — I  hope  still 
that  you  will." 

"  You  have  lost  your  senses.  I 
will  not  see  you  acting  so  madly 
without  doing  what  I  can  to  pre- 
vent it.  Earl's  Dene  shall  never 
come  to  this  girl." 


Hugh  understood  this  threat — 
for  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  threat 
to  himself — perfectly  well.  But  he 
was  nothing  if  not  chivalrous.  He 
certainly  could  not  give  up  Ange- 
lique  now;  and  even  Miss  Clare 
felt  that  by  her  last  speech  she  had 
managed  to  put  herself  in  the 
wrong. 

"Aunt,  I  am  indeed  sorry  that 
you  are  so  prejudiced  against  An- 
gelique — against  Miss  Lefort.  But 
when  a  man's  whole  happiness  is 
concerned " 

"  That  is  nonsense.  A  man's 
whole  happiness  does  not  depend 
upon  such  things,  although  a  boy 
may  think  so." 

"  Mine  does,  however." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  such 
a  slave  to  your  fancies." 

"  This  is  not  a  fancy." 

"  You  are  determined,  then  1 " 

"  Quite." 

"  Then  listen,  Hugh."  The  tears 
forced  themselves  into  her  eyes. 
"  I  am  not  angry  with  you.  Of 
course  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I 
have  no  real  right  to  prevent  your 
marrying  a  beggar  out  of  the  street, 
or  worse ;  but  I  have  a  right  to  ob- 
ject to  know  your  wife,  and  to  do 
with  Earl's  Dene  what  I  please. 
As  long  as  nothing  happens  I  shall 
be  the  same  to  you  as  I  have  al- 
ways been ;  but  if  I  hear  of  your 
committing  this  wicked  folly,  I 
will  see  you  no  more,  and  the  place 
must  go  to  strangers.  No — not  to 
strangers :  Alice  Raymond  shall  in 
any  case  be  mistress  of  Earl's  Dene. 
It  will  not  be  the  first  time  of  its 
going  from  woman  to  woman. 
Now  we  understand  each  other,  I 
hope  ? ;; 

"  My  dear  aunt,  let  the  land  go 
as  it  will.  But  let  us  be  friends." 
He  was  not  eloquent  by  nature,  and 
he  was  moved  more  than  he  cared 
to  show. 

"  We  cannot,  as  long  as  you  per- 
sist in  your  folly." 

"  Then— if  it  must  be  so " 

"Say  nothing,  Hugh.  Think 
quietly  of  what  I  say." 

"  I  have  thought." 


586 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


"  I  cannot  think  so.  I  will  never 
mention  this  subject  to  you  again, 
and  hope  never  to  hear  it  mentioned. 
I  am  not  angry,  as  you  see  ;  but  I 
am  quite  firm." 

So  ended  the  second  conversa- 
tion, in  which  Miss  Clare  had  cer- 
tainly proved  that  tact  was  any- 
thing but  her  strong  point.  Never- 
theless, her  policy  had  not  been 
undiplomatic.  She  knew  enough 
of  Hugh  to  know  that  he  was  too 


honest  to  let  Angelique  marry  him 
in  ignorance  as  to  his  circumstances 
and  prospects,  and  enough  of  the 
world  to  feel  pretty  certain  that 
Angelique  would  not  marry  him  if 
she  was  not  left  in  ignorance  about 
them.  Her  threat  had  been  aimed 
at  Angelique  rather  than  at  Hugh  ; 
and  she  doubted  not  but  that  it 
would  at  once  drive  her  enemy 
from  the  field. 


CHAPTER  VITI. 


It  is  always  as  well,  at  least  once  in 
the  course  of  a  long  story,  to  take  a 
short  retrospect  of  how  things  stand, 
especially  when  changes  are  immi- 
nent, and  when,  as  in  the  present 
case,  the  process  can  be  managed 
in  very  few  words. 

Angelique,  then,  was  now  be- 
trothed to  two  men  at  once,  neither 
of  whom  she  could  be  said  to  love, 
in  any  sense  of  the  word,  and  from 
neither  of  whom  could  she  hope  to 
get  much  worldly  benefit,  seeing 
that  her  first  lover  was  still  only  a 
struggling  musician,  worse  off  than 
he  had  ever  been,  and  that  her 
second  ran  a  very  fair  chance  of  be- 
ing disinherited  for  her  sake.  Hugh 
Lester,  now  member  for  Denethorp, 
had  to  choose  between  Angelique  on 
the  one  hand,  and  Earl's  Dene  on 
the  other,  with  a  very  strong  bias 
in  favour  of  the  shadow  over  the 
substance.  Madam  Clare  had  to 
decide  between  the  loss  of  her  son 
— for  such  he  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered— and  the  sacrifice  of  her 
own  nature ;  and  Mark  Warden 
between  love,  duty,  and  honesty 
on  one  side,  and  the  success  in  life 
which  was  his  idol — that  is  to  say, 
himself.  The  unlucky  Felix  seemed 
fated  to  be  unhappy ;  and  Marie 

But  Marie  is  to  some  extent  the 
heroine  of  this  story,  at  least  pro 
tempore;  and  yet,  in  the  course  of 
seven  chapters,  headed  with  her 
name,  she  has  scarcely  once  ap- 
peared. 

What  in  the  world  was  she  to  do, 


with  those  two  poor  children  de- 
pendent upon  her,  with  a  bad  repu- 
tation in  the  only  place  that  knew 
her,  and  with  a  husband  that  was  no 
husband  1  She  could  not  remain  in 
the  town  after  what  had  happened, 
that  was  certain  ;  and  where  was 
she  to  go  ]  Warden  could  not  yet 
acknowledge  her  as  his  wife,  for 
he  must  then  resign  his  fellowship, 
and,  as  it  were,  own  that  he  had 
obtained  it  and  kept  it  on  false  pre- 
tences ;  and,  besides,  he  had  no 
other  means  to  help  himself,  much 
less  her.  Nor  could  she  live  with 
him  as  his  mistress,  which,  for  the 
present,  would  have  been  an  ob- 
vious solution  of  the  difficulty. 
She  would  not  have  done  so  even 
had  he  proposed  it  to  her,  as  he  did 
not.  And  even,  keeping  his  fellow- 
ship, he  could  do  but  very  little  for 
her.  He  must  manage  to  get  to  the 
bar ;  and  that  he  could  not  do,  at 
the  soonest,  in  less  than  a  long  five 
years — it  was  not  so  quick  and  easy 
a  proceeding  as  it  is  now — during 
which  he  would  have  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  his  legal  education  and 
to  support  himself  as  a  gentleman. 
Literature,  and  such  illegitimate  aids 
to  the  law  student,  were  not  in  his 
line ;  and  he  was  too  practically 
wise  to  permit  himself  to  stray  from 
the  plain,  hard,  straightforward 
style  of  work  which  had  paid  him 
so  well  hitherto.  He  knew  that,  if 
he  wished  to  succeed  in  the  profes- 
sion that  he  had  chosen,  he  must 
spend  the  period  of  his  apprentice- 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


587 


ship  in  learning  it.  And  so  it  was 
plain  that,  even  if  he  lived  with 
strict  economy,  he  should  require 
in  effect  the  whole  of  his  income 
for  himself.  When  he  had  paid  a 
hundred  pounds  to  the  special 
pleader  in  whose  chambers  he  in- 
tended to  read,  another  hundred 
for  his  chambers,  his  furniture,  his 
books  and  other  expenses  inciden- 
tal to  his  student  life,  and  another 
hundred — he  could  not  reckon  it 
at  less — for  his  clothes,  his  food, 
«rind  his  daily  expenses,  it  was  plain 
that  it  would  be  absurd  to  talk  of 
leaving  a  margin  in  his  three  hun- 
dred a-year,  at  least  for  the  present. 
He  might  borrow  a  little  money  on 
the  strength  of  his  income,  it  is 
true  ;  but  he  would  not  be  able  to 
do  so  except  upon  hard  terms,  and 
lie  was  much  too  sensible  to  eat  all 
his  cake  at  once.  And  so  Marie 
must  needs  do  something  to  keep 
herself  until  better  times  should 
come  in  the  far-off  future,  to  feed, 
clothe,  and  educate  the  children, 
and  to  aid  Angelique  in  bringing 
herself  before  the  world,  which 
would  doubtless  welcome  such  tran- 
scendant  genius  with  open  arms. 
There,  indeed,  Miss  Raymond  would 
doubtless  prove  useful ;  but  even 
Miss  Raymond,  kind  and  generous 
as  she  was,  could  not  be  expected 
to  support  a  whole  family.  Mon- 
sieur Lefort  had  left  nothing  behind 
him  but  debts. 

And  so,  after  much  talk  with 
Warden,  who  certainly  was  honestly 
anxious  to  do  all  he  could  for  her 
from  his  own  point  of  view,  it  was 
decided  that  she  also  should  pass 
through  the  trance  of  Hermotimus 
and  become  another  drop  of  water 
In  the  great  city,  in  order  to  attract 
to  herself  as  many  smaller  drops  in 
the  shape  of  pupils  as  possible. 
Let  not  her  husband,  however,  be 
blamed  overmuch.  The  sacrifice 
of  his  whole  career  by  a  man  for  a 
woman's  sake  is  one  which  no  one 
in  the  world  has  a  right  to  expect 
from  another,  even  if  he  himself  is 
one  who  is  capable  of  making  it ; 
nor  is  it  by  any  means  certain  that 


such  a  sacrifice — romance  apart — 
is  one  that  a  man  is  even  justified 
in  making  under  almost  any  given 
circumstances.  Whatever  is  best 
in  the  brain  and  in  the  arm  of  a 
man  is  not  his  own  to  put  under  the 
feet  of  a  woman ;  it  belongs  to 
the  world  ;  and  sacrifice  is  quite  as 
often  the  consequence  of  cowardice 
and  of  weakness  as  of  strength  or 
of  courage.  The  whole  world  was 
open  to  Warden  now.  Great  things 
were  expected  of  him  by  others, 
and  he  felt  himself  capable  of  doing 
great  things;  and  he  had  just  gained 
the  influence  of  Earl's  Dene  to  help 
him  to  do  them.  All  this,  all  the 
purposes  of  his  whole  heart  and  life 
he  would  have  to  forfeit  by  a  pre- 
mature acknowledgment  of  his  mar- 
riage, or  even  by  privately  treating 
Marie  as  his  wife;  and  he  would 
have  to  commit  worse  than  suicide 
by  settling  down  into  the  life  of  an 
obscure  country  parson  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days.  It  does  not 
even  follow  that  he  would  gain  with 
his  parish  and  his  wife  the  consci- 
ousness of  having  done  his  duty,  or 
that  if  he  did,  such  consciousness 
would  afford  him  the  least  satisfac- 
tion, for  conscience  is  always  much 
more  ready  to  sting  than  to  console. 
The  leopard  can  change  his  spots 
sooner  than  one  like  Mark  Warden 
can  change  his  nature ;  and  a  life  of 
repose,  spent  in  the  fulfilment  of 
uncongenial  duty,  would,  with  him, 
simply  mean  a  life  of  vain  longing 
and  lasting  regret.  Marriage,  once 
more,  is  not  the  life  of  a  man  as  it 
is  of  a  woman ;  and,  when  a  man 
sacrifices  himself  and  his  true  life 
for  its  sake,  it  seldom  happens  that 
either  his  life  or  himself  is  worth 
very  much. 

At  the  same  time,  to  prevent  any 
misconception,  it  ought  to  be  added 
that  a  sense  of  duty  consecrates  all 
things;  and  that  the  higher  form 
of  love,  or  rather  of  sympathy, 
which  so  few  can  even  understand, 
comprehending  as  it  does  all  things, 
is  more  than  worth  the  sacrifice 
of  them  all,  and  does  more  than 
consecrate  any  act  that  is  com- 


588 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


mitted  in  its  name.  But  with  these 
remarks  Mark  Warden  has  nothing 
to  do  ;  and  it  is  only  made  to  fix 
a  limit  to  the  scope  of  those  which 
do  refer  to  him.  His  was  not  the 
nature  of  a  martyr  to  duty,  far  less 
was  he  capable  of  the  higher  love. 
In  this  respect  he  resembled  so 
many  that  it  is  impossible  to  blame 
him  without  blaming  the  world  at 
large.  He  had  talent  and  energy, 
but  not  genius,  and  it  is  only  genius 
that  can  afford  to  sacrifice  itself  and 
yet  live. 

And  yet  it  may  be  that  in  spite 
of  all  this  the  reader  may  insist  in 
setting  down  this  man,  who  was 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  his 
talents,  as  a  selfish  and  cold-blooded 
creature,  altogether  beyond  the  sym- 
pathy of  all  brave  and  honest  men, 
and  his  apologist  as  at  best  but  a 
devil's  advocate.  So  be  it.  His 
defence  has  been  made ;  and  if  it 
has  failed,  so  much  the  worse  for 
him.  Marie,  at  all  events,  never 
thought  of  blaming  or  doubting 
him.  Whatever  might  become  of 
her,  he  must  be  my  Lord  Chief- 
Justice  before  he  died.  She,  too, 
was  a  little  ambitious — for  him. 
Of  herself  she  had  never  thought 
since  she  was  born. 

There  are  some  things  upon  which 
it  is  almost,  if  not  quite,  too  pain- 
ful to  dwell ;  and  one  is  the  part- 
ing of  a  woman  from  the  home  in 
which  she  was  born,  when  she  leaves 
it  both  for  the  first  time  and  for 
ever.  It  is  equal  in  its  intensity  to 
grief  for  the  dead,  and  draws  forth 
as  many  tears.  And  it  is  about  the 
most  unselfish  and  the  purest  of  all 
sorrows.  When  Marie  had  to  leave 
Denethorp — where,  since  she  knew 
no  other,  her  life  had  not  on  the 
whole  been  the  less  happy  because 
it  had  been  dull  and  poor  and  soli- 
tary— this  natural  grief  was  ren- 
dered the  more  poignant  by  the  fact 
of  her  having  to  bid  farewell  to  her 
native  place  with  a  stained  reputa- 
tion— for  in  places  like  Denethorp, 
when  a  good  name  is  once  breathed 
upon  it  is  gone  for  ever — and  of 


her  father  having  died  without 
learning  the  one  secret  of  her  life. 
This  thought  was  the  bitterest  of 
all.  How  often  will  it  be  neces- 
sary to  speak  of  the  bitterness  that 
lies  in  the  words  "  Too  late  "  ?  It 
is,  indeed,  impossible  without  it  to 
speak  of  the  daily  life  of  any  man 
or  woman  under  the  sun. 

Far  less  is  it  necessary  to  speak 
of  the  visit  of  the  Coroner  to  that 
house  in  Market  Street  to  which 
we  must  now  at  last  bid  farewell,  or 
of  the  judicial  inquiry  into  the  riot 
and  the  murder  at  Redchester, 
where  Marie  had  to  appear  as  a 
witness.  Warden's  heart  was  filled 
with  pity,  and  with  a  return  of  the 
old  passion,  when  he  saw  how  this 
girl,  so  dependent  upon  others  as 
she  was  by  nature,  strove  to  bear  all 
things,  and  how,  for  his  sake  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  children,  now 
wholly  dependent  upon  her,  she 
did  somehow  contrive  to  bear  it  all,. 
Had  it  been  a  time  to  speak  freely 
of  anything  but  of  trouble  and  sor- 
row, even  he  must  have  been  im- 
pelled to  declare  himself  her  pro- 
tector. But  he  did  not  do  so ;  and 
at  last  the  final  wrench  was  made, 
and  Marie  woke  from  the  night- 
mare in  which  she  had  been  living 
since  the  election  to  find  herself  in 
London  lodgings  with  Ernest  and 
Fleurette,  ill,  indeed,  in  body,  but 
supported  by  the  feeling  that  she 
must  not  dare  to  give  way.  And, 
after  all,  to  know  that  her  husband 
was  within  three  miles  of  her  was 
something. 

Of  course,  for  present  needs,  she 
was  not  absolutely  penniless,  for 
Warden,  with  all  his  claims,  was 
not  unable  to  prevent  that.  Miss 
Raymond,  too,  was  generosity  itself. 
It  might  be  thought,  too,  that  Miss 
Clare,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  have  done  something  to  help 
the  orphans  ;  but,  as  has  been  said, 
if  she  loved  her  friends,  it  was  with 
an  almost  perfect  hate  that  she 
hated  her  enemies,  and  it  was 
among  the  latter  that  she  included 
the  Leforts.  Nor  did  her  mistake 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VII. 


559 


about  Marie  in  the  least  affect  her 
prejudices.  And  yet  she  was  a 
good  woman  too  ;  and  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  it  is  precisely  good 
women  who  are  most  subject  to 
the  tyranny  of  prejudices  of  this 
nature. 

Still,  in  spite  of  the  help  that 
she  received,  it  was  very  evident 
that  Marie  would  have  to  work  hard, 
not  only  for  her  own  daily  bread, 
but  for  that  of  Ernest  arid  Fleu- 
rette.  Had  she  been  alone,  she 
might  have  thrown  herself  vaguely 
upon  the  world  as  governess  or 
companion ;  but  this,  with  her 
"  incumbrances,"  as  the  advertise- 
ments say,  was  out  of  the  question. 
She  must  become  a  mother  to  her 
brother  and  sister.  Her  views, 
formed  under  the  advice  of  War- 
den, into  which  Angelique  ap- 
parently entered — though  doubt- 
less for  private  reasons  —  were 
these  :  that  the  latter  should  place 
herself  under  her  old  master,  Mon- 
sieur Prosper,  in  order  to  become 
a  public  singer,  for  which  purpose 
it  would  be  necessary  that  she 
should  quit  the  service  of  Miss 
Kaymond  —  this,  perhaps,  was  a 
rash  step,  but  then  genius  must 
not  be  lost  at  any  price — and  that 
the  two  cousins  should  meanwhile 
form  one  household  with  the  chil- 
dren, and  maintain  it  by  means  of 
the  daily  pupils  whom  they  hoped 
to  obtain  through  the  recommenda- 
tions of  Angelique's  late  mistress. 
]3ut  still  all  this  was  very  vague  and 
uncertain  at  the  best,  especially  as 
Marie  herself  was  so  utterly  ignor- 
jint  of  the  world,  while  Angelique 
was  used  to  luxury,  and  would  have 
to  devote  herself  rather  to  study 
than  to  earning  money,  which  must 
for  the  present  be  the  duty  of  the 
former.  Nevertheless,  it  seemed 
the  least  unpromising  plan  that 
could  be  adopted. 

Monsieur  Prosper  was  quite  will- 
ing to  receive  back  his  old  pupil, 
and  to  undertake  to  do  what  he 
could  for  her.  But  he  was  not  so 
pleased  for  the  sake  of  Felix,  who 


had  heard  nothing  of  her  now  for 
a  long  time ;  and  so  he  took  care 
neither  to  mention  her  to  him  nor 
to  let  them  come  across  each  other 
at  his  lodgings.  But  one  day  Dick 
Barton,  who  was  reading  the '  Trum- 
pet/ said  : 

"So  I  see  they've  hanged  that 
man  at  Eedchester  for  the  Dene- 
thorp  riot.  Poor  devil !  I  dare- 
say it  was  only  his  fun  after  all — 
and  he  only  mistook  his  man.  If 
they  had  only  potted  my  friend 
Warden,  now,  he  might  have  had 
his  joke,  and  been  knighted  on  the 
spot  into  the  bargain,  if  it  was  the 
fashion  to  treat  men  according  to 
their  deserts." 

Felix  was  no  reader  of  news- 
papers, but  the  word  "  Denethorp" 
struck  his  ears.  He  questioned 
Barton,  and  learned  from  him  all 
that  was  known  to  the  country  at 
large  about  the  Denethorp  riot, 
the  murder  of  Monsieur  Lefort  and 
the  trial  of  some  of  the  rioters,  of 
whom  the  Government,  being  de- 
termined to  make  an  example,  had 
caused  two  to  be  hanged, — in  the 
teeth,  it  must  be  owned,  of  very 
doubtful  evidence.  But  then  poli- 
tical trials  in  those  days  were  poli- 
tical with  a  vengeance. 

Of  course  Felix  cared  nothing 
for  that — he  cared  only  for  the 
matter  so  far  as  it  regarded  An- 
gelique. Now  that  the  return  of 
Monsieur  Prosper  had  enabled  him 
to  walk  the  streets  in  decent  clothes, 
he,  the  very  next  morning,  called 
at  the  house  where  Miss  Kaymond 
stayed  when  in  town,  and  inquired 
after  Miss  Lefort.  But  the  gor- 
geous footman  who  opened  the  door 
to  him,  and  felt  insulted,  no  doubt, 
at  having  had  to  leave  his  own 
occupations  for  such  a  purpose,  only 
told  him  that  Angelique  was  no 
longer  there,  and  either  would  not, 
or  could  not,  give  him  any  farther 
information  on  the  subject.  His 
appearance  was  anything  but  cre- 
ditable in  the  eyes  of  his  informant, 
or  rather  non-informant,  who  snub- 
bed him  as  a  gentleman  in  livery 


590 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VII. 


[May 


so  well  knows  how  to  snub  a  fellow 
who  is  out  at  elbows. 

But  it  was  inevitable  that  he 
should  find  her  out  before  long. 
The  next  time  that  he  called  he 
asked  to  see  Miss  Raymond  herself, 
who  easily  remembered  him  as  the 
deputy  of  Monsieur  Prosper  at 
Madame  Mercier's.  He  made  his 
own  desire  to  obtain  pupils  and 
engagements  in  London  his  osten- 
sible reason  for  seeing  her;  but  he 
managed  easily  to  learn  all  that  he 
wanted  to  know  about  Angelique, 
and  her  family  and  her  circum- 
stances. 

It  was  a  terrible  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  that  Monsieur  Prosper 
gave  when  Miss  Raymond  made  in- 
quiries of  him  about  Felix,  and  ex- 
prsssed  herself  willing  to  become 
his  patroness  also.  But,  seeing 
that  Miss  Raymond's  patronage  was 
worth  having,  he  could  not  deprive 
his  friend  of  the  chance  of  obtain- 
ing it;  and  so,  much  against  his 
will,  he  gave  Felix  the  best  of  char- 


acters, both  from  an  artistic  and 
from  a  moral  point  of  view. 

"  After  all,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self, "  I  am  not  the  fellow's  guar- 
dian ;  and  if  he  didn't  go  to  the 
devil  in  this  way,  I  have  no  doubt 
he  would  in  another.  But  I'll 
never  pick  up  a  wayside  genius 
again." 

It  need  not  be  said  that,  for  his 
part,  Felix  had  flown  on  the  wings 
of  love,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to  the 
house  where  the  two  girls  were 
lodging.  But  neither  was  at  home, 
so  that  his  patience  had  to  be  exer- 
cised once  more.  By  the  time  that 
he  reached  his  own  room,  however, 
he  found  a  note  that,  to  him,  was 
full  of  exciting  matter,  although  it 
was  only  a  request  from  Miss  Ray- 
mond that  he  would  attend  a  "soiree 
musicale"  as  she  chose  to  term  it, 
that  was  to  be  given  at  the  house  in 
Portman  Square  the  very  next  even- 
ing. A  great  prima  donna  was  to 
sing,  and  Mademoiselle  Lefort  was 
to  make  a  sort  of  private  debut. 


1870.] 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


591 


COKNELIUS       O'DOWD. 


ON  SANDING  THE   SUGAR. 


MR  BRIGHT  lately  took  pains  to 
IE  form  us  that  what  we  complained 
of  as  adulterations  in  our  food  and 
spurious  additions  to  articles  of  our 
diet,  were  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  the  "  ordinary  efforts  of  com- 
petition in  trade  ;j;  and  that,  when 
\ve  drank  chicoried  coffee  and 
sanded  sugar,  we  were  simply  sub- 
mitting to  that  law  by  which  rival 
shopkeepers  struggle  to  outbid  each 
o:her  for  public  favour. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  theory — nor^ 
parhaps,  altogether  creditable  as 
coming  from  a  great  social  refor- 
mer. If  when  asking  for  bread 
we  receive  a  stone,  we  feel  all  the 
bitterness  of  disappointment,  added 
to  all  the  pangs  of  hunger ;  but  if 
when  buying  what  we  believe  to 
be  a  penny  loaf  we  are  treated  to 
a  mixture  of  coarse  meal,  potato- 
flour,  carbonate  of  lime,  and  alum, 
t  ;ie  mischief  goes  further ;  and  be- 
sides the  grief  of  disappointment, 
we  have  the  misery  of  indigestion  ; 
and  this,  I  contend  for  it,  is  the 
greater  wrong  of  the  two.  The 
man  who  utterly  denies  me  all  help 
in  my  destitution  is  not  so  much 
my  enemy  as  he  who,  assuming  to 
benefit  me,  undermines  my  health 
by  adulterated  diet  and  corrupt 
articles  of  food,  and  who,  pretend- 
ing to  strengthen  and  support,  in 
reality  is  but  exhausting  the  re- 
sources and  impairing  the  vigour 
of  my  constitution. 

To  be  told  that  the  sausage  com- 
pounded of  decayed  horse,  or  the 
mulligatawny  made  of  a  diseased 
donkey,  are  only  the  natural  and 
reasonable  products  of  commercial 
rivalry,  and  that,  as  the  spurious 
article  can  defy  competition  on  the 
s-core  of  cheapness,  it  is  the  pur- 
chaser's business  to  see  whether  he 
prefer  his  health  or  his  money, 
und  that  the  State  has  no  other 
concern  with  the  matter  than  to 


take  care  that  he  gets  his  due  mea- 
sure of  liquorice  and  sloe  juice 
when  he  calls  for  port  wine,  and 
that  his  proper  pound  of  black- 
thorn leaves  are  meted  out  to  him 
for  tea,  the  supervision  of  the 
State  going  no  further  than  the 
scales  or  the  pint-pot,  perfectly  in- 
different as  to  what  may  be  the 
contents  of  either, — all  this,  I  say, 
is  a  great  evil,  arid  I  am  only  as- 
tonished at  its  escaping  with  so 
little  of  reprobation  or  rebuke.  I 
cannot  but  think,  however,  that  the 
great  submission  with  which  we 
have  received  as  an  explanation 
what  is  little  short  of  an  insult  to 
our  understanding,  is  the  natural 
result  of  that  indolent  patience  we 
have  lately  acquired  in  accepting, 
as  the  representatives  of  Liberal 
opinions,  the  most  insolent  and 
oppressive  class  of  men  who  have 
ever  dictated  their  own  notions,  and 
as  a  consequence  their  own  supre- 
macy, to  the  country. 

When  I  am  told  that  the  religion 
of  a  nation  will  be  best  consulted 
by  the  destruction  of  its  Church, 
and  that  the  rights  of  property  will 
be  strengthened  by  taking  away  all 
the  protections  to  possession — when 
I  am  assured  that,  in  a  period  of 
trade  depression  and  discontent,  a 
large  dismissal  of  artisans  and  la- 
bourers will  promote  satisfaction 
and  contentment,  I  am  in  a  mea- 
sure prepared  for  cabbage-water  as 
catsup,  and  to  accept  effervescent 
rhubarb  as  champagne ;  and  I  am 
all  the  more  submissive  since  I  am 
informed  that  legislation  of  this 
kind  is  the  natural  result  of  com- 
petition, and  that  the  only  way  in 
which  the  Whigs  can  outbid  the 
Tories  is  by  a  little  spurious  ad- 
mixture of  something  unwholesome. 
If  competition  by  adulteration  could 
have  been  limited  to  the  licensed 
victuallers,  it  had  been  well  for  us. 


592 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


Mock  food  and  make-believe  liquors 
are  not  pleasant  things  to  think  of, 
but  they  are  infinitely  preferable  to 
fraudulent  legislation  or  equivocal 
statecraft ;  and  if  loyalty  has  been 
sapped,  if  sincere  love  of  country 
has  been  lessened  in  our  day,  we 
owe  these  losses  to  the  hourly  in- 
creasing distrust  in  our  public  men, 
to  the  growing  want  of  confidence 
in  those  who  rule  us,  and  to  the  in- 
creasing conviction  that  the  game 
of  party,  like  that  of  trade-compe- 
tition, is  pushed  to  an  extent  that 
rejects  no  amount  of  roguery  to  se- 
cure an  ascendancy.  Statesmanship 
has  resolved  itself  into  an  auction, 
where  rival  traders  bid  against  each 
other.  "  Anything  after  ten-pound 
household — going  at  this,  gentle- 
men— positively  going  at  ten-pound 
household — last  time — only  think 
of  the  sacrifice — a  constitution  that 
has  lasted  for  centuries,  a  system 
that  has  challenged  the  whole  of 
Europe — will  no  gentleman  make 
any  advance  1 " 

"Household  suffrage!" 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  household  suf- 
frage, and  twenty-one  years  of  age. 
I  think  the  gentleman  said  no- 
thing after  this."  "  To  Mr  Disraeli," 
whispers  he  to  his  clerk ;  and  then 
aloud,  "  A  valuable  lot,  sir,  and  sold 
for  a  song!" 

"  Concessions  to  the  Catholics," 
mutters  his  successor,  "  a  very 
grand  step."  Are  we  quite  sure 
England  is  ripe  for  that?  Man- 
ning, indeed,  is  more  cautious  than 
Wiseman,  but  those  Irish  zealots 
are  not  very  manageable.  Conces- 
sions, too,  imply  subsidies ;  and 
who  is  to  push  a  money  vote  through 
the  House  ?  No ;  this  is  not  to  be 
thought ;  still,  if  we  cannot  exalt 
the  Papist  we  can  pull  down  the 
Protestant.  Let  us  level  the  Irish 
Church.  It  rings  well — the  "alien 
Church,"  "  the  Badge  of  conquest," 
"the  standing  insult  to  the  con- 
science of  Irishmen!"  Can  the 
priests  resist  this,  or  can  they  fail 
after  it  to  secure  us  the  Irish  elec- 
tions? Oh,  what  a  deal  of  tall  talk 


is  uttered  about  bribery  and  corrup- 
tion when  done  in  ten-pound  notes, 
and  how  little  attention  it  attracts 
when  carried  on  as  a  wholesale  traf- 
ffic  by  the  policy  of  an  Administra- 
tion. 

These  are,  however,  the  legiti- 
mate exercises  of  "competition," 
and,  as  Mr  Bright  tells  us,  nothing 
more  than  the  ordinary  efforts  of 
rival  dealers  to  secure  clients  and 
customers. 

Popery  and  Radicalism  are  the 
adulterating  ingredients  of  politics 
— they  are  the  sand  to  the  sugar 
of  statecraft ;  and  by  their  subtle 
admixture  the  rival  dealers  are 
able  alternately  each  to  outbid  and 
undersell  the  other.  How  long 
will  the  consumer  be  satisfied  with 
either  ?  is  the  question  that  many 
are  asking,  and  may  continue  to 
ask  until  he  can  show  a  shop  where 
they  deal  more  honestly. 

The  sarcasm  that  called  us  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers  has  received 
a  terrible  confirmation  in  the  con- 
duct of  our  rulers,  all  the  more 
damaging  to  our  reputation  since 
we  are  told  that  shopkeeping  means 
fraudulent  dealing,  vending  adul- 
terated articles,  and  selling  spuri- 
ous wares.  When  by  shopkeeping  is 
understood  that  competition  in 
trade  that  calls  in  knavery  to  sus- 
tain a  rivalry,  and  trusts  to  under- 
sell an  opponent  by  the  deprecia- 
tion of  the  article  sold,  the  idea 
of  a  nation  of  such  ingredients  is 
not  at  all  reassuring  or  comfortable. 
When  it  is  borne  in  mind  that  the 
whole  tone  of  modern  statesman- 
ship, the  whole  temper  of  Govern- 
ment, is  concession, —  that  each 
party  that  succeeds  to  power  comes 
in  pledged  to  give  something,  to 
yield  something,  to  surrender  some- 
thing that  its  rival  has  not  the  will 
or  the  courage  to  concede,  it  is 
easy  to  imagine,  not  alone  how  am- 
bitious men  may  be  tempted  by 
this  auction  for  popular  favour, 
but  how  they  may  be  led  on  in 
their  eagerness  to  think  less  of  the 
benefit  they  can  do  their  country, 


1370.] 


On  Sanding  the  Sugar. 


593 


than  the  damage  they  can  inflict 
on  a  rival,  and  ultimately  how  im- 
possible they  make  any  return  to 
power  to  him  and  to  his  fol- 
lowers. 

As  the  party  who  diminish  the 
effective  forces  of  the  nation,  who 
raduce  the  orders  for  supplies,  and 
sell  off  the  reserved  stores  of  our 
magazines,  can  always  throw  upon 
their  successors  the  cost  of  repair- 
ing their  own  waste,  and  thus 
charge  them  with  the  increase  of 
the  estimates,  so  can  they,  by  a 
system  of  lenity,  and  a  slipshod 
administration  of  law,  encourage  a 
turbulence  and  outrage  that  must 
ultimately  demand  repression,  and 
render  the  task  of  those  who  come 
after  them  one  of  severity  and  harsh- 
ness. Thus  the  game  of  party  goes 
c>n  with  something  of  the  integrity 
and  honesty  of  Mr  Bright's  compe- 
titive dealers ! 

As  we  are  rapidly  coming  to  that 
condition  in  matters  of  principle 
that  Italy  has  arrived  at  in  matters 
of  finance,  living  as  we  do  on  our 
capital,  and  as  the  number  of  things 
which  remain  for  us  to  concede  to 
popular  demand  daily  decreases,  it 
•would  be  well  if  we  were  to  bethink 
us  how  long  our  stock  of  boons  will 
last  us,  and  what — after  giving  up 
the  Church  and  the  Colonies,  the 
Landed  Interest,  the  Universities, 
the  Army,  and  the  Peerage — will 
remain  to  us  except  the  Monarchy, 
find  how  long  is  it  likely  that  will 
c  ndure  afterevery  buttress  that  sup- 
ported it  has  been  withdrawn. 

It  is  a  very  significant  sign  of  the 
times  that  the  national  conscience 
lelt  no  shock — at  least  no  appreci- 
able shock — at  this  bold  declaration 
of  Mr  Bright ;  that  is  to  say,  we 
have  been,  from  long  habit  and  an 
acquired  taste,  so  accustomed  to' our 
brandied  port  and  our  chicoried 
coffee,  that  when  we  were  told  the 
t-ame  system  of  adulteration  went 


on  in  all  around  us,  that  our  tea  was 
"  warehouse  sweepings,"  our  bitter 
beer  a  "decoction  of  bullock's  liver," 
our  butter  "  a  preparation  of  Thames 
mud  tempered  with  lard,"  famili- 
arity had  so  accustomed  us  to  all 
these  flavours,  it  may  become  a 
grave  question  how  far  the  unadul- 
terated article  could  compete  with 
the  spurious  or  corrupted  one. 

Just,  then,  what  these  fraudulent 
licensed-victuallers  have  done  with 
us  in  food,  have  the  Liberals  done 
with  us  in  national  sentiment. 
They  have  cheapened  public  life, 
vulgarised  the  rewards  of  theCrown, 
lowered  the  prestige  of  the  great 
seats  of  learning,  and,  by  an  affec- 
tation of  equality  in  all  the  condi- 
tions of  life,  they  have,  like  the 
nefarious  tea-dealers,  concocted  a 
compound  that  no  human  stomach 
can  digest. 

Mind!  I  do  not  say  they  have 
not  made  a  very  marketable  com- 
modity. I  know  they  have.  The 
late  elections  and  the  present  House 
of  Commons  abundantly  prove  that 
there  is  a  "  roaring  trade  "  in  Kadi- 
calism  just  now,  and  that  for  the 
few  "  lots  "  that  are  likely  to  suit 
the  market,  such  as  the  "  Ballot," 
the  "no  Bishops  in  the  Lords," 
"  no  Colonies,"  &c.,  there  will  be  a 
lively  contest.  Still,  it  is  just  pos- 
sible all  this  may  be  pushed  too 
far.  They  may  by  chance  discover 
that  they  have  over  "sanded  the 
the  sugar,"  fand  though  certainly, 
as  the  advertisements  say,  "they 
are  enabled  to  defy  competition," 
it  is  just  "  on  the  cards,"  that  the 
public  might  take  a  turn  for  a 
cleaner  life  and  a  healthier  diet, 
and  discover  that  though  shoddy 
is  a  cheap  ware,  it  gets  shabby  very 
quickly,  and  will  not  bear  brush- 
ing. If  so,  and  if  this  happy  day 
were  to  arrive,  the  only  misgiving 
I  have  is,  "Would  there  be  a  house 
in  the  trade  to  deal  with  ? " 


594 


Cornelius  O^Dowd. 


[May 


THE  MESSAGE  OF   PEACE. 


Some  one  has  lately,  and  some- 
what ungenerously,  remarked  that 
every  distinct  boon  conferred  by 
the  British  Parliament  on  what  is 
called  the  National  party  in  Ireland 
has  been  invariably  followed  by  re- 
newed turbulence,  and  more  than 
ordinary  lawlessness  in  that  coun- 
try. 

Now,  it  is  well  to  remember  that 
Mr  O'Connell,  who  for  so  long  a 
time  "  educated "  not  only  his 
"party,"  but  the  whole  popular 
mind  of  Ireland,  never  laid  such 
stress  on  any  point  as  this — that 
no  matter  what  concessions  Eng- 
land might  make — no  matter  to 
what  extent  she  might  carry  her 
measures  of  conciliation,  the  Irish 
people  should  accept  them  only  as 
part  payment  of  a  long-running 
debt,  or  as  he  phrased  them  him- 
self, "  instalments "  of  what  our 
claim  embraces. 

As,  however,  every  concession, 
from  the  Relief  Bill  downwards, 
has  been,  so  to  say,  won  from  Brit- 
ish rule  by  lawlessness  and  that 
spirit  of  defiance  which  have  made 
the  country  wellnigh  ungovernable, 
it  was  not  easy  to  persuade  a  peo- 
ple, flushed  with  the  successes  of 
turbulence,  to  return  to  habits  of 
law  and  order,  all  the  more  since 
what  they  had  received  was  but  a 
small  instalment  of  what  was  due 
them,  the  great  body  of  the  debt 
remaining  over  for  future  payment. 

But  there  was  also  another  ele- 
ment in  operation.  The  Catholic 
party — for  so  the  plaintiffs  in  this 
suit  really  were  —  became  hourly 
stronger  by  each  verdict  in  their 
favour — they  grew  in  wealth  almost 
as  rapidly  as  in  ambition,  and  be- 
came every  day  better  able  to  press 
their  demands  upon  the  State,  and 
enforce  the  payment. 

From  the  time  that  the  late  Duke 
of  Wellington  most  unfortunately 
declared  that  he  conceded  the  Ca- 
tholic claims  rather  than  risk  a  civil 
war,  it  has  been  the  habit  in  Par- 


liament to  use  the  same  sort  of  lan- 
guage, and  many  availed  themselves 
of  the  opportunity  of  showing  that 
they  could  be  as  indiscreet  as  a 
great  man. 

Looking  at  the  matter  from  the 
"  National "  point  of  view,  who  can 
be  surprised  that  the  Irish  should 
persist  in  a  policy  which  had  never 
failed  them1?  When  shooting  the 
parsons  decided  the  question  of 
tithe.s,  even  a  less  logical  people 
would  have  discovered  that  similar 
treatment  might  be  advantageously 
tried  on  land  tenure.  "  Help  your- 
self, and  Parliament  will  help  you," 
seems  to  have  been  the  tacit  maxim 
of  the  National  party  ;  and  if  suc- 
cess be  a  test,  there  is  little  reason 
to  call  in  question  its  wisdom. 

So  far  as  I  know,  Irishmen  of 
every  class  had  very  few  delusions 
as  to  the  soothing  virtues  of  what 
is  so  pathetically  called  the  "  Mes- 
sage of  Peace."  The  message  of 
peace  was  doubtless  glad  tidings  at 
the  palace  of  Paul  Cullen,  Cardinal, 
and  might  have  been  heard  with 
joy  in  the  den  of  that  old  Lion  of 
Judah,  vulgarly  called  MacHale ; 
but  the  people — the  masses — were 
about  as  much  interested  in  it  as 
though  it  were  a  law  of  interna- 
tional copyright  with  Japan ;  and, 
in  consequence,  its  healing  virtues 
were  only  illustrated  by  showers  of 
threatening  letters,  menaces  to  mur- 
der, and  some  more  than  menaces 
also. 

This  was,  of  course,  very  disap- 
pointing to  Englishmen.  They  had 
been  hopeful,  even  to  confidence, 
what  this  measure  would  effect. 
They  worked  themselves  up  to  a 
white  heat  of  enthusiasm  by  their 
own  high-sounding  phrases  of  "alien 
church,"  "  Badge  of  conquest," 
and  the  rest  of  it,  and  actually 
believed  that  they  were  stimulating 
the  expression  of  a  great  national 
feeling,  which  would  soon  display 
itself  in  a  burst  of  national  grati- 
tude. Irishmen  knew  better.  Irish- 


1870.] 


The  Message  of  Peace. 


595 


men  saw  that  the  message  of  peace 
was  about  as  small  a  dividend — a 
mere  one-and-sixpence  in  the  pound 
— as  ever  was  flung  to  a  creditor. 

Scarcely  had  the  parsons  been 
sentenced  than  the  cause  of  theland- 
iords  was  called  on,  and  the  Na- 
tionalists, flushed  with  success,  and 
well  knowing  besides  that  when 
John  Bull  is  in  a  giving  humour 
nothing  balks  him,  they  deter- 
mined to  take  the  tide  at  its  flood. 
It  was,  they  were  given  to  believe, 
to  be  a  case  of  "  ask  and  have,"  and 
they  were  not  going  to  be  very 
mealy-mouthed  in  "asking/'  Ul- 
ster tenant-right,  compensation  for 
improvements,  claim  on  eviction, 
;md  suchlike,  would  do  well  enough 
in  ordinary  times,  but  these  were 
by  no  means  ordinary  times.  They 
had  fallen  upon  a  happy  era,  with 
a  Parliament  that  fancied  it  was 
^oing  to  inaugurate  a  millennium 
of  popular  rights,  and  a  Minister 
who  believed  in  a  "  message  of 
peace." 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  say  it, 
but  I  feel  it  is  true,  that  Paddy's 
humour  is  never  more  thoroughly 
tickled,  nor  his  sense  of  drollery 
gratified,  than  when  he  laughs  at  a 
dupe.  How  he  must  have  enjoyed 
the  present  situation,  and  with  what 
a  racy  chuckle  he  must  have  heard 
of  the  "  message  of  peace,"  I  leave 
any  one  who  knows  Ireland  to 
imagine. 

When  a  bland  landlord  puts  his 
head  inside  the  door  of  a  room 
where  a  convivial  party  is  assem- 
bled, and  says,  "Order  what  you 
like,  gentlemen — the  gentleman 
next  door  pays,"  the  feeling  of  joy 
is  usually  unbounded,  but  the  sense 
of  moderation  is  less  developed. 

"  What  shall  it  be,  boys  1 "  was 
now  the  cry  throughout  the  land. 
<k  Long  leases,  fixity  of  tenure,  re- 
duction of  rents  ?  or  shall  we  go  in 
for  all  at  once,  and  say,  No  rents — 
no  landlords  1 " 

While  these  different  opinions 
were  being  urged  and  discussed 
there  came  in  other  men,  who,  pro- 
bably, having  little  land  and  less 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


religion,  cared  very  little  about 
landlords  or  Churchmen.  Their 
cry  was  :  "  Down  with  these  traf- 
fickers !  Down  with  these  mess-of- 
pottage  patriots!  Accept  nothing 
from  England  till  she  liberates  the 
Fenian  convicts.  We  want  no 
boons,  we  crave  no  favours — we 
demand  justice  for  Ireland!" 

Well  might  the  Cabinet  acknow- 
ledge themselves  puzzled  and  dum- 
founded.  Could  inconsequence 
go  farther  than  this  1  It  was  like 
saying  to  an  hospital  surgeon,  "  If 
you  want  to  cure  that  man's  dropsy 
in  No.  4,  you  must  lithotomise  the 
patient  in  No.  3."  Now,  whether 
our  great  State  operator  did  not  see 
the  logical  force  of  this  proposi- 
tion, or  had  his  misgivings  about 
its  efficacy,  and  whether,  as  some 
have  opined,  he  was  getting  gene- 
rally out  of  temper  with  "  messages 
of  peace,"  he  demurred  to  the  sug- 
gestion. At  all  events,  he  deter- 
mined in  a  true  spirit  of  courtesy 
to  make  his  reply  in  the  tone  of  the 
demand ;  and,  to  show  that  he  could 
be  as  little  bound  by  logic  as  the 
petitioners,  he  said,  "I  shall  liber- 
ate these  men  who  are  under  sen- 
tence for  treason-felony  whenever 
some  other  people  elsewhere  give 
up  shooting  their  neighbours." 

I  do  not  know  if  this  was  a 
"  message  of  peace,"  but  certainly 
— and  I  leave  the  explanation  to 
wiser  heads  than  mine — it  was  the 
only  reply  I  ever  heard  to  an  Irish 
demand  that  proved  unanswerable. 
The  blow  was  so  thoroughly  Irish, 
the  Bull  was  so  like  the  native 
article,  Paddy  went  down  under  ifc 
at  once. 

The  success  obtained  on  this  me- 
morable occasion  only  suggests  to 
us  the  regret  that,  instead  of  "  mes- 
sages of  peace,"  the  Minister  should 
not  have  limited  himself  to  such 
rejoinders  as  this.  "  Si  sic  omnia," 
might  we  exclaim;  and  if  Irishmen 
were  not  persuaded  into  peace,  it  is 
possible  they  may  be  puzzled  into 
it!  If  Pat  had  been  told  that 
these  men  were  not  fit  subjects  for 
royal  mercy,  that  reasons  of  justice 
23 


596 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


as  well  as  reasons  of  policy  alike 
opposed  their  liberation,  that  no- 
thing in  their  conduct  implied  re- 
gret for  the  past  or  promised  sub- 
mission for  the  future,  he  would 
have  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
discuss  and  demolish  each  and  all 
of  these  pleas  in  one  of  his  news- 
papers. He  was  ready  to  encounter 
the  want  of  clemency,  the  want  of 
sentiment,  the  want  of  generous 
trustfulness  and  hope ;  but  what 
he  was  not,  could  not  be,  prepared 
for,  was  the  want  of  logic.  This  was 
like  a  blow  below  the  belt,  and  it 
floored  him  completely. 

A  very  easy  illustration  will  show 
the  logical  force  of  this  reply.  When 
Garibaldi  lay  a  prisoner,  after  the 
disastrous  day  of  Aspromonte,  the 


Liberal  party  made  many  attempts 
to  move  the  Government  to  an  act 
of  clemency.  They  certainly  were 
able  to  urge  their  suit  with  reasons 
and  on  grounds  which  the  most 
ingenious  of  Irishmen  would  find 
difficult  to  apply  to  O' Donovan 
Rossa.  M.  Kattazzi  demurred  to 
the  arguments,  however,  and  show- 
ed that  even  the  great  services  of 
a  great  patriot  could  not  establish 
a  claim  to  convulse  the  nation  he 
had  once  aided  to  establish,  and 
subvert  the  monarchy ;  but  he  as- 
suredly never  told  the  petitioners 
that  Aspromonte  should  be  for- 
gotten when  brigandage  was  sup- 
pressed in  Calabria,  or  that  Gari- 
baldi should  be  liberated  whenever 
Ninco-Nunco  was  captured ! 


THE  TWO   SAFE   CAEEEES. 


There  are  two  roads  to  popular- 
ity in  England,  which,  I  believe, 
never  fail — that  is,  never  fail  when 
walked  by  intelligent  and  skilful 
travellers.  One  or  other  of  these 
suffices  for  the  ambition  of  most 
men,  though  now  and  then  we  do 
see  some  glutton  of  the  world's 
favour  taking  a  "  spell "  at  both  of 
them.  To  be  successful  in  the  age 
we  live  in,  you  must  be  AN  ECONOMI- 
CAL KEFOEMEE  Or  AN  INJUEED  MAN. 

I  have  not  done  wisely  in  writing 
them  in  this  order,  since  I  believe, 
for  great  success — for  lasting,  pro- 
fitable, effectual  success — it  is  bet- 
ter to  be  "  injured  "  than  "  econo- 
mical." I  know  it  is  more  difficult 
as  a  rdle.  The  part  demands 
many  qualities.  A  grievance  is  not 
difficult  to  find ;  any  three-volume 
novelist  would  provide  one  as  easily 
as  a  plot.  The  way  of  urging  your 
misfortune  on  the  world,  of  show- 
ing that  you  have  a  grave  case 
against  humanity,  of  which  each 
who  listens  to  you  is,  in  a  measure, 
a  party  in  cause,  with  this  added 
embarrassment,  that  he  is  occasion- 
ally in  the  dock  and  occasionally 


in  the  jury-box, — this  is  what  de- 
mands address.     I  have  said  that 
the  injured  man  should  have  many 
qualities.    He  must  be  "  insistant ; " 
no  matter  what  the  world  is  think- 
ing of — a  Russian   war,  a  cotton 
famine,  a  Fenian  rising,  or  a  "  wo- 
man righting" — the  injured  must 
be  heard  amidst  them  all,  if  not 
overtopping  the  din,  taking  every 
favourable  moment  of  stillness  to 
scream  out  about  his  wrongs.   Next 
he  must  be  "  plausible/'     I  do  not 
say  logical,  because  the  mass  of  his 
hearers  attach  little  value  to  logic ; 
but  he  must  be  of  that  persuasive 
order  which  knows  how,  by  enlist- 
ing  probabilities   to   do   duty  for 
facts,  and  making  inferences  mount 
guard  for  just  conclusions,  to  make 
a  strong  case  for  the  world.     He 
must   know  how   to  skip  or  slur 
over   any  inconvenient  or  damag- 
ing circumstance,  or  how  to  class 
it  with  those  low  calumnies  that  he 
could  not  stoop  to  refute.   He  must 
be  by  nature  of  a  haughty  temper, 
so  that  the  amount  of  the  humility 
with  which  he  makes  his  appeal  to 
the  public  may  show  what  a  price 


1870.] 


The  Two  Safe  Careers. 


597 


lie  attaches  to  human  sympathy. 
This  painful  yielding  to  fate  can  be 
made  very  effective.  It  is  like  the 
low  bow  of  a  man  with  the  lumba- 
go !  who  would  rather  wrench  his 
loins  than  risk  your  favour. 

He  must  be  picturesque,  so  as 
never  to  place  details  ill  or  incongru- 
ously, and  to  have  no  false  lights. 
He  must  be  passionate,  but  with 
the  subdued  vehemence  of  a  man 
v/hose  breeding  restrains  him,  and 
\vho  would  no  more  think  of  vio- 
1  iting  the  decorous  quietudes  of  so- 
ciety than  he  would  interrupt  a 
preacher  in  the  pulpit.  He  must, 
amidst  much  sadness  and  sorrow, 
l-e  trustful,  fully  reliant  on  the 
jistice  that,  though  long  in  com- 
iig,  is  sure  to  come  at  last;  and  in 
this  sort  of  "time  bargain"  with 
his  hearers  he  is  able  to  insinuate 
that,  though  it  take  long  to  make 
them  his  partisans,  they  will  live 
to  become  such.  Lastly,  he  must 
exhibit  that  quality  of  impatience 
which  is  tempered  by  pride,  and 
seems  to  say,  "  It's  your  verdict  I 
care  for ;  show  me  that  you  see  how 
Siiamefully  I  have  been  wronged 
and  outraged,  and  take  your  own 
time  about  the  damages."  Now 
the  world  is  very  fond  of  a  man 
of  this  sort,  and  rarely  grudges  a 
sentimental  satisfaction  when  not 
pressed  for  more. 

Now  it  will  be  seen,  even  by  this 
pissing  glance,  that  to  be  an  in- 
jured man  one  should  have  what 
Henry  Grattan  used  to  call  "  great 
variety;"  and  in  this  it  is  distin- 
guished from  that  other  career  with 
\\hich  I  have  associated  it,  the 
economical  reformer,  who  really  has 
no  variety  whatever. 

Surgeons,  I  believe,  are  well 
agreed  in  regarding  amputation  as 
the  reproach  and  not  the  triumph 
of  their  art ;  and  that  the  man  who 
rescues  one  limb  from  the  necessity 
oi  the  knife  stands  immeasurably 
higher  than  he  who  has  successfully 
amputated  some  hundreds.  I  wish 
that  our  political  physicians  could 
learn  a  little  of  this  philosophy, 


especially  our  economists,  who  are 
all  for  the  knife.  No,  simple  as 
such  State  surgery  is,  it  is  of  all 
others  the  most  sure  to  achieve 
success.  It  demands,  you  will 
say,  no  high  exercise  of  genius  to 
reduce  the  army  by  ten  thousand 
men,  to  place  eight  ships  of  war 
out  of  commission,  to  recall  the 
garrison  of  a  colony,  or  dismiss  the 
shipwrights  of  a  dockyard.  All 
this  is  easy  knife-work,  and  it 
smacks  of  boldness  and  decision — 
two  qualities  we  in  England  hold 
in  very  high  repute.  "I  like  Dr 
Childers,"  I  think  I  hear  some 
one  say;  "he  doesn't  go  humming 
and  hawing — he  says  it  must '  come 
off.'  Crutches  or  a  wooden  leg  are 
sorry  contrivances,  I  know;  but 
remember,"  says  he,  "  what  a  deal 
you'll  save  in  shoe-leather!  With 
only  one  leg  you'll  not  have  that 
taste  for  long  walks,  those  excur- 
sions which  cost  you  so  much  for- 
merly. You'll  not  be  an  Alpine 
Clubbist,  nor  even  an  excursionist 
in  Wales ;  and  it  is  wonderful  how 
you  will  reconcile  yourself  to  a 
little  toddle  over  a  grass  plat,  and 
come  to  find  it  agrees  with  you 
besides."  It  would  not  have  been 
easy  to  persuade  John  Bull  of  all 
this  formerly.  He  was  strong 
and  hearty,  and  he  had  rather 
a  pride  in  showing  the  foreigner 
that  he  was  both.  You  would 
never  have  persuaded  him  against 
kicking  the  fellow  that  insulted 
him  on  the  ground  of  the  damage 
it  might  do  his  boots.  Now,  how- 
ever, that  line  of  argument  has 
attained  a  triumphant  success.  If 
I,  as  an  economical  reformer,  ap- 
peal to  the  British  tax-payer  in 
this  shape,  and  say,  Now,  Mr 
Briggs— we  shall  call  him  Briggs, 
because  *  Punch '  calls  that  man  in 
the  punt  who  is  always  fishing  but 
catches  nothing,  Mr  Briggs — now, 
Mr  Briggs,  I  would  ask  you,  do  you 
want  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  or 
does  Mrs  Briggs  positively  insist  on 
Gibraltar  ?  Would  you  not  rather 
have  an  outing  at  midsummer,  and 


598 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


take  the  Misses  Briggs  to  Inter- 
lachen,  than  retain  the  ninety-some- 
thing regiment  at  New  Zealand  ? 
You  may  not  think  so ;  but  I'll 
show  you,  I'll  prove  to  you,  that  if 
you  don't  keep  colonies  you  might 
keep  a  coach.  Now,  wouldn't  you 
rather  have  a  pony- chaise  than 
such  share  as  you  possess  in  the 
Channel  Islands?  And  as  to  warlike 
armaments,  tell  me  candidly,  are 
they  toys  that  amuse  you  ?  French- 
men like  them,  and  Russians  like 
them.  It  is,  as  Dr  Watts  says, 
"  their  nature  to."  But  how  can 
it  appeal  to  you  to  care  for  them  1 
— you  whose  insular  position — not 
to  speak  of  the  volunteers — secures 
you  from  attack ;  and  who,  so  far 
from  ambitioning  increase  of  terri- 
tory, only  want  to  know  who  would 
take  Malta  off  your  hands,  when 
you  have  disembarrassed  yourselves 
of  Gibraltar] 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  to  make  two 
hundred  a -year,"  said  an  Irish 
Chief  Baron,  of  caustic  memory,  to 
a  barrister  of  no  very  lucrative  prac- 
tice. "  To  save  is  to  gain  :  and  what 
I  advise  you  is,  Never  go  circuit." 
Now,  in  this  philosophy  all  the 
present  schemes  of  our  rulers  are 
comprised.  Our  economies  consist 
in  how  much  we  can  give  up.  Nor 
is  there  anything  the  nation  loves 
to  hear  better  than  the  number  of 
things  it  can  do  without.  By  the 
degree  in  which  any  one  recom- 
mends these  savings  is  he  called  a 
reformer  or  a  revolutionist.  The 
former  cries  out  against  second 
majors  in  the  army;  the  last  de- 
clares for  no  monarchy  in  the  State. 


And  it  is  wonderful  what  notoriety 
a  man  will  gain  simply  by  doing 
either. 

Our  gifted  reformers  are  only 
plagiarists  of  the  Irish  judge  ;  and 
the  grand  secret  of  their  policy  is, 
"doing  without."  In  telling  peo- 
ple this  great  truth,  there  are  vari- 
ous opportunities  for  sly  flatteries 
which  the  nation  is  rather  fond  of 
hearing  : — how  enlightened  she  is  ! 
how  superior  to  what  she  was  in 
former  times,  in  those  barbarous 
days  of  Blenheims  and  Waterloos  ! 
What  a  noble  conquest  it  is  when 
a  people  can  proclaim  a  victory 
over  their  pride,  their  military 
glory,  their  ascendancy  among  the 
nations,  and  simply  say,  We  are 
mere  shopkeepers,  and  we  aspire 
to  be  no  more  !  we  declare  that  we 
have  a  mission — in  Sheffield  goods 
and  printed  cottons,  but  none 
other. 

This  is  a  line  of  life  that  asks 
for  a  very  small  intellectual  capital. 
"  Non  contiget  cuique  "  to  conduct 
India  to  prosperity,  or  Ireland  to 
peace  \  but  any  man  can  cut  down 
the  estimates.  It  requires  no 
genius  to  put  admirals  on  the  re- 
tired list,  or  dismiss  every  third 
clerk  in  a  public  department.  It 
is  all  easy  surgery ;  and  with  this 
advantage  over  the  doctor's  art, 
that  there  is  no  need  to  look  after 
the  wounded  arteries,  nor  care  for 
the  spilt  blood. 

If  all  horticulture  consisted  in 
cutting  down,  gardeners  would  be 
as  plentiful  as  blackberries,  and 
about  as  profitable. 


1870.] 


Our  Diplomatic  Service. 


599 


OUR  DIPLOMATIC  SEEVICE. 


Whenever  the  English  people  is 
very  certain  of  anything ;  when- 
ever the  great  newspapers  have 
made  a  stock  subject  of  any  griev- 
ous abuse;  when  the  whole  nation 
has  become  so  imbued  with  the 
tlieme  that  we  accept  it,  whatever 
it  be,  as  something  to  be  endured 
and  put  up  with  like  the  impurity 
of  the  Thames  or  the  tiresomeness 
of  Martin  Tupper, — then,  I  say,  we 
are  sure  to  hear  that  some  one  has 
moved  for  a  special  committee  in 
tiie  House  to  examine  witnesses 
and  report  on  it,  and  we  have  a 
very  lively  little  squabble  in  Parlia- 
ment over  the  people  who  ought  or 
ought  not  to  serve  on  that  com- 
n  dttee — though  what  they  have  to  as- 
certain, what  to  discover,  develop, 
or  disclose,  beyond  what  the  world 
is  already  fully  possessed  of,  there 
is  no  man  on  either  side  of  the 
House  could  propound. 

Some  years  back  there  was  a 
special  committee  to  inquire  into 
the  constitution  and  working  of  the 
diplomatic  service.  It  had  always 
been  a  stock  subject  of  attack  by 
Iladical  members,  partly  because 
they  believed,  or  assumed  to  be- 
lieve, it  was  a  "  caste,"  and  that  its 
followers  were  a  sort  of  Brahmins, 
who  guarded  the  entrance  against 
all  plebeian  competitors ;  and  partly 
because  they  deemed  that  all  inter- 
national questions  should  be  dis- 
cussed in  Parliament,  and  never  be 
treated  by  what  they  called  secret 
d  iplomacy. 

As  to  the  first  of  these  two  allega- 
ti  ons,  a  mere  glance  at  any  Foreign 
Office  List  is  the  speediest  refuta- 
tion ;  and  as  regards  the  second,  a 
very  passing  consideration  of  the 
class  of  questions  which  are  dealt 
with  by  envoys  and  ministers  will 
si  LOW  that  they  are  most  commonly 
of  a  kind  that  could  not  be  ad- 
vantageously submitted  to  open 
discussion  without  the  gravest  in- 
convenience, or  sometimes  even 


peril ;  and  that  the  friendly  relations 
which  are  maintained  in  a  great 
degree  by  the  courteous  observ- 
ances and  the  forbearance  which 
characterise  the  intercourse  of 
gentlemen,  would  be  often  en- 
dangered by  the  freedoms  which 
are  inseparable  from  debate,  and  the 
rash  imputations  which  honest,  but 
not  always  well-informed  speakers, 
will  throw  out  in  the  heat  of  a  dis- 
cussion. 

If  the  lovers  of  what  is  called 
open  diplomacy  have  not  been  con- 
verted by  what  they  lately  wit- 
nessed in  the  case  of  Mr  Reverdy 
Johnson,  they  must  be  men  of 
stubborn  powers  of  resistance.  No 
one  can  doubt  that,  with  the  good- 
will of  which  he  was  the  bearer, 
and  with  the  amicable  disposition 
he  was  himself  inspired  by,  the  Ala- 
bama question  might  have  received 
at  the  time  of  his  visit  to  England 
a  safe  and  satisfactory  solution. 
There  was  everything  to  favour  such 
a  belief.  The  moment  was  one  in 
which  each  country  was  well  dis- 
posed towards  the  other.  The  acri- 
mony which  the  press  has  so  often 
stimulated  was  happily  dormant. 
There  were  no  travellers  or  tourists 
on  either  side  with  their  personal 
grievances  developed  into  national 
indictments,  and  their  small  misad- 
ventures made  chargeable  against 
the  manners  of  the  land  they  were 
visiting ;  and  yet  with  all  these  to 
aid  him,  a  very  genial  and  well- 
intentioned  gentleman,  by  simply 
taking  the  public  into  his  confi- 
dence in  a  case  that  demanded  wise 
and  delicate,  and,  above  all,  confi- 
dential treatment,  so  mismanaged 
the  negotiation  as  to  make  agree- 
ment impossible,  provoke  his  own 
recall,  and  actually  bequeath  to  his 
successor  an  issue  a  hundred  times 
more  difficult  than  ever  it  was  be- 
fore. The  indiscretion  of  his  pub- 
lic utterances  not  only  were  such  as 
to  alarm  his  own  countrymen,  but 


600 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


actually  to  suggest  to  ourselves  the 
fear  that  this  genial  warm-hearted 
gentleman  was .  crowing  over  the 
easy  success  he  had  obtained  over 
us,  and  how  willingly  we  had  suf- 
fered ourselves  to  become  the  dupes 
of  his  pleasant  flatteries  and  his 
seductive  address.  Now,  had  he 
only  kept  his  blandishments  for 
Lord  Stanley,  there  would  have 
been  no  harm  done.  The  greatest 
grumbler  amongst  us,  though  he 
might  have  demurred  to  the  con- 
ditions of  the  settlement,  would 
never  have  questioned  the  modes  of 
the  persuasion.  We  would,  in  fact, 
all  of  us  have  made  every  allowance 
for  soft-sawder ;  what  we  only  ob- 
jected to  was,  that  the  sawder  should 
have  been  heated  before  our  eyes. 

The  whole  success  of  a  diplomatic 
negotiation  lies  in  the  character  of 
the  confessional  that  envelops  it. 
The  on-honour  consciousness  with 
which  the  negotiators  treat  is  not 
at  all  inconsistent  with  the  conduct 
of  men  who,  differing  as  they  may 
do  on  some  points,  are  eagerly  bent 
on  ascertaining  how  far  some  of 
the  items  of  agreement  may  not 
outbalance  those  of  distance  and 
estrangement ;  and  all  this  has  to 
be  done  with  candour  and  fairness 
and  integrity,  not  with  the  shrewd 
reserves  or  the  petty  equivocations 
of  a  small  lawyer — and  done,  too, 
with  a  consciousness  that  the  result 
come  to  will  have  to  undergo  the 
judgment  of  the  press  not  alone  of 
one  country,  but  possibly  of  Europe. 
Surely  these  are  not  the  cases  that 
call  for  popular  discussion  and  .the 
rough  usage  of  open  debate,  where 
hard  terms  are  bandied  and  ugly 
motives  alleged,  and  where  the 
chief  actors,  only  known  through 
the  mention  of  newspaper  corre- 
spondence, will  often  be  handled 
with  scant  courtesy,  or  scant  regard 
to  fact.  We  are  not  very  delicate 
in  discussing  our  own  public  men, 
and  when  opposed  to  us  we  cer- 
tainly treat  them  with  unsparing 
candour ;  but  all  this  frankness  is 
the  refinement  of  reserve  compared 


to  the  mode  in  which  we  talk  of 
foreigners.  Messrs  Beust,  Bismark, 
Gortchakoff,  and  Antonelli  could 
tell  us,  if  they  would,  how  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  conduct  a  platform 
negotiation  in  Trafalgar  Square, 
with  probably  Mr  Beales  for  the 
reporter,  or  Mr  Odger  to  draw  up 
the  protocol. 

There  are  fully  as  many  reasons 
for  delicacy  in  dealing  with  the  ills 
of  nations  as  with  the  maladies  of 
individuals,  and  there  are  cases 
where  the  safety  of  either  would 
be  gravely  compromised  by  expos- 
ure; and  it  is  for  such  cases  that 
we  need  the  services  not  only  of 
the  most  skilful  and  adroit  men 
amongst  us,  but  also  of  the  most 
confidentially  -  reserved  and  cau- 
tious-minded men,  fully  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  the  success 
of  all  negotiation  is  mainly  depen- 
dent on  the  extent  to  which  they 
inspire  confidence  themselves  and 
exact  it  from  others;  and  herein 
lies  the  greatest  gift  of  the  best 
negotiator. 

There  is  another  point  on  which 
the  public  is  not  unfrequently  led 
astray  with  regard  to  the  qualifica- 
tions meet  for  this  service.  There 
is  a  considerable  number  of  persons, 
of  whom  a  late  writer  of  a  letter  to 
the  '  Daily  News'  has  made  himself 
the  spokesman,  who  would  like  to 
reduce  the  diplomatic  service  to  the 
state  of  a  clerkship,  and  assume  all 
its  requirements  to  be  fulfilled  when 
provided  with  a  certain  number  of 
gentlemen  who  wrote  good  round 
legible  hands,  were  accurate  copy- 
ists, and  punctual  in  observance  of 
office  hours.  Now,  all  of  these  are 
admirable  and  excellent  qualities, 
and  no  mission  could  dispense  with 
their  absence ;  but  surely  they  do 
not  sum  up  the  duties  of  an  envoy 
at  a  foreign  court.  The  most  care- 
less reader  of  his  newspaper  cannot 
fail  to  see  that  the  present  condition 
of  Europe  is  far  from  settled ;  that 
the  vast  changes  called  into  exist- 
ence by  late  wars  have  not  yet  re- 
solved themselves  into  finality,  or 


1870.] 


Our  Diplomatic  Service. 


601 


even  a  passing  state  of  repose;  and 
if  we  are  not  at  this  moment  specta- 
tors of  a  great  war  on  the  Continent, 
it  is  simply  because  they  who  should 
stand  out  as  adversaries  have  not 
been  able  to  consolidate  the  alli- 
ances on  which  they  might  rely  in 
the  day  of  a  reverse.  France  and 
Prussia  are  both  angling  with  the 
^ame  bait ;  and,  up  to  this,  Russia 
und  Austria,  and  even  Italy,  are  re- 
luctant to  pledge  themselves  with 
either.  Now,  so  linked  are  the  for- 
tunes  of  each  State  of  Europe  with 
the  other,  that  no  movement  can 
lake  place  in  one  without  corre- 
sponding changes  elsewhere.  The 
uprising  of  France  will  threaten 
the  independence  of  Belgium,  the 
.safety  of  Northern  Germany,  the 
Rhine  border,  and  the  small  States 
contiguous  to  it — not  to  speak  of 
Italy,  which  may  become  either  ally 
or  enemy,  as  the  French  determine 
by  their  occupation  of,  or  departure 
from,  Rome.  The  movement  of 
Russia  implies  the  re-opening  of 
the  Eastern  question — that  is,  the 
actual  existence  of  Turkey. 

It  can  scarcely  be  said  that  to 
these  events,  and  the  great  conse- 
quences that  may  follow  on  them, 
we  are  indifferent.  The  Scheldt 
a  French  river,  and  Constantino- 
ple a  Russian  dock,  are  not  insig- 
nificant eventualities;  and  though 
our  envoys  abroad  might  not  be 
able  to  avert  the  wars  that  might 
menace  such  results,  they  might 
neutralise  the  combinations  and 
modify  the  alliances  that  should 
influence  them.  They  might,  by 
judicious  representations,  delay  ac- 
tion and  give  time  for  more  peace- 
ful counsels ;  and  they  certainly 
could  always  not  only  apprise  us 
at  home  of  the  coming  danger,  but 
enable  us  to  determine  on  the  course 
most  suited  to  our  national  advan- 
tage. Now  it  is  not  assuming  too 
much  to  say  that  the  men  most 
Jitted  to  obtain  this  knowledge,  and 
to  sift  the  evidence  on  which  it 
is  founded ;  to  test  the  sources  of 
information,  and  to  draw  correct 


inferences  from  what  they  glean  in 
their  personal  intercourse  with  col- 
leagues and  persons  in  office, — are 
not  usually  of  the  class  of  mere 
departmental  clerks,  but  should  be 
men  of  considerable  natural  acute- 
ness,  aided  by  trained  habits  and 
well-drilled  faculties.  Th  ey  should 
be  consummate  observers,  fortified 
by  travel  to  enable  them  to  distin- 
guish between  national  habits  and 
modes  of  thought  or  expression 
and  traits  that  had  a  deeper  signi- 
ficance— men  of  the  world  enough 
to  make  their  intercourse  agreeable 
and  easy,  and  with  that  social  tact 
that  invites  confidence  by  the  very 
evidence  of  its  honourable  under- 
standing to  respect  it  —  men  of 
great  discretion,  who,  mixing  freely 
in  society,  disarm  distrust  by  per- 
sonal loyalty  of  character,  and  yet 
do  not  compromise  their  position  by 
a  rash  utterance.  They  should  be 
statesmen,  in  comprehending  the 
bearing  of  great  questions  and  trac- 
ing the  results  that  might  come  of 
them ;  and  courtiers,  to  render  their 
intercourse  with  sovereigns  accept- 
able and  satisfactory.  And,  last  of 
all,  they  should  be  able  writers — 
men  capable  of  conveying  their  in- 
telligence clearly,  briefly,  and  un- 
mistakably— able  to  set  forth  in  a 
despatch  the  whole  details  of  a 
question  with  simplicity  and  deci- 
sion, and  to  show  the  reasons  for 
any  judgment  they  have  come  to 
with  force  and  perspicuity.  These, 
in  brief,  are  but  some  of  the  quali- 
fications of  an  envoy ;  but  are  even 
these  to  be  looked  for  in  a  mere 
clerk? 

Now,  when  it  is  borne  in  mind 
that  these  men  are  the  Preventive 
Police  of  Europe — that  it  is  to  their 
activity  and  to  their  efficiency  we 
owe,  in  a  great  measure,  the  peace  of 
the  world — and  that  five  days  of  war- 
like preparation  would  cost  more 
than  a  fifty  years'  maintenance  of 
the  whole  diplomatic  service  of  the 
Continent, — surely  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  they  are  worthy  public 
servants,  and  justly  deserving  of 


602 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


the  high  place  we  accord  them. 
It  is  suggested,  as  a  measure  of 
economy,  that  we  should  suppress 
some  of  the  smaller  missions,  and 
withdraw  our  ministers  from  Stutt- 
gart, Brussels,  Munich,  &c.  There 
can  be  no  question  of  the  saving. 
If  you  can  dispense  with  so  many 
persons  of  your  household,  you  are 
gainer  by  the  added  amount  of 
their  salaries.  Now  the  writer  to 
the  '  Daily  News '  served  himself 
in  diplomacy,  and  thoroughly  well 
knows  that  at  these  smaller  courts 
there  is  a  vast  amount  of  informa- 
tion obtainable  which  could  not  be 
procured  at  larger  centres,  and  that 
as  the  fortunes  of  the  larger  States 
involve  the  fate  of  the  smaller,  these 
latter  are  the  first  to  take  alarm  at 
casualties  whose  course  they  can 
little  influence,  while  the  results 
may  be  vital  to  themselves.  If 
inquired  into,  it  would  be  found 
that  some  of  the  earliest  warnings 
of  great  events  abroad  have  come 
from  the  smaller  missions ;  and  the 
French  are  so  well  aware  of  this, 
that  to  such  places  as  Baden,  or 
Berne,  or  Coburg,  they  invariably 
send  secretaries  who  have  shown 
promise  of  future  distinction.  To 
call  this  "  espionage,"  or  any  other 
hard  name,  is  easy  enough — and  in 
the  platitudes  that  men  utter  about 
openness  and  fairness,  of  course 
such  a  mode  of  attack  has  its  suc- 
cess ;  but  in  that  Spanish  marriage 
intrigue,  by  which  M.  Guizot  in- 
tended to  outwit  us,  and  by  which 
he  lost  his  master  his  throne,  it 
was  the  artful  employment  of  such 
agency  discovered  the  intrigue ; 
and  the  same  active  skill  enabled 
us  to  anticipate  M.  Thiers  in  '41, 
and  bring  the  Pacha  to  terms  before 
the  wily  Minister  had  made  Egypt 
a  French  province. 

That  Austria  was  not  very  ably 
served  at  Berlin  prior  to  the  late 
war  in  Germany,  nor  France  well 


seconded  in  Italy  when  M.  Use- 
dom  cemented  the  Prussian  alliance, 
are  converse  evidences  of  what 
diplomacy  may  or  may  not  do ;  but 
that  the  moves  of  the  great  Cabi- 
nets are  very  often  to  be  discovered 
at  the  smaller  Courts,  is  known  to 
all  persons  in  the  service ;  and 
Lord  Malmesbury  has  lately  de- 
clared that  it  was  from  Hanover  and 
Switzerland  he- first  heard  that  the 
Austrians  had  passed  the  Ticino, 
and  that  the  French  Emperor  had 
contracted  for  the  surrender  of 
Savoy  to  France. 

Though,  of  course,  I  am  prepar- 
ed to  hear  the  "  cui  bono1?"  cry  to 
this  assertion,  and  to  be  told  that 
whether  we  knew  of  these  facts  on 
a  Monday  through  an  envoy,  or  on 
Wednesday  from  our  '  Times,'  was 
not  a  matter  of  much  moment.  In 
certain  cases  this  would  doubtless 
be  true ;  but  there  are  others  in 
which  it  would  be  of  immense  im- 
portance that  a  Minister  should  be 
in  possession  of  information  before 
it  had  reached  the  press,  and  be- 
came the  subject  of  comment  and 
discussion.  Nor  would  it  be  diffi- 
cult to  quote  instances  in  which 
this  early  acquantance  with  pro- 
jected moves  was  employed  to  in- 
terfere with  the  accomplishment  of 
a  diplomatic  success  that  would 
have  been  totally  impossible  if  the 
contemplated  action  had  once  at- 
tained publicity,  and  entered  the 
domain  of  that  public  opinion 
which,  with  all  its  advantages,  has 
the  occasional  demerit  of  pronounc- 
ing on  scanty  evidence,  and  very 
hurriedly  also.  I  do  not  augur 
hopefully  for  the  present  com- 
mittee, who  seem  rather  bent  on  in- 
quiring what  an  attache  can  live 
on,  than  what  a  Minister  should  do. 
At  all  events  we  shall  learn  some- 
thing, even  though  it  only  be  the 
price  of  lodgings  at  St  Petersburg, 
or  the  cost  of  washing  at  Bogota  ! 


1870.] 


The  Difficult  Precept. 


603 


THE  DIFFICULT   PEECEPT. 


Of  all  the  Christian  virtues  we 
;tre  enjoined  to  cultivate,  I  know 
of  not  one  so  difficult  as  "  to  love 
one's  neighbour." 

It  is  not  to  the  amount  of  the 
iffection  I  would  take  exception, 
though  I  am  aware  that  in  the 
height  of  the  standard  lies  a  great 
difficulty,  and  that  there  must  be 
few  men  comparatively  in  the  world 
who  could  transfer  the  stock  of 
their  self-love  to  the  account  of 
their  neighbour.  The  really  great 
iifficulty  of  the  precept  is  in  the 
fact  that  he  is  your  neighbour. 

Why  is  it,  and  to  what  is  it 
owing,  that  we  have  a  natural  an- 
tipathy to  a  Frenchman?  I  will 
not  stop  to  dispute  the  proposition, 
which  I  sincerely  trust  no  thorough 
Englishman  will  contest ;  but  ask 
simply,  for  what  other  reason  do 
we  dislike  him  but  that  he  is  our 
neighbour1?  The  man  who  lives 
next  door  to  me  must  be  hateful  to 
me.  I  see  too  much  and  I  know  too 
Little  of  him  not  to  detest  him. 
His  hours  of  going  out  and  coming 
home  —  his  calls  of  business  or 
pleasure— the  errands  of  his  man- 
servant and  his  maid-servant,  and 
the  visits  of  the  stranger  within  his 
gates — will,  in  spite  of  me,  invade 
my  leisure.  If  his  pursuits  are  like 
my  own,  he  jars  on  me  with  a 
rivalry ;  if  his  road  in  life  lies  quite 
ipart,  he  revolts  me  by  outraging 
tny  sympathies;  if  he  deals  with 
ray  tradesfolk,  I  suspect  him  of 
being  better  treated  than  I  am, 
that  he  gets  honester  measure  in 
his  coals,  and  more  cream  in  his 
milk;  if  his  acquaintance  runs  in 
an  humbler  current  than  my  own, 
[  inveigh  against  the  vulgar  con- 
tact of  his  associates ;  if  they  who 
frequent  him  are  of  an  order  supe- 
rior to  my  own  friends,  my  dislike 
is  heightened  by  a  sense  of  envy. 
N"ow,  had  he  only  lived  in  the  next 
street  instead  of  next  door,  I  had 
known  none  of  these  things,  and 


his  new  liveries  had  never  cost 
me  a  pang,  nor  had  that  splendid 
haunch  of  venison  I  saw  carried  in 
but  yesterday  disgusted  me  with 
my  own  tough  mutton  at  dinner. 

It  is  in  the  points  of  contact  that 
are  never  touches  of  cohesiveness, 
lies  all  the  antipathy.  That  we 
are  ready  to  forgive  Russians,  Ger- 
mans, and  Italians,  scores  of  things 
we  cannot  put  up  with  in  the  French- 
man, none  will  deny.  It  comes  to 
this,  that  the  man  next  door  is 
positively  odious  from  the  number 
of  times  every  day  some  feature  of 
his  life  will  obtrude  itself  on  our 
own,  and  seem,  out  of  sheer  imper- 
tinence, to  insist  on  occupying  a 
share  in  our  attention.  The  very 
people  who  ring  at  our  bell  in  mis- 
take for  his  are  an  offence ;  and  our 
identity — that  dear  thing  we  cling 
to  through  all  our  mishaps  in  the 
world — is  outraged  at  being  con- 
founded and  mistaken  for  another's. 
And  as  for  the  little  compliments 
and  courtesies  of  life  that,  intend- 
ed for  him,  have  by  an  accident 
been  left  at  our  door,  they  are  the 
dregs  of  all  bitterness  in  our  cup  of 
disappointment.  How  came  it  ever 
to  my  imagination  to  ponder  over 
the  insignificance  of  my  lot  if  it 
were  not  for  that  card  from  Buck- 
ingham Palace  which  a  blundering 
messenger  had  dropped  with  me 
instead  of  next  door  ] 

That  inveterate  dislike  that  exists 
between  Whigs  and  Tories  is  solely 
felt  because  they  live  in  the  same 
street,  and  are  next  door  to  each 
other ;  while  neither  has  the  same 
antipathy  to  the  Eadical,  who 
dwells  in  the  "stable -lane  round 
the  corner" — a  vulgar  dog  if  you 
like,  but  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow  at 
bottom;  and  this  is  the  judgment 
solely  founded  on  the  fact  that  his 
ways  and  doings  are  not  in  hourly 
contact  with  our  own. 

The  rancour  of  party  hatred 
never  reached  its  climax  till  we 


604 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


saw  the  two  rival  factions  contend- 
ing to  carry  the  same  measures — 
that  is,  till  they  came  to  live  side 
by  side.  In  the  old  days  of  op- 
posite views  and  objects  they  fought 
their  battles  boldly,  bravely,  man- 
fully, but  there  was  no  acrimony, 
for  their  houses  were  not  next  door. 
It  was  only  in  our  own  day  that  it 
occurred  to  them  to  become  neigh- 
bours, and  we  see  what  has  come 
of  it. 

So  long  as  each  hunted  his  own 
line  of  country,  one  might  say  that 
his  neighbour's  dogs  were  slow  to 
find,  and  ran  wildly ;  or  the  other 
might  retort,  that  his  pack  were 
mostly  mongrels,  and  never  gave 
voice  together.  Still  each  could 
follow  his  sport  without  interrup- 
tion, and  on  the  whole  no  very  se- 
rious bad  feeling  came  of  it.  But 
now  that  they  are  driven  to  draw 
the  same  cover,  and  have  only  one 
fox  between  them,  there's  nothing 
too  bad  for  each  to  say  of  the  other. 
Mr  Disraeli  declares  the  fox  was 
his  fox,  and  that  if  he  had  not 
hunted  him  before,  it  was  because 
he  was  employed  teaching  some 
friends  to  ride — "  educating  them," 
he  called  it,  to  take  fences  and 
ditches  they  weren't  used  to.  Mr 
Gladstone  denied  this ;  that  the  fox 
had  strayed  out  of  his  cover;  and 
that  he  felt  the  unsportsmanlike 
conduct  of  his  neighbour  so  acutely, 
that  he  would  rather  dispose  of  his 
pack  and  give  up  hunting  for  the 
season. 

Nothing  of  this  would  have  hap- 
pened had  each  kept  to  his  own 
county.  All  the  bad  feeling  came 
of  propinquity;  for,  be  it  remarked, 
neither  of  them  was  displeased 
when  the  Radicals  came  out  and 
took  a  run  with  them. 

They  tell  us  that  the  law  of  pri- 
mogeniture makes  a  man  little  af- 
fectionate to  his  eldest  son,  but 
full  of  love  for  his  grandchild; 
and  here  it  is,  once  more,  the  next- 
door  neighbour  there  is  no  forgiv- 
ing, and  even  he  a  little  farther  off 
is  preferable  to  him  !  As  for  that 


old  adage  of  the  Romans,  that  de- 
clares "loving  the  same  and  hating 
the  same"  constitutes  true  friend- 
ship, I  take  it  there  never  was  a 
greater  fallacy.  Real  sympathy  is 
the  sense  of  enjoyment  I  feel  when 
I  see  my  friend  delighted  by  some- 
thing I  don't  care  for.  If  any  one 
disputes  my  definition,  let  him  think 
how  inconvenient  the  converse 
would  prove  in  our  courts  of  divorce, 
and  that  even  the  most  gushing 
heart  is  not  bound  to  like  a  Co- 
respondent. 

Whose  dog  keeps  me  awake  all 
night  1  whose  daughters'  duets 
drive  me  distracted  half  the  day  1 
whose  duns  come  thundering  at  my 
knocker?  whose  telegrams  startle 
me  from  my  sleep  1  whose  whole 
life  is  it  that  will  run  Rhone-like 
through  the  placid  Geneva-Lake  of 
my  existence,  and  by  its  strong 
current  mar  the  grand  tranquillity 
of  my  days  "? — My  neighbour's. 

When  I  read  of  the  projects  for 
bridging  over  the  strip  of  sea  be- 
tween Dover  and  Calais,  or  the  plans 
for  tunnelling  a  road  beneath  the 
waters  ;  when  I  hear  the  specula- 
tions of  those  who  believe  that,  by 
what  they  call  "  drawing  closer  to 
France,"  we  shall  cultivate  more 
surely  the  relations  of  friendship, 
and  more  effectually  combat  the 
mistrusts  and  prejudices  that  beset 
the  relations  between  strange  peo- 
ples,— when,  I  say,  I  see  and  hear 
these  things,  I  ask  myself,  Where 
have  they  lived  who  enunciate  these 
doctrines  ?  What  experiences  have 
they  had  of  life  1  What  lesson  has 
the  world  taught  them,  if  it  be  not 
this, — That  where  there  is  no  com- 
mon bond  of  interest  to  bind  men, 
no  unity  of  pursuit  or  object,  there 
is  no  more  sure  promoter  of  bicker- 
ing, bad  feeling,  and  dislike,  than 
too  close  proximity. 

I  have  occasional  twinges  of  gout; 
lobster  mayonnaise,  with  cucum- 
ber, washed  down  with  iced  Mosel- 
cup,  do  not  agree  with  me  as  well 
as  it  used  to  do;  nor  are  my  morning 
recollections  of  anchovy  sandwiches 


1870.] 


Personal  and  Peculiar. 


605 


and  "bishops"  as  free  from  repin- 
ings  as  once  they  were.  "  Tempera 
mutantur,"  and  digestive  organs 
"  cum  illis;"  and  there  do  come  mo- 
ments when  life  is  crape-covered,  an  d 
when  in  my  discontent  with  the 
world  I  include  myself,  and  have 
to  own  that  there  is  not  a  grievance 
-,ior  an  ill  that  assails  me  for  which 
I  am  not  personally  responsible,  and 
that  for  every  hard  turn  of  fortune 
I  have  been  an  aider  and  abettor. 
At  such  moments  as  these — and 
of  late  years  they  have  a  habit  of 
coining  oftener  than  I  care  for, — 


at  such  moments  as  these — when  I 
am  soured  with  life — when  I  see, 
or  think  that  I  see,  Fortune  has 
dealt  me  all  the  small  cards  of  the 
pack,  and  never  a  trump  —  when 
I  feel  myself  walking  the  world's 
stage  without  a  part  in  the  comedy 
— scarcely  a  supernumerary — rather 
a  creature  that  has  strayed  in  from 
"  the  flats,"  and  like  enough  to  be 
hooted  off  if  discovered, — at  such 
periods  of  existence  as  these,  I  do 
believe  I  like  my  neighbour  pretty 
much  like  myself,  and  I  wish  him 
joy  of  the  affection. 


PERSONAL   AND   PECULIAR. 


Fate — for  reasons  I  do  not  care 
to  question  or  find  great  fault  with 
— gave  me  very  wandering  habits 
early  in  life,  and  later  on  made  me 
a  resident  at  some  part  or  other  of 
the  Continent.  So  far  as  personal 
advantage,  and  what  are  called  the 
successes  of  life,  are  concerned, 
there  is  not  much  to  be  said  for 
this  choice.  As  regards  enjoyment 
— I  mean  such  enjoyment  as  usually 
comes  within  the  scope  of  humble 
men  of  small  ambitions  and  smaller 
fortunes — the  case  is  not  so  bad  a 
one.  At  all  events,  the  tide  of  life 
runs  less  strongly  than  with  us  at 
home ;  and  for  a  bad  swimmer  this 
is  something.  At  another  oppor- 
tunity I  shall  perhaps  return  to 
this  theme,  whose  pros  and  cons 
require  some  care  in  their  treat- 
ment. My  business  is  now  with  a 
— "  case  of  conscience,"  I  was  going 
to  call  it  :  not  that  exactly ;  but 
it  is  a  case  sufficiently  doubtful  to 
make  it  a  burden  on  my  own  mind ; 
and  I  would  therefore  be  thankful 
for  any  friendly  counsel  that  might 
help  me  to  a  conclusion. 

In  appealing  thus  broadcast  to 
the  world  for  advice,  I  am  not  pre- 
sumptuous enough  to  imagine  that 
I  have  established  any  claim  upon 
my  readers  which  would  entitle  me 
to  this  freedom.  I  am  simply, 
however,  following  a  custom  which 


has  a  certain  currency  in  the  times 
we  live  in,  and  is,  as  I  see,  much 
followed  in  Ladies'  Magazines, — I 
mean,  of  submitting  a  case  for  an 
opinion,  hoping  that  the  next  num- 
ber may  bring  the  reply.  Thus,  in 
a  journal  before  me,  I  read — "  I  am 
applied  to  for  the  payment  of  a 
pair  of  silk  stockings,  which  I  paid 
for,  but  have  lost  the  receipt.  Am 
I  bound  to  pay,  or  can  I  resist  the 
demand1?" — "  Tom  kissed  me  twice 
yesterday  evening,  and  said  he 
wished  I  were  his  wife.  Would 
this  enable  me  to  recover  damages 
if  he  should  not  marry  me  yet  1 " — 
"  My  father  was  a  Finlander,  and 
my  mother  a  Greek.  Can  you  say 
if  this  gives  me  a  claim  to  American 
citizenship  1 " — "  I  have  been  con- 
siderably hurt  by  a  peg  in  my  right 
boot,  and  kicked  the  bootmaker  in 
consequence.  Is  it  true  that  the 
Chief-Justice  has  ruled  this  to  be  a 
justifiable  violence  ?" — "  My  father 
has  obtained  a  decree  nisi  against 
my  stepmother.  If  it  should  be 
made  a  rule  absolute,  can  I  marry 
her — and  how  soon  ?  " 

I  take  these  at  random  as  speci- 
mens of  what  doubts  beset  the 
British  mind ;  nor  is  it  without  a 
sense  of  pride  that  I  see  the  natu- 
ral desire  of  pure-intentioned  indi- 
viduals to  distrust  their  own  im- 
pulses, and  throw  themselves  upon 


606 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


their  fellow-men  for  guidance  and 
direction. 

To  return  to  myself.  Mine  is  a 
much  smaller  difficulty  than  any  of 
these.  Indeed  I  do  not  know  if 
it  would  present  what  could  be 
called  a  difficulty  to  any  mind 
versed  in  the  complex  questions 
of  busy  life. 

Here  is  my  case.  Long  a  resi- 
dent abroad,  it  has  been  my  custom 
to  make  occasional  visits  to  Ireland 
• — that  is  to  say,  I  have  rarely  suf- 
fered three  or  four  years  to  pass 
without  going  there  for  at  least 
some  weeks.  These  visits  were 
about  the  very  pleasantest  incidents 
of  my  life.  I  liked  the  country,  and 
I  liked  the  people.  There  were 
scores  of  things  in  their  ways,  their 
sayings  and  doings,  that  pleased  me 
better  than  all  I  met  elsewhere. 
There  was  so  much  cordiality,  so 
much  frankness,  so  little  reserve 
about  anything,  and  there  was  so 
little  seriousness  even  in  the  grav- 
est occupations  of  life,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  feel  the  same  relief 
from  care  amongst  them  that  one 
feels  when  amused  and  carried  away 
by  a  well-acted  comedy. 

As  I  have  said,  these  chance 
visits  were  very  delightful  to  me, 
not  the  less  so  that  I  was  always 
the  guest  of  an  old  schoolfellow 
who  had  never  married,  and  whose 
humour  it  was  to  keep  a  capital 
house  a  short  distance  from  Dub- 
lin, and  give  the  pleasantest  din- 
ners in  the  world.  His  house  was 
charmingly  situated  at  the  foot  of 
the  Dublin  mountains,  with  some 
old  timber  to  shelter  it,  and  a  view 
of  the  bay  and  the  islands,  that, 
seen  on  a  summer  morning,  will 
give  a  more  flat  rebuke  to  Mr  Dis- 
raeli's "melancholy ocean"  than  any 
poor  words  of  mine.  My  friend 
O.  was  well  off  as  regarded  fortune, 
and  had  all  that  popularity  that 
a  genial  nature,  a  fine  temper,  good 
manners,  and  a  hospitable  board 
have  a  right  to  secure  a  man. 
'  He  had  a  passion  for  giving  din- 
ners, and  he  became  an  adept  in 


the  art — that  is,  he  knew  how  much 
to  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone. 
He  felt  that  for  the  cook  and  the 
cellar  he  was  wholly  responsible, 
and  he  did  not  shirk  the  burden. 
Long  experience,  however,  had 
taught  him  not  to  be  over-careful  in 
"packing"  his  company.  His  great 
secret  was,  no  detrimentals  —  no 
people  positively  obnoxious ;  be- 
yond this  he  tried  nothing.  There 
was,  in  consequence,  no  strain — no 
effort  anywhere ;  no  man  had  any 
mission  to  tell  something  himself, 
or  make  another  tell  it ;  neither 
was  there  any  political  colour  detec- 
table. Tories,  Whigs,  and  Radicals 
hobnobbed  and  jested  together ; 
and  as  the  claret  passed  round,  it 
seemed  to  rivet  a  chain  that  bound 
men  in  hearty  good-fellowship, 
while  leaving  them  to  think  their 
own  thoughts  on  many  things  too 
grave  to  be  dealt  with  passingly. 

My  friend  Ogle — why  should  I 
hesitate  about  naming  one  whom 
so  many  must  recognise  already? — 
need  I  say  it? — was  no  small  element 
in  the  pleasure  these  visits  yielded 
me  ;  nor  need  I  conceal  that  I  was 
an  honoured  guest.  Not  that  I  could 
cut  any  conspicuous  figure  amidst 
that  clever  company  he  drew  around 
him  —  the  pleasant  officials  fresh 
from  the  gossip  of  the  House  and 
the  season,  the  smart  lawyers  with 
only  enough  business  to  ballast  their 
agreeability,  and,  better  than  either, 
the  pretty  women ;  for,  be  it  known, 
my  friend  affected  a  "  croquet  lawn," 
and  sprinkled  his  dinners  with 
"  muslin."  And  here  let  me  say,  in 
parenthesis,  that  three  or  four  wo- 
men in  a  party  of  twelve  is  perfec- 
tion ;  they  must  be  somebody 's  wives, 
doubtless,  but  no  disadvantage  is  it 
if  they  be  there  without  their  hus- 
bands. Of  that  aide-de-camp  who 
is  on  service,  or  of  that  Attorney- 
General  who  is  in  his  place  in  Par- 
liament, or,  better  still,  of  that  colo- 
nel of  hussars  who  is  bronzing  his 
cheeks  at  Benares,  and  boring  the 
Horse  Guards  to  send  him  home — 
these,  with  a  young  widow  to  lead 


1870.] 


Personal  and  Peculiar. 


607 


the  way,  and  take  the  fences  before 
them,  are  the  moral  truffles  that 
impart  zest  and  bouquet  to  the  feast. 

Time  was  when  the  end  of  my 
journey  brought  me  to  such  joys 
f.s  these,  cheered  with  the  j  oiliest 
of  welcomes,  and  heart- warmed  by 
the  sight  of  the  scores  of  things  rich 
in  pleasant  memories.  I  make  no 
scruple  of  owning  that  I  did  my  ut- 
most to  requite — to  what  the  French 
call  payer  de  ma  personne — all  these 
amenities.  I  brought  over  good 
store  of  that  sort  of  social  gos- 
sip which  serves  to  purposes  of 
talk  what  the  doctors  entitle  in 
their  jargon  "  the  vehicle."  I  had 
my  budget  of  stories  and  drolleries 
warranted  new — the  little  equivo- 
cal narratives  which,  in  my  charac- 
ter of  a  foreigner,  were  permitted 
me  ;  these,  with  sketches  of  life 
and  character  in  other  latitudes, 
were,  so  to  say,  specialties  in  which 
I  dreaded  no  rivalry.  I  had,  be- 
sides, in  those  days,  good  spirits, 
though  what  has  become  of  them 
now  I  know  no  more  than  what 
lias  become  of  the  hair  of  my  head. 
I  can  only  vouch  for  it,  they  have 
both  left  me,  and  I  have  neither 
fun  nor  "forelock."  Nor  were 
little  flatteries  wanting  to  fill  the 
measure  of  my  enjoyment.  "  I  was 
asked  to  meet  you,  Mr  O'Dowd," 
would  say  a  soft  voice.  "  We  were 
to  have  left  for  town  on  Wednes- 
day, Mr  O'Dowd,  but  when  we 
heard  that  you  were  certain  to  ar- 
rive," &c.  &c.  Or  in  rougher  tones  : 
"  Corny,  old  fellow,  I  have  risked 
an  arrest  for  this  dinner ;  and 
there's  O'Hagan  has  lost  the  first 
day  of  the  assizes  for  it."  Alas 
and  alack !  I  am  to  hear  no  more 
of  such  as  these ;  and  if  my  chair 
is  empty  now  at  the  table-dhote  at 
the  "Angel,"  the  landlord  chuckles 
over  my  absence  with  a  laugh 
like  the  sound  of  five  shillings  in 
copper. 

But  I  must  finish.  I  cannot  bear 
to  recall  memories  that  half  over- 
whelm me.  From  one  cause  or  an- 
other, my  visits  "home" — I  used  to 


call  them — grew  rarer  and  rarer; 
and  though  Ogle,  who  hated  let- 
ter-writing, pressed  me  repeatedly 
and  warmly  to  come  over,  I  gave 
up  my  wanderings,  and  it  is  now 
fully  five  years  since  I  crossed  St 
George's  Channel  for  what  I  feel  to 
be  the  last  time.  Now,  my  question 
is  this  :  I  have  been  reading  over 
the  debate  on  the  Irish  Land  Bill, 
and  amongst  its  provisions  I  find 
one — I  don't  know  whether  it  be 
"  Ulster  custom,"  or  some  new  de- 
vice of  clever  statecraft — whether 
it  owes  its  origin  to  Gladstonian 
ingenuity,  or  the  prolific  sugges- 
tions of  Mr  Bright — but  I  say  I 
find  something  that  seems  to  say, 
when  you  have  been  long  on  a 
man's  land,  and  made  a  good  thing 
of  it,  but  that  you  are  minded  to 
quit  the  place  and  go  elsewhere,  it 
is  the  owner's  duty  to  requite  you 
for  that  caprice,  or  necessity,  or 
whatever  it  be;  and  if  not  his, 
somebody  else's  duty,  whenever  he 
succeeds  you  in  that  locality.  I 
hope  I  am  not  going  to  make  any 
claim  upon  the  host  who  has  fed 
and  housed  me  so  long,  whose  claret 
I  have  drunk,  whose  cobs  I  have 
ridden,  whose  no  end  of  sixpences 
I  have  won  at  whist ;  but  will  any 
legal  friend  inform  me — Have  I  not, 
under  the  new  Act,  a  just  claim 
against  the  man  who  succeeds  to  my 
holding,  or  could  I  not  legally  dis- 
pose of  my  vested  right  to  so  much 
turtle  and  champagne  as  it  was  my 
proud  privilege  once  to  enjoy  there  1 
Is  not  this  the  custom  of  Ulster  1 
God  bless  it !  for  it  seems  a  very 
charming  usage.  Surely  some  Q.C. 
of  my  acquaintance  will  kindly  in- 
struct me  what  are  my  rights  here, 
and  how  may  I  enforce  them. 

Mind  —  and  I  desire  not  to  be 
misunderstood — I  make  no  claim 
for  improvements.  I  neither  pre- 
tend that  a  good  story  of  mine 
lingers  in  the  air,  or  that  a  flash  of 
my  imagination  lights  up  a  corner 
of  the  dining-room.  I  set  up  no 
claim  for  the  night  I  made  the 
archbishop  laugh,  or  persuaded  Mr 


608 


Cornelius  O'Dowd. 


[May 


Solicitor  to  imitate  himself  in 
his  opening  speech  in  Parliament — 
great  successes,  but  still  under  the 
head  of  improvements,  of  which  the 
tenant  enjoyed  the  value.  All  I 
pretend  to  is,  what  Ulster  has  now 
made  into  a  law,  that  I  should  be 
empowered  to  dispose  of  something 
that  is  not  mine,  when  I  have  no 
further  wish  for  its  temporary  en- 
joyment. 

When  the  Prime  Minister  admits 
his  inability  to  define  the  "  custom 
of  Ulster,"  I  shall  certainly  not 
undertake  the  task.  I  find  it,  how- 
ever, in  a  recognised  organ  of  public 
intelligence,  stated  to  be  something 
in  this  wise  :  "  One  man  wants  to 
give  up  a  tenure,  another  desires  to 
possess  it  j  but  before  the  transfer 
takes  place,  the  incoming  must  pay 
to  the  outgoing  for  what  is  called 
the  ' goodwill.'"  The  definition  is 
loose  enough,  but  still  sufficiently 
distinctive  to  enable  me  to  ask,  Does 
it  apply  to  my  case  ?  May  I  hope 
to  profit  by  its  provisions'?  That 
I  am  in  possession  of  the  "  good- 
will," I  have  little  reason  to  doubt ; 
whether  I  can  dispose  of  it  to  an- 
other, is  the  question. 

There  are  men  who  take  a  life- 
time to  establish  a  habit.  They  re- 
quire years  to  engrain  a  custom 
into  them.  This  is  not  so  with  me. 
I  have  a  positive  genius  for  rou- 
tine ;  and  it  is  much  harder  on  a 
man  like  myself  to  surrender  some- 
thing he  has  grown  used  to,  than 
for  one  of  those  flippant,  volatile, 
inconstant  spirits,  whose  great  ne- 
cessity is  variety.  Should  I  not, 
therefore,  have  claim  to  a  higher 


measure  of  compensation  than  one 
of  these  nomad  creatures  who  does 
not  care  where  he  lives  or  how  he 
dines  ? 

Again,  the  "  stupid  party,"  as  it 
is  the  polite  phrase  now  to  call  the 
Conservatives,  will  inveigh  against 
this  measure  as  a  violation  of  the 
law  of  contract — as  if  there  was  ever 
such  a  thing  as  free  contract  in 
Ireland  !  Ask  any  Irishman  you 
like — I  don't  care  of  what  party  or 
religion — has  he  secured  the  posi- 
tion, has  he  obtained  the  office,  he 
desires  in  life  1  has  he  taken  the 
farm  at  the  rent  he  would  have 
wished  1  has  he  married  the  woman 
he  wanted  to  marry  ?  What,  in  a 
word,  has  he  ever  done  to  his  com- 
plete satisfaction  1  Is  not  every- 
thing that  takes  place  in  that  coun- 
try what  the  Italians  call  "  alia 
meglio"  ]  and  is  it  not  in  this  spirit 
the  Prime  Minister  says  to  the 
landlord,  There's  a  poor  devil  who 
has  been  living  ten  years  on  your 
estate,  and  he  is  tired  of  the  place, 
and  sick  of  paying  rent — give  him  a 
few  hundred  pounds  for  the  trouble 
of  being  turned  out,  and  perhaps 
he'll  go  quietly  1 

It  is  into  this  category  I  desire 
to  come.  I  want  to  be  paid  for 
giving  up  something  I  have  long 
enjoyed  as  a  privilege,  when  it  is 
no  longer  my  pleasure  to  practise 
it.  That  is  the  "  custom  of  Ulster," 
I  am  told  ;  and  when  once  it  gets 
a  wider  acceptance  in  life,  the 
world  will  be  altogether  far  plea- 
santer  to  live  in — at  least,  for  men 
as  poor  as 

CORNELIUS  O'DowD. 


1670.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


609 


JOHN. — PART     VII. 


CHAPTER   XX. 


KATE  was  very  much  perplexed 
by  her  interview  with  her  lover, 
and  by  the  abrupt  conclusion  of  his 
visit.  She  was  very  sweet-temper- 
ed and  good-natured,  and  could  not 
bear  to  vex  any  one ;  but  perhaps 
it  pained  her  secretly  a  little  to  be 
brought  in  contact  with  those  very 
strong  feelings  which  she  scarcely 
understood,  and  which  did  not  bear 
much  resemblance  to  her  own  ten- 
der, affectionate,  caressing  love.  She 
wis  very  fond  of  John  ;  at  bottom 
ste  knew  and  felt  that  of  all  the 
men  she  had  ever  seen,  he  was  the 
man  whom  she  preferred  trusting 
her  life  and  happiness  to.  Had  she 
been  driven  to  the  very  depths,  and 
power  given  her  to  express  her  feel- 
ings, this  would  have  been  what 
she  would  have  said  }  and  when 
opportunity  served  she  was  very 
willing  to  give  him  her  smiles, 
her  sweet  words,  to  lean  her  head 
against  him,  caressing  and  depend- 
ent, to  bestow  even  a  soft  unim- 
passioned  kiss;  but  to  think  of 
nothing  but  John,  to  resign  any 
part  of  her  duties  as  mistress  of 
the  house,  or  to  neglect  other  peo- 
ple, and  make  them  uncomfortable, 
on  account  of  him,  would  never 
h;ive  occurred  to  her.  And  there 
was  in  her  mind  at  the  same 
time  something  of  that  fatal  cu- 
riosity which  so  often  attends 
power.  She  wanted  to  know  how 
lar  her  power  could  go  :  it  gave  her 
a  thrill  of  excitement  to  speculate 
upon  just  touching  the  utmost 
borders  of  it,  coming  to  the  verge 
of  loss  and  despair,  and  then  mend- 
ing everything  with  a  touch  of  her 
h  md  or  sudden  smile.  By  nature 
K  ate  seemed  to  have  been  so  com- 
pletely separated  from  all  tragi- 
cal possibilities.  She  had  never 
wanted  anything  in  all  her  life 
that  had  not  been  procured  for 
her.  Everything  had  given  way  to 


her,  everything  conspired  to  give 
her  her  will.  And  what  if  she 
should  give  herself  one  supreme 
pleasure  to  end  with,  and  skirt  the 
very  edge  of  the  abyss,  and  feel 
the  awful  thrill  of  danger,  and  go 
just  within  a  hair's-breadth  of  de- 
struction 1  Kate's  heart  beat  as 
the  thought  occurred  to  her.  If 
she  could  do  this,  then  she  might 
sip  the  very  essence  of  tragedy, 
and  never  more  be  obliged  to 
despise  herself  as  ignorant  of  in- 
tense emotions  —  while  yet  she 
would  still  keep  her  own  happiness 
all  the  time  to  fall  back  upon.  Such 
was  the  thought — we  cannot  call  it 
project — which  gradually  shaped 
itself  in  Kate's  mind,  and  which 
accident  went  so  far  to  carry  out. 

"So  he  has  gone,"  her  father 
said  to  her ;  "we  have  not  paid 
our  deliverer  sufficient  attention, 
I  suppose." 

"  Papa,  you  know  I  will  not  have 
him  talked  of  so/'  cried  Kate  ; "  he 
went  away  because  he  chose  to  go. 
I  am  dreadfully  sorry ;  and  it  makes 
me  think  a  great  deal  less  of  the 
people  who  are  staying  here,  not  of 
John." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  " 
said  her  father. 

"Because  they  did  not  under- 
stand him  better,"  said  Kate,  with 
flashing  eyes;  "they  took  their  cue 
from  you,  papa  —  not  from  me — 
which  shows  what  they  are  ;  for  of 
course  it  is  the  lady  of  the  house 
who  has  to  be  followed,  not  the 
gentleman.  And  he  did  not  see 
anything  of  me,  which  was  what  he 
came  for.  I  only  wonder  that  he 
should  have  stayed  a  single  day." 

"  That  is  complimentary  to  us," 
said  her  father,  and  then  he  looked 
her  keenly  in  the  face.  "  It  is  not 
much  use  trying  to  deceive  me,"  he 
said.  "You  have  quarrelled  with 
Mitford ;  why  don't  you  tell  me  so 


610 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


at  once  1  You  have  no  reproach  to 
expect  from  me." 

"  I  have  not  quarrelled  with  Mr 
Mitford,"  said  Kate,  raising  her 
head  with  an  amount  of  indignation 
for  which  Mr  Crediton  was  not 
prepared. 

"  No,  by  Jove  !  you  need  not  ex- 
pect any  reproaches  from  me ;  a 
good  riddance,  I  should  be  disposed 
to  say.  The  fellow  begins  to  get 
intolerable.  Between  you  and  me, 
Kate,  I  would  almost  rather  the 
Bank  had  been  burnt  to  the  ground 
than  owe  all  this  to  a  man  I " 

"  Papa,"  said  Kate,  loftily,  "  the 
man  you  are  speaking  of  is  engaged 
to  be  married  to  me." 

Upon  which  Mr  Crediton  laugh- 
ed. This  cynical  Mephistophelian 
kind  of  laugh  was  not  in  his  way, 
neither  was  it  usual  with  him  to 
swear  by  Jove  ;  but  he  was  aggra- 
vated, and  his  mind  was  twisted 
quite  out  of  its  general  strain.  No 
doubt  it  is  very  hard  to  have  favours 
heaped  upon  you  by  a  man  whom 
you  do  not  like.  And  then  he  had 
the  feeling  which  embittered  his 
dislike,  that  for  every  good  service 
John  had  done  him,  he  had  repaid 
him  with  harm.  As  a  recompense 
for  his  daughter's  life,  he  had  placed 
her  lover  in  the  dingy  outer  office — 
a  clerk  with  more  pretensions  and 
less  prospect  of  success  than  any  of 
the  rest.  As  a  reward  for  the  de- 
votion which  had  saved  him  his 
property,  he  made  his  house,  if  not 
disagreeable,  at  least  unattractive  to 
his  visitor,  and  now  felt  a  certain 
vigorous  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
of  having  beaten  him  off  the  field. 
"  That  fellow  !  "  he  said,  and  nat- 
tered himself  that  Kate  too  was 
getting  tired  of  him.  John  had 
not  even  taken  his  preferment 
gratefully  and  humbly,  as  would 
have  been  natural ;  but  insisted 
upon  taking  possession  of  Kate 
whenever  he  could  monopolise  her 
society,  and  looked  as  black  as  night 
when  she  was  not  at  his  call.  In- 
stead of  being  overjoyed  with  the 
prospect  of  going  to  Fernwood  at 
any  price,  he  had  the  assurance  to 


resent  his  cool  reception  and  to  cut 
short  his  visit,  as  if  he  were  on  an 
equal  or  even  superior  footing.  Mr 
Crediton  was  very  glad  to  get  rid 
of  him,  but  yet  he  was  furious  at 
his  presumption  in  venturing  to 
take  it  upon  himself  to  go  away. 
It  was  a  curious  position  alto- 
gether. He  dared  not  be  rude 
to  the  man  who  had  done  so 
much  for  him  ;  everybody  would 
have  called  shame  on  him  had 
he  attempted  it ;  and  yet  he 
began  to  hate  him  for  his  ser- 
vices. And  at  the  same  time  he 
had  the  substantial  foundation  of 
justice  to  rest  upon,  that  in  point 
of  fact  John  Mitford  was  not  a 
suitable  match  for  Kate  Crediton. 
It  was  in  this  mood  that  he  ac- 
costed Kate,  almost  expecting  to 
find  her  disposed  to  respond  in  his 
own  vein. 

"There  is  many  a  slip  between 
the  cup  and  the  lip,"  he  said  oracu- 
larly, and  left  her  standing  where 
he  had  found  her,  almost  diverted 
from  her  own  thoughts  by  indigna- 
tion and  that  healthful  impulse  of 
opposition  which  springs  so  natu- 
rally in  the  young  human  breast. 
"  There  shall  be  no  slips  in  John's 
cup,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a 
certain  fury,  as  she  turned  away, 
not  thinking  much  of  the  unity  of 
the  metaphor.  No,  nothing  should 
interfere  with  John's  happiness ;  at 
least  nothing  should  permanently 
interfere  with  it.  The  course  of 
true  love  should  certainly  be  made 
to  run  smooth  for  him,  and  every- 
thing should  go  right — at  the  last. 
That,  of  course,  was  all  that  was 
necessary — the  most  severe  critic 
could  not  demand  more  than  a 
happy  conclusion.  "  Papa  is  very, 
very  much  mistaken  if  he  thinks 
he  can  make  me  a  traitor  to  John," 
Kate  said  within  herself,  indignant- 
ly, and  hurried  off"  to  put  on  her 
habit,  and  went  out  to  ride  with 
a  countenance  severe  in  conscious 
virtue.  She  was  pleased  that  it  was 
Fred  Huntley  who  kept  most  close- 
ly by  her  side  all  the  way.  For 
one  thing,  he  rode  very  well,  which 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


611 


is  always  a  recommendation;  and 
then  she  felt  that  she  could  speak 
to  him  of  the  subject  which  was 
most  in  her  thoughts.  It  was  true 
tb  at  she  had  almost  quarrelled  with 
her  lover  on  Fred's  account,  and 
tLat  there  had  been  a  moment  when 
her  mind  was  full  of  the  thought 
that  her  choice  must  lie  between 
the  two.  But  Kate  forgot  these 
warnings  in  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  and  in  her  longing  for 
confidential  communion  with  some- 
body who  was  interested  in  John. 

"  Papa  has  been  making  himself 
so  disagreeable  to-day,"  she  said. 
"  No,  I  know  I  have  not  much  to 
complain  of  in  that  way;  generally 
he  is  very  good ;  but  this  morning 
— though  perhaps  I  ought  not  to 
say  anything  about  it,"  Kate  con- 
cluded with  a  sigh. 

"It  is  a  way  our  fathers  have," 
said  Fred,  "  though  they  ought  to 
know  better  at  their  time  of  life ; 
but  Mr  Crediton  is  a  model  in  his 
way — small  blame  to  him  when  he 
has  only  to  deal  with " 

"  Me,"  said  Kate  ;  "  please  don't 
pay  me  any  compliments ;  we  don't 
really  like  them,  you  know,  though 
we  have  to  pretend  to.  I  know  I 
am  sometimes  very  aggravating;  but 
if  there  is  any  good  in  a  girl  at  all, 
she  must  stand  up  for  anybody 
who — who  is  fond  of  her  :  don't 
you  think  so,  Mr  Huntley?  What 
could  any  one  think  of  her  if  she 
had  not  the  heart  to  do  that  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  fol- 
low," said  Fred  ;  "  to  stand  up  for 
everybody  who  is  fond  of  her?  but 
in  that  case  your  life  would  be  a 
sories  of  standings -up  for  some- 
body or  other — and  one  might  have 
too  much  of  that." 

"  There  you  go  again,"  said  Kate ; 
"  another  compliment  \  when  that 
is  not  in  the  least  what  I  want.  I 
^ant  backing  up  myself.  I  want 
— advice." 

"Indeed,  indeed,"  said  Fred.  "I 
am  quite  ready  to  give  any  quantity 
of  backing  up — on  the  terms  you 
have  just  mentioned  ;  or — advice." 

"  Well,"  said  Kate,  with  a  certain 

VOL.  CVIT. — NO.  DCLV. 


softness  in  her  tone — she  could  not 
help  being  slightly  caressing  to  any- 
body she  talked  confidentially  with 
— "  you  know  we  have  been  friends 
almost  all  our  lives  ;  at  least  I  was 
a  very  small  little  girl  when  I  first 
knew  you ;  we  used  to  call  you  Fred 
in  those  days — Minnie  and  Lizzie 
and  I " 

"  Minnie  and  Lizzie  call  me  Fred 
still,"  said  her  companion,  dryly; 
and  he  brought  his  horse  very  close, 
almost  too  close,  to  her  side. 

"  Of  course,  they  are  your  sis- 
ters," said  Kate ;  "but  that  was  not 
what  I  meant.  I  meant  that  it  was 
natural  I  should  talk  to  you.  I  have 
not  got  any  brother  to  advise  me, 
and  papa  has  been  so  disagreeable ; 
and  then,  besides  knowing  me  so 
well,  you  are  quite  intimate — with 
— poor  John." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Fred,  with 
apparent  hesitation,  "  I  meant  to 
have  spoken  to  you  on  that  subject. 
I  fear  Mitford  does  not  like  it.  I 
don't  blame  him.  If  I  had  been  as 
fortunate  as  he  is — pardon  the  sup- 
position— I  don't  think  I  should 
have  liked  you — I  mean  the  lady — 
to  talk  to  any  other  man  of  me." 

Kate  did  not  answer  for  some 
minutes.  She  went  along  very 
slowly,  her  head  and  her  horse's 
drooping  in  harmony;  and  then 
she  suddenly  roused  herself  as  they 
came  to  a  level  stretch  of  turf,  and 
with  a  little  wave  of  her  hand  went 
off  at  full  speed.  Such  abrupt 
changes  were  familiar  to  all  her 
friends,  but  Fred  had  a  feeling  that 
the  caprice  for  once  was  policy, 
and  that  she  wanted  time  to  re- 
cover herself,  and  make  up  her 
mind  what  kind  of  answer  she 
would  give.  Perhaps  she  had  an- 
other notion  too,  and  had  half 
hoped  to  shake  off  her  attend- 
ant, and  pick  up  some  one  else 
who  would  not  tempt  her  into 
paths  so  difficult.  However  that 
might  be,  the  fact  was  that  she  did 
not  shake  Fred  off,  but  found  him 
at  her  side  when  she  drew  rein  and 
breath  a  good  way  ahead  of  the  rest 
of  the  party. 

2T 


612 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


"That  was  sudden/'  he  said, 
with  a  smile,  stopping  as  she  did, 
and  timing  all  his  movements  to 
hers  with  a  deference  that  half 
flattered,  half  annoyed  her.  And 
Kate  was  silent  again.  Her  spirit 
failed  at  this  emergency — or  else, 
which  was  more  likely,  she  had  not 
made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  an 
emergency,  or  that  now  was  the 
moment  when  any  decision  must 
be  made. 

"I  don't  understand  why  you 
should  feel  like  that,"  she  said,  all 
at  once.  "  It  is  natural  to  talk 
about  people  one — cares  for;  and 
who  should  one  talk  of  them  to 
but  their  friends  ?  I  told  you  papa 
had  been  dreadfully  disagreeable 
all  this  time — to  him  ;  I  am  sure 
I  can't  think  why — unless  it  is  to 
make  me  unhappy ;  and  I  am — 
whenever  I  think  of  it,"  Kate  add- 
ed, with  a  candour  of  which  she 
herself  was  unaware. 

"  I  think  I  can  understand  quite 
well  why,"  said  Fred.  "It  is  nat- 
ural enough.  I  daresay  he  hates 
every  fellow  that  ventures  to  look 
at  you  ;  and  as  for  a  man  who  hopes 
to  take  you  from  him  altogether — I 
don't  see  how  the  best  of  Christians 
could  be  expected  to  stand  that." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Kate.  "  All 
the  books  say  that  our  fathers  and 
mothers  are  only  too  glad  to  get  rid 
of  us.  I  don't  think,  however,  it 
would  be  true  to  say  that  of  papa. 
He  would  be  very  lonely.  But  in 
that  case,  don't  you  think  the  thing 
would  be  to  make  very  good  friends 
with — poor  John  ?" 

Fred  shook  his  head  with  every 
appearance  of  profound  gravity  and 
deliberation.  "  I  do  not  think 
my  virtue  would  be  equal  to  such 
an  exertion,"  he  said,  with  great 
seriousness,  "  if  I  were  your  papa." 

"  You  are  very  absurd,"  said 
Kate,  laughing;  "as  if  you  could 
be  my  papa !  Yes,  indeed,  it  is 
easy  to  laugh ;  but  if  you  had  as 
much  on  your  mind  as  I  have,  Mr 
Huntley " 

"  You  said  you  used  to  call  me 
Fred." 


"That  was  only  with  your  sis- 
ters," said  Kate.  We  are  too  old  for 
that  now  ;  and,  besides,  if  you  were 
my  real  friend,  and  felt  for  me,  you 
would  not  talk  nonsense  when  I  tell 
you  how  much  I  have  on  my  mind." 

"  Am  I  talking  nonsense  1 "  said 
Fred  ;  and  just  then,  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  their  companions 
overtook  them  and  interrupted  the 
conversation,  just,  Kate  said  to  her- 
self, as  it  began  to  be  interesting. 
And  she  had  not  really  been  able 
to  obtain  any  advice  from  this  old 
friend  of  her  own  and  of  John's, 
who  was,  she  reflected,  of  all  people 
the  right  one  to  consult.  John 
had  been  impatient  about  it,  but 
of  course  it  was  simply  because 
John  did  not  know.  He  thought 
Fred  was  intruding  between  them, 
attempting  to  take  his  own  place, 
which  was,  oh,  such  folly !  Fred 
of  all  men  !  who  never  even  looks  at 
me  !  said  Kate.  And  then  her  con- 
science smote  her  a  little,  for  Fred 
had  surely  looked  at  her,  even  this 
very  day,  more  perhaps  than  John 
would  have  approved  of.  However, 
he  was  perfectly  innocent,  he  was  a 
man  who  never  had  been  fond  of 
any  girl — who  was  a  fellow  of  a 
college,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  No 
recollection  of  the  moment  when 
they  had  both  stood  by  her  in  the 
Fanshawe  garden,  and  she  had  felt 
herself  driven,  as  it  were,  to  make 
a  choice  between  them,  came  back 
to  Kate's  mind  now.  She  wanted 
to  talk  about  the  circumstances  and 
discuss  the  matter  with  somebody  ; 
and  Fred,  who  was  John's  friend, 
was  the  first  who  came  in  her  way. 
This  was  the  innocent,  natural  ex- 
planation,— most  natural,  most  in- 
nocent; and  how  odd,  how  strange, 
how  unkind  it  was  of  John  to  have 
objected  to  it !  Though  she  would 
not  really  have  vexed  John  for  the 
world,  yet  somehow  his  unreason- 
able dislike  to  Fred  rather  stimu- 
lated than  prevented  her  from  seek- 
ing Fred's  advice.  Why  should  she 
give  in  to  an  injustice  1  And  surely 
in  such  a  matter  it  was  she  who 
must  know  best. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


613 


As  for  Fred  Huntley,  there  was 
a  curious  combat  going  on  within 
him  which  he  concealed  skilfully 
from  everybody,  and  even  labo- 
riously from  himself.  He  pre- 
tsnded  not  to  be  aware  of  the 
1  ttle  internal  controversy.  When 
Us  heart  gave  him  a  little  tug  and 
i  itimation  that  he  was  John  Mit- 
ford's  friend,  and  ought  to  guard 
I  is  interests,  he  acquiesced  without 
allowing  that  any  question  on  the 
natter  was  possible.  Of  course  he 
was  John's  friend — of  course  he 
would  stand  by  him ;  and  he  only 
saw  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  and 
took  no  notice  of,  the  little  imp 
which  in  a  corner  of  his  mind  was 
gibing  at  this  conscientious  resolu- 
tion. And  then  he  said  to  himself 
Low  pretty  Kate  Crediton  looked 
to-day,  when  she  suddenly  woke 
out  of  her  reverie,  and  gathered 
up  her  reins  and  went  off  like  a 
wild  creature,  her  horse  and  she 
one  being,  over  the  level  turf.  He 
could  not  but  allow  it  was  very  odd 
that  he  had  never  remarked  it  be- 
fore. He  supposed  she  must  have 
been  as  pretty  all  these  years,  when 
lie  had  seen  her  growing  from  sum- 
mer to  summer  into  fuller  bloom. 
But  the  fact  was  that  he  had  never 
taken  any  notice  of  her  until  now ; 
tmd  he  did  not  know  how  to  ex- 
plain it.  But  even  while  the 
thought  passed  through  his  mind, 
it  appeared  to  Fred  as  if  the  lit- 
tle demon,  whom  he  could  just 
perceive  with  the  tail  of  the  eye 
of  his  mind,  so  to  speak,  made  a 
grimace  at  him,  as  much  as  to  say, 


I  know  the  reason  why.  Imperti- 
nent little  imp  !  Fred  turned  and 
looked  himself  full  in  the  face,  as 
it  were,  and  there  was  no  demon 
visible.  It  was  only  to  be  seen 
with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  when  his 
immediate  attention  was  fixed  on 
other  things. 

And  thus  the  day  passed  on  at 
Fernwood,  with  the  ride  and  the 
talk  ;  and  at  night  the  great  dinner, 
which  was  like  a  picture,  with  its 
heaps  of  flowers  on  the  table,  and 
pretty  toilettes  and  pretty  faces 
round  it — a  long  day  for  those  who 
had  no  particular  interest,  and  a 
short  day  for  those  who  were  better 
occupied.  Lady  Winton,  who  had 
known  Mrs  Mitford  when  she  was 
a  girl,  yawned  over  her  dressing, 
and  told  her  confidential  maid 
drearily  that  she  could  not  think 
why  she  had  come,  and  wished  she 
might  go,  except  that  the  next  place 
would  be  just  as  bad.  But  Fred 
felt  in  his  calm  veins  a  little  thrill 
of  excitement,  as  of  a  man  setting 
forth  in  an  unknown  country,  and 
found  Fernwood  much  more  inte- 
resting than  he  had  ever  done  be- 
fore. "  They  have  always  such  nice 
people — Lady  Winton  for  one/'  he 
said  to  the  man  who  sat  next  him 
after  dinner ;  for  Lady  Winton  was 
a  very  clever  woman,  and  rather 
noted  in  society.  Such  was  the 
fashion  of  life  at  Fernwood,  when 
John  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  his 
mother's  lamp  at  Fanshawe  Eegis, 
and  did  his  best  to  make  the  even- 
ing cheerful  for  her,  for  the  first 
time  for  three  months. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


The  conversation  above  recorded 
was,  it  may  be  supposed,  very  far 
from  being  the  last  on  so  tempting  a 
subject.  In  short,  the  two  who  had 
thus  a  topic  to  themselves  did  with 
it  what  two  people  invariably  do 
with  a  private  occasion  for  talk, 
— produced  it  perpetually,  had  little 
snatches  of  discussion  over  it,  which 
were  broken  off  as  soon  as  any 


stranger  appeared,  and  gradually 
got  into  a  confidential  and  myste- 
rious intimacy.  Kate,  to  do  her 
justice,  had  no  such  intention. 
None  of  the  girls  about  her  knew 
John  sufficiently  well  to  discuss 
him.  They  had  seen  him  but  for 
these  two  days,  when  he  had  been 
distrait,  preoccupied,  and  suffering ; 
and  indeed  her  friends  did  not  ad- 


614 


John. —Part  VI T. 


[May 


mire  her  choice,  and  Madeline  Win- 
ton,  who  was  her  chief  intimate, 
had  not  hesitated  to  say  so.  "  Of 
course  I  don't  doubt  Mr  Mitford  is 
very  nice,"  had  been  Miss  Winton's 
deliverance  ;  "  but  if  you  really  ask 
my  opinion,  Kate,  I  must  say  he 
did  not  captivate  me.7'  "  I  did  not 
want  him  to  captivate  you/'  Kate 
had  answered,  with  some  heat. 
But  nevertheless  it  is  discouraging 
to  have  your  confidences  about  your 
betrothed  thus  summarily  checked. 
And  on  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  was 
more  piquant  to  have  Fred  Hunt- 
ley  for  a  confidant  than  Madeline 
Winton.  He  never  snubbed  her. 
To  be  sure,  with  him  it  was  not 
possible  to  indulge  in  very  much 
enthusiasm  over  the  excellences  of 
the  beloved;  but  that  was  not  in 
any  case  Kate's  way ;  and  the  mat- 
ter, without  doubt,  was  full  of  dif- 
ficulties :  how  to  overcome  Mr 
Crediton's  passive  but  unfaltering 
resistance — how  to  bring  the  father 
and  the  lover  to  something  like  an 
understanding  of  each  other — how 
to  satisfy  John  and  smooth  down 
his  asperities  and  make  him  con- 
tent with  his  position.  "  It  is  not 
that  he  is  discontented,"  Kate  said, 
with  an  anxious  pucker  on  her 
brow,  on  one  of  those  evenings 
when  Fred  had  placed  a  chair  for 
her  just  at  the  corner  of  the  boudoir, 
where  she  could  see  all  that  was 
going  on  in  the  great  drawing-room, 
and  be  able  to  interpose  should 
amusements  flag.  John  would 
never  have  thought  of  such  a  clever 
contrivance,  which  kept  her  mind 
easy  about  her  guests,  and  yet  left 
her  a  little  freedom  for  herself. 
"  It  is  not  that  he  is  discontented," 
she  repeated ;  "  I  hope  he  is  too 
fond  of  me  for  that — but " 

"  I  don't  understand  how  such 
a  word  as  discontent  could  be 
spoken  in  the  same  breath  with  his 
name,"  said  Fred — "  a  lucky  fellow ! 
No,  surely  it  cannot  be  that." 

"  I  told  you  it  was  not  discon- 
tent," Kate  said,  almost  sharply  ; 
"  and  as  for  lucky  and  all  that,  you 
always  make  me  angry  with  your 


nonsense — when  we  are  talking 
gravely  of  a  subject  which  is  of  so 
much  importance ;  at  least  it  is  of 
great  importance  to  me." 

"  I  think  you  might  know  by 
this  time,"  said  Fred,  with  soft  re- 
proach, "  that  everything  that  con- 
cerns you  is  important  to  me." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  that 
soft  glow  of  gratitude  and  thanks 
in  her  eyes  which  had  subdued 
John,  and  half  extended  to  him  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  "  Yes,  indeed," 
she  said,  "  you  are  very,  very  kind. 
I  don't  know  why  I  talk  to  you 
like  this.  I  can't  talk  so  to  anybody 
else.  And  I  do  so  want  some  one 
to  feel  for  me.  Is  it  very  selfish  ? 
I  am  afraid  it  is." 

"  If  it  is  selfish,  I  hope  you  will 
always  be  selfish,"  said  Fred,  with 
a  fervour  which  was  out  of  place, 
considering  all  things,  and  yet  was 
natural  enough ;  and  though  he 
could  not  kiss  the  finger-tips  with 
so  many  eyes  looking  on,  he  squeezed 
them  furtively  in  the  shadow  of  her 
dress.  And  then  for  one  moment 
they  looked  at  each  other  and  felt 
they  were  going  wrong.  To  Fred, 
I  am  afraid,  the  feeling  was  not 
new,  nor  so  painful  as  it  ought  to 
have  been  ;  but  it  sent  the  blood 
pulsing  suddenly  with  a  curious 
thrill  up  to  Kate's  very  hair,  start- 
ling her  as  if  she  had  received  an 
electric  shock.  And  then  next  mo- 
ment she  said  to  herself,  "  Non- 
sense !  it  is  only  Fred ;  he  is  fond 
of  me  as  if  he  were  my  brother. 
And  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have 
a  brother!"  she  added  unconscious- 
ly, with  a  half -uttered  sigh. 

"  Did  you  speak  1 "  said  Fred. 

"  No  ;  I  was  only  thinking  how 
nice  it  would  be — if  you  were  my 
real  brother,"  said  Kate.  "  How  I 
wish  you  were  my  brother !  You 
have  always  been  so  kind ;  and 
then  you  would  settle  it  all  for  me, 
and  everything  would  come  right. 
It  would  have  been  so  nice  for  papa 
too  to  have  had  a  son  like  you.  He 
would  not  have  minded  losing  me 
so  much  ;  and  he  would  have  been 
so  proud  of  your  first  class  and  all 


1370.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


615 


that.  What  a  nice  arrangement 
it  would  have  been  altogether  !  " 
she  ran  on,  beginning  to  see  a 
little  fun  in  the  suggestion,  which 
even  in  her  present  anxious  state 
was  sweet  to  her.  "  I  wonder,  you 
know — I  don't  mean  to  be  wicked, 
but  I  do  wonder — why  Providence 
shouldn't  think  of  such  things.  It 
would  have  been  so  very,  very  nice 
both  for  me  and  for  papa!  " 

To  this  Fred  made  no  reply  :  he 
even  looked  a  little  glum,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  and  wondered, 
after  all,  was  she  laughing  at  him 
as  well  as  at  the  rest  of  the  world  1 
and  the  general  company,  as  it  hap- 
pened, wanted  a  little  stirring  up 
j  ast  at  that  particular  moment,  and 
Kate  had  darted  off  before  he  was 
aware,  and  was  here  and  there 
among  her  guests  looking  as  if  vex- 
ation of  any  kind  had  never  come 
near  her.  Fred  asked  himself,  did 
she  mean  what  she  said — was  she 
really  moved  by  the  difficulties  that 
lay  in  John  Mitford's  way,  or  did 
she  care  anything  about  John  Mit- 
f  ord  ?  and  what  was  still  more  im- 
portant, what  did  she  mean  about 
himself  1 — did  she  mean  anything  1 
— was  she  playing  with  him  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse  1  or  was  it 
all  real  for  the  moment — her  anxie- 
ties, her  friendship,  all  her  winning 
ways  1 — for  they  were  winning  ways, 
though  he  did  not  feel  sure  what 
faith  was  to  be  put  in  them ;  and 
Fred  felt  a  certain  pleasant  weak- 
ness about  his  heart  at  the  very 
thought  of  her — though  she  was 
not  his  but  another  man's  Kate, 
and  though  he  had  no  desire  to  be 
her  brother.  The  magic  had  work- 
ed so  upon  him  that  he  kept  still  in 
that  corner  waiting  and  wondering 
whether  she  would  come  back,  and 
more  satisfied  with  that  absurd  oc- 
( upation  than  with  the  ordinary  in- 
tercourse of  society,  which  he  might 
have  had,  had  he  chosen.  There 
were  various  men  within  reach  with 
whom  he  could  have  talked  plea- 
santly enough  in  other  circum- 
stances ;  and  there  were  women 
whom  he  liked — Lady  Winton,  for 


instance — who  was  very  clever,  and  a 
great  friend  of  Fred's.  Yet  instead 
of  consoling  himself  with  any  of 
these  resources,  he  sat  in  his  corner, 
going  over  and  over  the  foolish 
little  conversation  which  had  just 
passed,  watching  Kate's  movements, 
and  wondering  if  she  would  come 
back.  The  time  was — and  that  not 
so  very  long  ago — when  he  would 
have  thought  Lady  Winton's  com- 
pany worth  twenty  of  Kate  Credi- 
ton's  ;  though  Lady  Winton  was  as 
old  as  his  mother,  and  as  free  from 
any  thought  of  flirting  with  her  son's 
friend.  But  something  had  sud- 
denly made  the  very  idea  of  Kate 
Crediton  much  more  captivating 
than  her  ladyship's  wit  and  wis- 
dom. What  was  it  1  Is  it  quite  fair 
to  Mitford  1  Fred  even  asked  him- 
self faintly,  though  he  gave  himself 
no  answer.  At  the  last,  however,  his 
patience  was  rewarded.  Kate  came 
back  after  a  long  interval,  after  she 
had  suggested  "  a  little  music/'  and 
had  herself  sung,  and  successfully 
started  the  performances  of  the 
evening.  She  came  back  to  Fred, 
as  she  had  never  gone  back  to  John, 
— partly,  perhaps,  because  Fred  was 
not  much  to  her,  and  John  was  a 
great  deal, — although  by  this  time 
the  confidential  intercourse  between 
Fred  and  herself  had  begun  to  catch 
the  general  eye.  But  neverthe- 
less she  came  back,  and  slid  into 
the  easy-chair  again,  and  threw  her- 
self back,  and  gave  herself  up  to 
enjoyment  of  the  music.  "  This  is 
so  sweet.  Please  don't  talk  to  me 
— any  one,"  she  said,  audibly.  And 
Fred  did  not  talk  ;  but  he  sat  half 
behind  her,  half  concealed  by  her 
chair  and  dress,  and  felt  a  curious 
beatitude  steal  over  him.  Why1? 
But  he  could  not  tell,  and  he  did 
not  ask  ; — he  felt  it,  that  was  all. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Kate  said,  with 
a  certain  abruptness,  in  the  middle 
of  a  bar,  "  that  I  think  everything 
might  come  right,  Mr  Huntley,  if 
you  would  really  use  your  influence ; 
if  you  would  represent  to  papa  how 
good  he  is  ;  and  if  you  would  only 
be  patient  with  him,  and  show  him 


616 


John.— Part  VI 7. 


[May 


how  much  better  things  might  be. 
You  men  are  so  queer.  If  it  were 
me,  I  would  put  on  any  look,  it 
would  not  matter.  Could  there  be 
anything  wrong  in  putting  on  a 
look  just  for  a  little  while,  when  it 
might  be  so  useful  with  papa  1  Any 
girl  would  do  it  naturally,"  Kate 
continued,  in  a  slightly  aggrieved 
tone.  "  I  know  you  men  are  hon- 
ester,  and  superior,  and  all  that ; 
but  when  one  has  not  a  bad  motive, 
it  can't  be  any  harm  to  make-believe 
a  little,  for  so  short  a  time." 

"  I  think  I  could  make-believe 
as  much  and  as  long  as  you  liked," 
said  Fred,  "if  you  would  conde- 
scend to  ask  me." 

"Everybody  does  it — a  little — 
in  ordinary  society,"  said  Kate.  "  Of 
course  we  all  smile  and  say  things 
we  don't  mean.  And  wouldn't  it 
be  all  the  more  innocent  if  one  had 
a  good  motive  1  You  men  are  so 
stiff  and  so  strange.  You  can  put 
on  looks  easily  enough  when  it  is 
for  your  own  ends ;  and  then,  when 
one  wants  you  just  to  be  a  little 
prudent " 

"  Happy  Mitford  !  "  said  Fred. 
"  I  should  stand  on  my  head,  if  you 
took  the  trouble  to  ask  me." 

"  That  is  not  the  question,"  said 
Kate,  giving  her  pretty  head  a  little 
shake,  as  if  to  shake  off  the  suspi- 
cion of  a  blush  which  had  come 
against  her  will ;  "  why  should  I 
ask  you  to  stand  on  your  head  ]  but 
it  might  be  of  so  much  use  to  us, 
if  John  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  conciliate  poor  papa." 

"  I  see  the  difference,"  said  Fred, 
drawing  back,  with  not  unnatural 
bitterness.  "  Pardon  me,  Miss 
Crediton,  for  thinking  of  my  own 
readiness  to  obey  you,  when  you 
were  thinking  of  something  so  much 
more  important." 

"  Now  you  are  vexed,"  said  Kate, 
turning  to  him  with  her  natural 
sweetness.  "  What  have  I  done  ? 
I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to  vex 
you.  I  was  only  thinking  of  — 
poor  John." 

Fred  was  silent.  He  had  almost 
betrayed  himself,  and  it  was  hard 


to  make  any  reply.  He  swallowed 
his  vexation  as  he  best  could,  and 
represented  to  himself  that  he  had 
no  right  to  be  vexed.  Of  course  it 
was  John  she  was  thinking  of.  He 
gave  a  sudden  glance  back  on  John's 
past  life,  making  a  rapid  compari- 
son. He  had  not  been  so  successful, 
nor  had  he  distinguished  himself,  as 
Fred  had  done.  The  good  things 
had  hitherto  been  his,  and  not  John 
Mitford's.  He  had  outstripped  the 
other  in  the  race  again  and  again  ; 
and  now  for  the  first  time  here  was 
a  race  which  had  not  been  to  the 
swift.  That  fellow !  he  said  to 
himself,  as  Mr  Crediton  had  done ; 
though  even  in  saying  so  he  was 
aware  that  he  was  unjust.  And, 
to  be  sure,  he  had  known  that  John 
was  more  interesting  to  Kate  than 
he  was;  yet  he  felt  it  hard.  He 
drew  back  a  little,  and  bit  his  lip, 
and  twisted  his  thumbs,  and  looked 
black  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Don't,  please  ! "  said  Kate,  car- 
ried away  by  her  desire  of  smooth- 
ing things  down  and  making  every- 
body comfortable.  "  I  have  nearly 
quarrelled  with  papa.  Don't  you 
quarrel  with  me  too." 

"  I  quarrel  with  you  ! "  cried 
Fred,  leaning  forward  once  more, 
and  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  that 
made  Kate  quake ;  and  then  he 
paused  and  added,  in  restrained 
tones  that  had  a  thrill  of  passion 
in  them,  "Do  anything  with  me 
you  like.  I  will  try  not  to  shrink 
from  anything  you  want  me  to  do. 
But  Kate,  Kate,  don't  forget  I  am 
a  man — as  well  as  John." 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Kate  that 
Lady  Winton  came  up  at  that  mo- 
ment and  took  a  seat  near  her,  and 
put  an  effectual  stop  to  any  more 
whispering.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
nonsense  to  say  that  she  was  very 
much  surprised  by  this  little  out- 
break of  feeling.  It  is  common  to 
admire  and  wonder  at  the  unf  athom- 
ableness  of  women ;  and,  like  most 
other  common  and  popular  ideas,  it 
is  great  nonsense ;  for  women  are  no 
more  mysterious  to  men  than  men 
are  to  women,  and  both  are  equally 


3870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


617 


incomprehensible.  But  perhaps 
the  sentiments  of  a  young  woman 
in  respect  to  the  man  who  pays 
court  to  her,  are  really  as  curious 
things  as  are  to  be  found  within 
the  range  of  humanity.  The  girl 
has  no  intention  to  be  cruel — is  no 
coquette — and  would  be  astonished 
beyond  measure  if  she  could  fully 
realise  what  she  is  herself  doing. 
And  yet  there  is  a  curiosity,  an  in- 
terest, in  admiration  for  itself — in 
love  (still  more)  for  itself — which 
draw  her  on  unawares.  It  requires 
&  strong  mind,  or  an  insensible 
heart,  not  to  be  interested  in  this 
investigation  unawares,  and  some- 
t  imes  to  the  point  of  cruelty.  When 
she  knows  what  she  is  about,  of 
c  ourse  a  good  girl  will  stop  short, 
f.nd  do  what  she  can  to  show  the 
infatuated  one  "  some  discourtesy," 
as  Sir  Lancelot  was  bidden  do  to 
Elaine ;  but  there  are  some  women, 
like  Lancelot,  who  cannot  be  dis- 
courteous, whatever  is  the  cost ; 
and  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  and  won- 
der, and  poignant  gratification  which 
ishalf  pain,  the  womanlookson  while 
that  costly  offering  is  made  to  her. 
It  is  cruel,  and  yet  it  is  not  meant 
to  be  cruel.  Such  were  Kate's  feel- 
ings now.  Was  it  possible  that 
Fred  Huntley  could  be  coming  to 
1he  point  of  loving  her — the  col- 
lected, cool,  composed  being  that 
he  was  1  What  kind  of  love  would 
his  be  1  How  would  it  move  him  ] 
Would  it  be  true  love,  or  only  a 
pretence  at  it  ?  These  questions 
iilled  her  with  a  curiosity  and  de- 
sire to  carry  on  the  experiment, 
\vhich  were  too  strong  to  be  re- 
sisted. She  was  glad  of  Lady 
Winton's  approach,  because  when 
it  comes  to  plain  speaking,  it  is  dif- 
iicult  to  pursue  this  subtle  inquiry 
without  compromising  one's  self. 
But  she  turned  half  round  and  gave 
him  a  wondering,  anxious  look. 
You  poor,  dear  fellow  !  what  can 
you  mean  ]  was  what  the  look  said ; 
and  it  was  not  the  kind  of  glance 
which  discourages  a  lover  either 
secret  or  avowed.  And  then  she 
turned  to  Lady  Winton,  who  had 


established  herself  at  Kate's  other 
side. 

"I  have  scarcely  seen  you  all 
day,"  she  said.  "  Madeline  told 
me  you  were  too  tired  to  talk,  and 
that  it  was  best  to  leave  you 
alone." 

"  That  was  very  true,"  said  Lady 
Wiuton,  "but  I  am  better  now, 
and  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  before  I  go  away.  Mr  Huntley, 
will  you  fetch  me  my  fan,  which  I 
have  left  on  the  piano1?  Thanks. 
Now  we  have  got  rid  of  him,  my 
dear,  I  can  say  what  I  have  to 
say." 

"But  probably  he  will  come 
back,"  said  Kate,  with  a  thrill  of 
fear. 

"I  don't  think  he  will.  Fred 
Huntley  has  a  great  deal  of  sense. 
When  I  send  him  off  with  a  com- 
mission like  that,  of  course  he 
knows  we  don't  want  him  here  ; 
and  I  am  so  glad  he  is  gone,  Kate, 
for  it  was  to  speak  of  him  I  came." 

"  To  speak  of— him  ! " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Win- 
ton.  "  Tell  me  frankly,  Kate,  as 
one  woman  to  another,  which  is  it 
to  be  1 " 

11  Which  is  what  to  be  ]— I  don't 
understand  you,"  said  Kate,  flush- 
ing crimson ;  "  which  of  which  1 
Lady  Winton,  I  can't  even  guess 
what  you  mean." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  can,"  said  her 
new  adviser.  "  My  dear,  it  is  not 
permitted  by  our  laws  to  have  two 
husbands,  and  that  makes  two 
lovers  very  dangerous — I  always 
warn  a  girl  against  it.  You  think, 
perhaps,  there  is  no  harm,  and  that 
one  of  them  will  be  wise  enough 
not  to  go  too  far  ;  but  they  will  go 
too  far,  those  silly  men — and  when 
they  don't,  we  despise  them,  my 
dear,"  said  the  experienced  woman. 
"  A  woman  may  shilly  -  shally, 
and  hold  off  and  on,  and  make  an 
entertainment  of  it — but  when  a 
man  is  capable  of  that  sort  of 
thing  he  is  not  worth  a  thought; 
and  so  I  ask,  which  is  it  to  be  ? " 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  that 
Lady  Winton,  like  so  many  clever 


618 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


women  of  her  age,  was  deeply 
learned  in  all  the  questions  that 
can  arise  between  men  and  women. 
She  had  studied  the  matter  at  first 
hand  of  course,  in  her  youth ;  and 
though  she  had  never  been  a  flirt, 
she  had  not  been  absolutely  de- 
void of  opportunity  for  study,  even 
in  her  maturer  years,  when  the 
faculty  of  observation  was  enlarged, 
and  ripe  judgment  had  come  ;  and 
accordingly  she  spoke  with  author- 
ity, as  one  fully  competent  to 
fathom  and  realise  the  question 
which  she  thus  fearlessly  opened. 
As  for  Kate,  she  changed  colour  a 
great  many  times  while  she  was 
being  addressed,  but  her  courage 
did  not  fail. 

"  Mr  Huntley  is  my  friend,"  she 
said,  facing  her  accuser  bravely : 
"  as  for  which  it  is  to  be,  I  intro- 
duced Mr  Mitford  to  you,  Lady 
Winton " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  and  that  is  what 
makes  me  ask ;  and  a  very  nice 
young  fellow,  I  am  sure — a  genu- 
ine, reliable  sort  of  young  man, 
Kate " 

"  Oh,  isn't  he  1 "  cried  that 
changeable  personage,  with  eyes 
glowing  and  sparkling;  "dear  Lady 
Winton,  you  always  understand — 
that  is  just  what  he  is — one  could 
trust  him  with  anything  and  he 
would  never  fail." 

"You  strange  girl,"  said  Lady 
Winton,  "what  do  you  mean?  Why, 
you  are  in  earnest!  and  yet  you 
sit  and  talk  with  Fred  Huntley  a 
whole  evening  in  a  corner,  and  do 
everything  you  can  to  break  the 
other  poor  fellow's  heart." 

"The  other  poor  fellow  is  not 
here,"  said  Kate,  with  a  half-alarm- 
ed glance  round  her.  If  it  came 
to  that,  she  felt  that  after  all  she 
would  not  have  liked  John  to  have 
watched  her  interview  with  her 
friend  and  his  :  and  then  she  per- 
ceived that  she  had  betrayed  her- 
self, and  coloured  high,  recollecting 


that  she  was  under  keen  feminine 
inspection  which  missed  nothing. 

"  Don't  trust  to  that,"  said  Lady 
Winton;  "  you  may  be  sure  there  is 
somebody  here  who  will  let  him 
know.  I  don't  say  much  about 
Fred  Huntley's  heart,  for  he  is 
very  well  able  to  take  care  of  that ; 
but,  Kate,  for  heaven's  sake,  mind 
what  you  are  about !  Don't  get 
into  the  habit  of  encouraging  one 
man  because  another  is  absent  and 
will  not  know.  Everybody  knows 
everything,  my  dear ;  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  secret ;  you  forget 
there  are  more  than  a  dozen  pairs 
of  eyes  in  this  very  room." 

"  Lady  Winton,"  said  Kate,  "  I 
am  not  afraid  of  any  one  seeing 
what  I  do.  I  hope  I  have  not 
done  anything  wrong ;  and  as  for 
Mr  Mitford,  I  know  him  and  he 
knows  me." 

"Well,  well— let  us  hope  so," 
said  Lady  Winton,  with  a  prolonged 
shake  of  her  head ;  "  and  I  hope  he 
is  more  philosophical  than  I  gave 
him  credit  for  ;  I  should  not  have 
said  it  was  his  strong  point.  But, 
however,  as  you  are  so  very  sure, 
my  dear " 

"  Perfectly  sure,"  said  Kate,  with 
dignity;  and  the  moment  she  had 
said  it,  would  have  liked  to  throw 
her  arms  round  her  monitor's  neck 
and  have  a  good  cry ;  but  that  was 
quite  impossible  in  the  circum- 
stances ;  and  Fred  Huntley  from 
afar  seeing  the  two  ladies  draw  im- 
perceptibly apart,  and  seeing  their 
conversation  had  come  to  an  end, 
approached  with  the  fan,  and  took 
up  his  position  in  front  of  them, 
and  managed  to  bring  about  a  gen- 
eral conversation.  He  did  it  very 
skilfully,  and  contrived  to  cover 
Kate's  annoyance  and  smooth  her 
down,  and  restore  her  to  self-com- 
mand ;  and  that  night  Kate  was 
not  only  friendly  but  grateful  to 
him,  which  was  a  further  step  in 
the  downward  way. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


619 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


Fred  Huntley  was  a  man  of  con- 
siderable ingenuity  as  well  as  cool- 
ness of  intellect ;  and  it  was  im- 
possible that  he  could  remain  long 
unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 
or  take  any  but  the  first  steps  in 
any  path  without  a  clear  perception 
of  whither  it  led.  And  accordingly, 
before  he  had  reached  this  point  he 
had  become  fully  aware  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  had  contemplated  it  from 
every  possible  point  of  view.  No 
feeling  of  treachery  to  John  weighed 
upon  him  when  he  thought  it  fully 
over.  He  had  not  been  confided 
in  by  Kate's  accepted  lover,  nor  ap- 
pealed to,  nor  put  upon  his  honour 
in  the  matter ;  and  John  was  not 
even  a  very  intimate  friend  that  he 
should  give  in  to  him ;  nor  did  it 
occur  to  him  to  stifle  the  dawning 
love  in  his  own  heart,  and  with- 
draw from  the  field,  even  for  Kate's 
sake,  to  leave  her  tranquil  to  the  en- 
joyment of  her  first  love.  Such  an 
idea  was  not  in  Fred's  way.  To 
secure  his  own  will  and  his  own 
happiness  was  naturally  the  first 
thing  in  his  estimation,  and  he  had 
no  compunctions  about  his  rival. 
There  seemed  to  him  no  possible 
reason  why  he  should  sacrifice  him- 
self, and  leave  the  field  clear  to 
John.  And  then  there  were  so 
many  aspects  in  which  to  consider 
the  matter.  It  would  be  much 
better  for  her,  Fred  felt,  to  marry 
himself.  He  could  make  appro- 
priate settlements  upon  her;  he 
could  maintain  her  in  that  posi- 
tion to  which  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed; he  could  give  her  every- 
thing that  a  rich  man's  daughter 
or  rich  man's  wife  could  desire. 
His  blood,  perhaps,  might  not  be 
so  good  as  John  Mitford's  blood,  if 
you  entered  into  so  fine  a  question ; 
but  he  was  heir  to  his  father's 
money,  if  not  to  much  that  was 
more  ethereal.  And  money  tells 
with  everybody,  Fred  thought ;  it 
would  tell  with  Kate,  though  per- 
haps she  did  not  think  so.  Of  all 


people  in  the  world  was  not  she 
the  last  who  could  consent  to  come 
down  from  her  luxurious  state,  and 
be  the  wife  of  a  poor  man,  with 
next  to  no  servants,  no  horses,  no 
carriage,  and  nothing  but  love  to 
make  up  to  her  for  a  thousand 
wants  1  Fred  Huntley  was  in  love 
himself,  and  indeed  it  was  love 
that  was  the  origin  of  all  these 
deliberations  ;  and  yet  he  scoffed 
at  love  as  a  compensation.  He  did 
not  understand  how  it  could  recon- 
cile Kate  to  the  difference  between 
this  luxurious  house  of  her  father's 
and  the  poor  little  dwelling  which 
was  all  Mitford  was  likely  to  be 
able  to  offer  her ;  and  when,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  represented  to 
himself  what  it  would  be  in  his 
power  to  do — how  he  could  surround 
her  with  as  good  or  better  than 
anything  she  now  possessed — his 
heart  swelled  with  a  sensation 
which  was  partly  mean  and  partly 
lofty.  It  was  so  far  fine  that  there 
was  in  it  a  natural  gush  of  that  feel- 
ing which  would  dedicate  every- 
thing to  the  one  beloved;  and  it 
was  mean  because  he  calculated  on 
his  power  of  vanquishing  his  rival, 
and  tempting  Kate's  affections  in 
this  way.  He  could  give  her  a 
bouse  nearly  as  good  as  her  father's 
to  start  with,  and  eventually  better 
than  her  father's  ;  he  could  bestow 
upon  her  everything  that  heart 
could  desire ;  he  could  take  her 
everywhere  she  would  care  to  go — 
withhold  no  pleasure  from  her; 
whereas  the  best  that  Mitford  could 
do  would  be  to  depend  on  her 
father's  favour,  and  climb  upwards 
by  that  means,  without  one  thing 
to  offer  to  her  which  he  could  call 
his  own.  By  dint  of  thinking, 
Fred  got  himself  to  believe  that 
it  was  really  an  unprincipled  thing 
on  John's  part  to  seek  her  at  all, 
and  that  any  man  would  do  a  good 
deed  who  should  deliver  her  from 
his  hands.  He  had  reached  to  this 
point  by  the  next  evening  after  the 


620 


.— Part  VII. 


[May 


one  whose  events  we  Lave  just  re- 
corded. Kate  had  not  ridden  out 
that  day ;  she  had  been  little  visible 
to  any  one,  and  Fred  had  not  more 
than  a  distant  glimpse  of  her  at  the 
breakfast-table  and  in  the  twilight 
over  the -tea,  which  called  together 
most  of  the  party.  Madeline  Win- 
ton  and  her  mother  had  gone  away 
that  morning;  and  Madeline  was 
Kate's  gossip,  her  confidential 
friend,  the  only  one  with  whom 
she  could  relieve  her  soul.  She 
was  somewhat  low-spirited  in  the 
evening.  Fred  looked  on,  and  saw 
her  languid  treatment  of  everything, 
and  the  snubs  she  administered  to 
several  would-be  consolers.  He 
kept  apart  himself  with  conscious 
skill ;  and  yet,  when  he  happened 
to  be  thrown  absolutely  in  her  way, 
was  very  full  of  attention  and  care 
for  her  comfort.  He  placed  her  seat 
just  as  he  thought  she  liked  it, 
arranged  her  footstool  for  her  with 
the  most  anxious  devotion,  and  was 
just  retiring  behind  her  chair  when 
she  stopped  him,  struck  by  his 
melancholy  looks.  "Are  you  ill, 
Mr  Huntley  1 "  she  said,  with  some- 
thing like  solicitude;  and  Fred 
shook  his  head,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
her  face. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  ill ; " 
and  then  drew  a  little  apart,  and 
looked  down  upon  her  with  a  cer- 
tain pathos  in  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  something  the  matter 
with  you,"  said  Kate. 

"  Well,  perhaps  there  is  ;  and  I 
should  have  said  there  was  some- 
thing the  matter  with  you,  Miss 
Crediton,  which  is  of  a  great  deal 
more  importance." 

"  Mine  is  easily  explained,"  said 
Kate  ;  "  I  have  lost  my  friend.  I 
am  always  low  when  Madeline  goes 
away.  We  have  always  been  such 
friends  since  w.e  were  babies.  There 
is  nobody  in  the  world  I  am  so  in- 
timate with.  And  it  is  so  nice  to 
have  some  one  you  can  talk  to  and 
say  everything  that  comes  into  your 
head.  I  am  always  out  of  spirits 
when  she  goes  away." 
.  "  If  the  post  is  vacant  I  wish  I 


might  apply  for  it,"  Fred  said,  with 
exaggerated  humility.  "  I  think  I 
should  make  an  excellent  confidant. 
Discreet  and  patient  and  ready  to 
sympathise,  and  not  at  all  given  to 
offering  impertinent  advice." 

"  Ah,  you  !  "  cried  Kate,  with  a 
sudden  glance  up  at  him.  And 
then  she  laughed,  notwithstanding 
her  depressed  condition.  "  I  won- 
der what  Lady  Winton  would  say  ? " 
she  added  merrily,  but  the  next 
moment  grew  very  red  and  felt 
confused  under  his  eye ;  for  what  if 
he  should  try  to  find  out  what 
Lady  Winton  had  said  1 — which,  of 
course,  he  immediately  attempted 
to  do. 

"  Lady  Winton  is  a  great  friend 
of  mine.  She  would  never  give 
her  vote  against  me,"  said  Fred, 
cunningly  disarming  his  adversary. 

Upon  which  Kate  indulged  her- 
self in  another  mischievous  laugh. 
Did  he  but  know  !  "  She  is  not 
like  you,"  said  the  girl  in  her  teme- 
rity ;  "  she  is  rather  fond  of  giving 
advice." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred,  growing  bold. 
"  That  was  what  she  was  doing  last 
night.  Would  you  like  me  to  tell 
you  what  it  was  about  1 " 

"What  it  was  about?"  cried 
Kate  in  consternation,  with  a  vio- 
lent sudden  blush ;  but  of  course  it 
must  be  nonsense,  she  represented 
to  herself,  looking  at  him  with  a 
certain  anxiety.  "  You  never  could 
guess,  Mr  Huntley;  it  was  some- 
thing quite  between  ourselves." 

"  That  is  very  possible,"  he  said, 
so  gravely  that  her  fears  were  quite 
silenced ;  and  he  added  in  another 
moment,  "  But  I  know  very  well 
what  it  was.  It  was  about  me." 

"  About  you  !  " 

"  I  have  known  Lady  Winton  a 
great  many  years,"  said  Fred,  stead- 
ily. "  I  understand  her  ways. 
When  she  comes  and  takes  a  man's 
place  and  sends  him  off  for  some- 
thing she  has  left  behind  on  pur- 
pose, he  must  be  dull  indeed  if  he 
does  not  know  what  she  means. 
She  was  talking  to  you  of  me." 

"  It  was  not  I  that  said  so ! "  cried 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


621 


Kate,  who  was  in  a  great  turmoil, 
combined  of  fright,  confusion,  and 
amusement.  It  would  be  such  fun 
to  hear  what  guesses  he  would 
make,  and  he  was  so  sure  not  to 
find  it  out.  "  When  you  assert  such 
a  thing  you  must  prove  it,"  she 
said,  her  eyes  dancing  with  fun  and 
rash  delight,  and  yet  with  a  secret 
terror  in  them  too. 

"  She  was  warning  you,"  said 
Fred,  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  in 
which  there  was  some  real  and  a 
good  deal  of  counterfeit  excitement, 
"  not  to  trifle  with  me.  She  was 
telling  you,  that  though  I  did  not 
show  many  signs  of  feeling,  I  was 
still  a  man  like  other  men,  and  had 
a  heart " 

"  Fancy  Lady  Winton  saying  all 
that,"  cried  Kate,  with  a  tremu- 
lous laugh  of  agitation.  "What  a 
lively  imagination  you  have — and 
about  you ! " 

"  But  she  might  have  said  it 
with  great  justice,"  said  Fred,  very 
gravely  and  steadily,  "  and  about 
me." 

Here  was  a  situation  !  To  have 
a  man  speaking  to  you  in  your  own 
drawing-room  in  full  sight  of  a 
score  of  people,  and  as  good  as  tell- 
ing you  what  men  tell  in  all  sorts 
of  covert  and  secret  places,  with 
faltering  voice  and  beating  heart. 
Fred  was  perfectly  steady  and  still  j 
his  voice  was  a  trifle  graver  than 
usual — perhaps  it  might  have  been 
called  sad  ;  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  serious,  anxious 
look ;  there  was  no  air  of  jest,  no 
levity,  but  an  aspect  of  fact  which 
terrified  and  startled  her.  Kate 
fairly  broke  down  under  this  strange 
and  unexpected  test.  She  gave 
him  a  frightened  look,  and  put  up 
her  fan  to  hide  her  face.  What 
was  she  to  say  1 

"  Please,  Mr  Huntley,"  she  fal- 
tered, "  this  is  not  the  kind  of  sub- 
ject to  make  jokes  about." 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  is 
joking  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  do  not 
complain ;  I  have  not  a  word  to 
say.  I  suppose  I  have  brought  it 
upon  myself,  buying  the  delight 


of  your  society  at  any  price  I  could 
get  it  for — even  the  dearest.  And 
you  talk  to  me  about  another  man 
as  if  I  were  made  of  stone — a  man 
who " 

"  Stop,  please,"  she  said,  faintly. 
"  I  may  have  been  wrong.  I  never 
thought — but  please  don't  say  any- 
thing of  him,  whatever  you  may 
say  to  me." 

"  You  are  more  afraid  of  a  word 
breathed  against  him  than  of 
breaking  my  heart,"  said  Fred,  with 
some  real  emotion ;  and  Kate  sat 
still,  thunderstruck,  taking  shelter 
behind  her  fan,  feeling  that  every 
one  was  looking  at  her,  and  that 
her  very  ears  were  burning  and 
tingling.  Was  he  making  love  to 
her1?  she  asked  herself.  Had  he 
any  intention  of  contesting  John's 
supremacy1?  or  was  it  a  mere  re- 
monstrance, a  complaint  that  meant 
nothing,  an  outcry  of  wounded 
pride  and  nothing  more? 

"  Mr  Huntley,"  she  said,  softly, 
"  if  I  have  given  you  any  pain,  I 
am  very  sorry.  I  never  meant  it. 
You  were  so  kind,  I  did  not  think 
I  was  doing  wrong.  Please  forgive 
me ;  if  there  is  any  harm  done  it 
is  not  with  my  will." 

"  Do  you  think  that  mends  mat- 
ters?" said  Fred,  with  now  a  little 
indignation  mingling  in  his  sad- 
ness. "  If  I  put  it  into  plain  Eng- 
lish, this  is  what  it  means  : — I 
was  something  so  insignificant  to 
you,  taken  up  as  you  were  with  your 
own  love,  that  it  never  occurred  to 
you  that  I  might  suffer.  You  never 
thought  of  me  at  all.  If  you  had 
said  you  had  meant  it,  and  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  make  me 
miserable,  that  would  have  been  a 
little  better  \  at  least  it  would  not 
have  been  contempt." 

And  he  turned  away  from  her 
and  sat  down  at  a  little  table  near, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hand. 
What  would  everybody  think  ?  was 
Kate's  first  thought.  Did  he  mean 
to  hold  her  up  to  everybody's  notice, 
to  demonstrate  that  she  had  used 
him  badly  1  She  bore  it  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  in  her  bewilderment, 


622 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


and  then  stretched  across  and  touch- 
ed him  lightly  with  her  fan.  "  Mr 
Huntley,  there  are  a  great  many 
people  in  the  room,"  she  said.  "  If 
we  were  alone  you  might  reproach 
me ;  but  surely  we  need  not  let 
these  people  know  —  and  papa  ! 
Mr  Huntley,  you  know  very  well  it 
was  not  contempt.  Won't  you  for- 
give me — when  I  ask  your  pardon 
with  all  my  heart  ? " 

"  Forgive  you  !  "  cried  Fred;  and 
he  raised  his  head  and  turned  to 
her,  though  he  did  not  raise  his 
eyes.  "  You  cannot  think  it  is  for- 
giveness that  is  wanted — that  is 
mockery." 

"  Please  don't  say  so !  I  would  not 
mock  you  for  all  the  world.  Oh, 
Mr  Huntley,  if  it  is  not  forgiveness, 
what  is  it  1 "  cried  Kate. 

And  then  he  looked  at  her  with 
eyes  full  of  reproach,  and  a  certain 
appeal,  while  she  met  his  look  with 
incipient  tears,  with  her  child's 
gaze  of  wonder,  and  sorrow,  and 
eloquent  deprecation.  "Please  for- 
give me,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 
She  even  advanced  her  hand  to  him 
by  instinct,  with  a  shy  half- consci- 
ous movement,  stopping  short  out 
of  regard  for  the  many  pairs  of 
eyes  in  the  room,  not  for  any  other 
cause.  "  I  am  so  very,  very  sorry," 
she  said,  and  the  water  shone  in 
her  blue  eyes  like  dew  on  flowers. 
Fred,  though  he  was  not  emotion- 
al, was  more  deeply  moved  than 
he  had  yet  been.  Throughout  all 
this  strange  interview,  though  he 
meant  every  word  he  said,  he  had 
yet  been  more  or  less  playing  a  part. 
But  now  her  ingenuous  look  over- 
came him.  Something  of  the  im- 
becility of  tenderness  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  made  a  little  clutch  at 
the  finger-tips  which  had  been  held 
out  to  him,  and  would  have  kissed 
them  before  everybody,  had  not 
Kate  given  him  a  warning  look, 
and  blushed,  and  quickly  drawn  the 
half-offered  hand  away.  She  would 
not  have  drawn  it  away  had  they 
been  alone.  Would  she  have  heard 
him  more  patiently,  given  him  a 
still  kinder  response  ?  Fred  could 


not  tell,  but  yet  he  felt  that  his  first 
effort  had  not  been  made  in  vain. 

It  was  Mr  Crediton  himself  who 
interrupted  this  tete  -  d,  -  tete.  He 
came  up  to  them  with  a  look  which 
might  have  been  mere  curiosity, 
and  might  have  been  displeasure. 
"  Kate,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  it  seems 
to  me  you  are  neglecting  your 
guests.  Instead  of  staying  in  this 
favourite  corner  of  yours,  suppose 
you  go  and  look  after  these  young 
ladies  a  little.  Mr  Huntley  will 
excuse  you,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  am  so  lazy,  I  am  out  of  spirits ; 
and  so  is  Mr  Huntley;  we  have 
been  condoling  with  each  other," 
said  Kate ;  but  she  got  up,  as  she 
spoke,  with  her  usual  sweet  alacrity, 
not  sorry,  if  truth  were  told,  to 
escape  from  this  unexpected  diffi- 
culty. "  Keep  my  seat  for  me, 
papa,  till  I  come  back,"  she  said, 
with  her  soft  little  laugh.  Mr  Cre- 
diton did  as  he  was  told — he  placed 
himself  in  her  chair,  and  turned 
round  to  Fred  and  looked  at  him. 
While  she  tripped  away  to  the  other 
girls  to  resume  her  interrupted 
duties,  her  father  and  her  new  lov- 
er confronted  each  other,  and  cau- 
tiously investigated  what  the  new 
danger  was. 

"My  dear  Huntley,"  said  the 
elder  man,  "  I  am  sure  your  mean- 
ing is  the  most  friendly  in  the 
world ;  but  my  daughter  is  very 
young,  and  she  is  engaged  to  be 
married ;  and,  on  the  whole,  I  think 
it  would  be  better  that  you  did  not 
appropriate  her  so  much.  Kate 
ought  to  know  better,  but  she  is 
very  light-hearted,  and  fond  of  being 
amused." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  been  very 
amusing  to-night,"  said  Fred. 
"  Thanks,  sir,  for  your  frankness  ; 
but  I  am  going  away  to-morrow, 
and  I  may  claim  a  little  indulgence, 
perhaps,  for  my  last  night." 

"  Going  away  to-morrow  ! "  said 
Mr  Crediton,  with  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  have  no  choice.  Shall  I 
say  it  is  sudden  business— a  tele- 
gram from  Oxford  —  a  summons 
home  ?  or  shall  I  tell  you  the  real 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


623 


reason,  Mr  Crediton  ? "  cried  Fred, 
with  emotion.  "  You  have  always 
been  very  good  to  me." 

Mr  Crediton  was  startled,  not- 
withstanding his  habitual  compos- 
ure. He  looked  keenly  at  the 
young  man,  and  saw  what  few 
people  had  ever  seen — the  signs  of 
strong  and  highly-wrought  feeling 
in  Fred  Huntley's  face ;  and  the 
sight  was  a  great  surprise  to  him. 
He  had  thought  the  two  had  been 
amusing  themselves  with  a  flirta- 
tion, a  thing  he  did  not  approve  of; 
but  this  must  surely  have  gone  be- 
yond a  flirtation.  "  If  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  me,  come  to  the 
library  after  they  have  gone  to  bed/' 
te  said.  Fred  answered  by  a  nod 
cf  assent,  and  the  two  separated 
without  another  word.  Nor  did 
Kate  see  the  new  claimant  to  her 
regard  any  more  that  night.  He 
bad  disappeared  when  she  had  time 
to  look  round  her,  and  recall  the 
agitating  interview  which  had 
broken  the  monotony  of  the  even- 


ing. It  came  to  her  mind  when 
she  was  talking,  returning  again 
and  again  amid  the  nothings  of  or- 
dinary conversation.  How  strange 
it  all  was,  how  exciting !  what  a 
curious  episode  in  the  heaviest  even- 
ing !  And  what  did  he,  what  could 
he,  mean  1  And  what  would  John 
think  1  And  was  it  possible  that 
Fred  Huntley  could  feel  like  that— 
Fred,  that  man  of  the  world  1  She 
was  confused,  bewildered,  flattered, 
pleased,  and  sorry.  It  was  a  new 
sensation,  and  thrilled  her  through 
and  through  when  she  was  rather 
in  want  of  something  to  rouse  her 
up  a  little.  And  she  was  so  sorry 
for  him !  She  almost  hoped  he 
would  spring  up  from  some  cor- 
ner, and  be  chidden  and  comforted, 
and  made  more  miserable  by  the 
soft  look  of  compassion  she  would 
give  him  —  the  "Pardon  me!" 
which  she  meant  to  say ;  but  Fred 
made  no  further  appearance,  and 
the  Pardon  me !  was  not  said  that 
night. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


It  puzzled  Kate  very  much  next 
morning  to  find  that  Huntley  had 
not  reappeared.  It  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  she  could 
avoid  thinking  about  him,  and 
wondering  over  and  over  again 
what  he  could  mean, — whether  he 
was  mystifying  her — but  that  was 
impossible ;  or  if  it  was  really,  ac- 
tually true]  The  question  came 
back  to  her  mind  again  and  again, 
thrusting  itself  into  all  her  thoughts. 
Could  it  be  true  ]  And  the  fact 
was  that  she  went  down-stairs  a 
little  earlier  than  usual,  with  a 
great  curiosity  in  her  mind  as  to 
bow  Fred  would  look,  and  whether 
she  should  see  any  traces  in  his 
f  ice  of  last  night's  agitation.  When 
she  had  taken  this  trouble,  it  may 
be  supposed  that  it  was  hard  upon 
her  to  find  Fred  absent;  and  she 
<k  did  not  like  " — a  new  expression 
in  Kate's  vocabulary — to  ask  what 
Lad  become  of  him.  She  caught 


herself  looking  at  the  door  anxious- 
ly every  time  it  opened,  but  he  did 
not  come.  Some  one  at  last  reliev- 
ed her  anxiety  by  asking  the  point- 
blank  question,  "  What  has  become 
of  Huntley  ?  has  he  gone  away  1 " 
It  was  an  idea  which  never  had  oc- 
curred to  Kate.  She  looked  up  in 
blank  dismay  at  the  suggestion,  and 
met  her  father's  eye  fully  fixed 
upon  her,  and  trembled,  and  felt 
that  in  two  minutes  more  she  must 
cry — not  for  Fred,  but  because  he 
was  decidedly  an  exciting  new  play- 
thing, and  he  had  gone  away. 

"  Yes,  he  has  gone  away,"  said 
Mr  Crediton,  "this  morning,  be- 
fore some  of  us  were  out  of  bed. 
I  have  his  farewells  to  make.  He 
did  not  know  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  him  to  go  when  he  left 
us  last  night." 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  at  Westbrook,"  said  one  of 
Fred's  intimates ;  but  Kate  did  not 


624 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


say  a  word.  The  room  swam  round 
her  for  one  moment.  Gone  away  ! 
Was  it  so  serious  as  that,  then  1 
The  self-possessed  Fred,  had  mat- 
ters been  so  grave  with  him  that 
flight  was  his  only  refuge?  She 
was  so  startled  that  she  did  not 
know  what  to  think.  She  was 
sorry,  and  surprised,  and  fluttered, 
and  excited,  all  in  a  breath.  She 
did  not  pay  any  attention  to  the 
conversation  for  some  minutes, 
though  she  was  sufficiently  mistress 
of  herself  to  take  the  usual  part  in 
it,  and  to  go  on  dispensing  cups  of 
tea.  Gone  away !  It  was  very 
fine,  very  honourable,  very  provok- 
ing of  him.  She  had  meant  to 
bring  him  down  to  his  level  very 
kindly  and  skilfully,  and  cure  him 
of  all  hopes,  while  still  she  kept 
him  bound  in  a  certain  friendly 
chain.  And  now  he  had  cut  it  all 
short,  and  taken  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands.  It  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  Kate  was  a  little  vexed 
at  the  moment.  No  doubt,  if  she 
had  been  left  alone  she  would  have 
got  over  it  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
and  recovered  her  composure,  and 
thought  no  more  of  Fred  Huntley 
than  she  had  done  two  days  ago ; 
but  she  was  not  destined  to  be  left 
to  herself.  The  first  thing  that 
happened  was  that  Mr  Crediton  re- 
mained in  the  breakfast-room  till 
everybody  was  gone,  and  called  her 
to  him.  The  most  indulgent  of 
fathers  was  looking  somewhat  stern, 
which  was  a  thing  of  itself  which 
utterly  puzzled  as  well  as  dismayed 
the  girl  whom  he  had  scarcely  ever 
thwarted  in  the  whole  course  of  her 
life. 

"  Kate,"  -he  said,  "  you  took  no 
notice  when  I  said  Fred  Huntley 
had  gone  away,  so  I  suppose  he 
told  you  why  it  was." 

"  He  never  said  a  word  to  me  of 
going  away,  papa,"  faltered  Kate. 

"But  you  know  the  cause?  and 
I  hope  it  will  be  a  warning  to  you," 
said  Mr  Crediton.  "I  have  seen 
this  going  on  for  some  days,  and  I 
meant  to  have  spoken  to  you.  A 
girl  in  your  position  has  no  right 


to  distinguish  a  man  as  you  did 
poor  Fred." 

"  But,  dear  papa,"  cried  Kate, 
feeling  very  penitent  yet  very  much 
flattered — as  if  somebody  had  paid 
her  a  very  nice  compliment,  she 
said  afterwards — "you  cannot  think 
it  was  my  fault ;  I  only  talked  to 
him  like  the  rest.  If  I  talked  to 
him  a  little  more,  it  was  about — Mr 
Mitford.  And  he  knew  all  the 
time.  How  was  I  to  suppose  it 
could  come  to  any  harm  ?  " 

"  Don't  let  me  hear  of  any  other 
man  being  taken  in  by  your  con- 
founded confidences  —  about  Mr 
Mitford,"  said  her  father,  with  an 
amount  of  rudeness  and  contemp- 
tuous impatience,  such  as  perhaps 
had  never  been  shown  to  Kate  be- 
fore in  all  her  life. 

"Papa!"  she  cried,  indignant, 
drawing  herself  up ;  but  Mr  Credi- 
ton only  said  "  Pshaw  !  "  and  went 
off  and  left  her  standing  by  herself, 
not  knowing  whether  to  cry  or  to 
be  very  angry,  in  the  great  empty 
room.  He  was  wroth,  and  he  was 
disposed  rather  to  heighten  than  to 
subdue  the  expression  of  it.  He 
wanted  her  to  feel  the  full  weight 
of  his  displeasure,  rather  a  little 
more  than  less.  For  Fred  Huntley 
would  have  suited  him  well  enough 
for  a  son-in-law,  if  it  was  necessary 
to  have  such  an  article.  He  had 
distinguished  himself  already,  and 
was  likely  still  more  to  distinguish 
himself.  He  was  thought  of  by  the 
borough  authorities  as  the  new 
Member  for  Camelford.  He  was 
very  well  off,  and  could  do  every- 
thing that  was  right  and  meet  in 
the  way  of  providing  for  his  bride. 
He  was  in  her  own  sphere.  "  Con- 
found that  Mitford  !  "  Mr  Crediton 
said  to  himself  as  he  left  his  daugh- 
ter. It  was  bad  enough  to  contem- 
plate the  possibility  of  ever  resign- 
ing his  child  to  John's  keeping ;  but 
to  throw  aside  a  man  he  liked  for 
him,  exaggerated  the  offence.  He 
went  out,  kicking  Kate's  favourite 
Skye  terrier  on  his  way,  as  angry 
men  are  apt  to  do.  "  As  if  it  was 
poor  Muffy  that  had  done  it ! "  Kate 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


625 


said,  with  the  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes.  When  she  was  thus  left  she 
(ailed  her  injured  terrier  to  her,  and 
hugged  it,  and  had  a  good  cry. 
"  You  did  not  do  it,  did  you, 
Muffy?"  she  said.  "Poor  dear 
dog  !  what  had  you  to  do  with  it  1 
If  a  man  chooses  to  be  silly,  are  we 
to  be  kicked  for  it,  Muffy  mio  ? 
Papa  is  a  great  bear,  and  everybody 
is  as  unkind  as  they  can  be ;  and 
oh,  I  am  so  sorry  about  poor  Fred ! " 
She  got  over  her  crying,  however, 
and  her  regrets,  and  made  herself 
very  agreeable  to  a  great  many 
people  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
]  >etted  Muffy  very  much,  and  took 
no  notice  of  her  father,  who,  poor 
man,  had  compunctions  ;  but  by 
1he  time  that  evening  arrived,  Kate 
began  to  feel  that  the  loss  of  Fred 
was  a  very  serious  loss  indeed. 
He  had  timed  his  departure  very 
cleverly.  If  Madeline  Winton  had 
still  been  there,  it  might  have  been 
bearable  ;  for  she  would  have  had 
some  one  to  open  her  heart  to, 
notwithstanding  that  even  to  Ma- 
deline she  had  not  been  able  to 
speak  of  John  as  she  had  indulged 
herself  in  doing  to  her  "friend" — 
John's  friend ;  somehow  that  was 
not  the  title  which  she  now  thought 
<  >f  giving  to  Fred  Huntley.  He  had 
suddenly  sprung  into  individuality, 
and  held  a  distinct  place  of  his  own 
in  her  mind.  She  found  herself 
thinking  of  him  all  through  the 
evening,  missing  him  a  great  deal 
more  than  she  had  any  right  to 
miss  him,  wondering  what  he  would 
have  said  about  this  and  that,  long- 
ing to  have  him  to  talk  to.  She 
sat  down  in  the  same  corner  where 
lie  had  placed  her  chair  for  her  on 
the  previous  night,  and  was  very 
silent  and  distraite  and  abstracted, 
not  caring  what  the  others  did  or 
said.  And  as  she  sat  in  that  posi- 
tion, so  much  the  same,  yet  so  very 
different,  it  was  impossible  to  keep 
her  mind  from  going  over  all  _  the 
particulars  of  the  conversations 
which  had  turned  out  so  important. 
Poor  Fred !  could  it  be  possible 
that  he  was  so  fond  of  her  1  he 


who  was  not  at  all  a  tragical  sort 
of  personage,  or  one  likely  to  do 
anything  very  much  out  of  the 
way'for  love.  What  could  he  find 
in  her  to  be  fond  of  ?  Kate  said  to 
herself.  He  was  not  like  John, 
who  was  ignorant  of  society.  Fred 
Huntley  had  seen  heaps  of  other 
girls  who  were  very  pretty  and  very 
nice  ;  and  why  was  it  that  he  had 
set  his  affections  upon  herself,  Kate, 
whom  he  could  not  have  ?  It  seem- 
ed such  a  pity,  such  a  waste  of 
effort.  "  Madeline  might  have  had 
him,  perhaps,"  she  said  to  herself, 
reflecting  pensively  in  her  easy- 
chair,  with  her  fan  at  her  lips  to 
conceal  their  movement.  Made- 
line as  yet  had  no  lover,  and  she 
was  very  nice,  and  rather  pretty 
too.  And  it  would  have  been  per- 
fectly suitable,  "  instead  of  com- 
ing making  a  fuss  over  me ;  and 
he  can't  have  me"  Kate  added 
always  within  herself,  with  a  sigh 
of  suffering  benevolence.  It  was 
hard  he  could  not  have  her  when 
he  wanted  her  so  very  much.  It 
was  hard  that  everybody  should  not 
have  everything  they  wanted.  And 
it  was  odd,  yet  not  unpleasant, 
that  he  should  thus  insist  upon 
throwing  away  his  love  upon  her- 
self, who  could  not  accept  it, 
instead  of  giving  it  to  Madeline, 
who  might  have  accepted.  How 
perverse  the  world  was !  Kate 
reflected  as  she  sat  and  mused. 
And  she  was  heartily  sorry  to  cross 
Fred,  and  felt  the  most  affectionate 
sympathy  for  him,  poor  fellow  ! 
It  was  so  nice  of  him  to  be  fond  of 
her,  though  she  could  not  give  him 
any  return.  And  if  he  had  stayed 
and  talked  it  over,  instead  of  run- 
ning away,  Kate  thought  of  a  hun- 
dred things  she  could  have  said  to 
him,  as  to  the  unreasonableness  of 
falling  in  love  with  herself,  and 
the  good  sense  of  transferring  his 
love  to  Madeline.  Somehow  she 
did  not  quite  expect  he  would  have 
taken  her  advice ;  but  still,  no 
doubt,  she  would  have  set  it  before 
him  in  a  very  clear  light,  and  got 
him  to  hear  reason.  And  then  he 


626 


John.— Part  VII. 


[May 


was  very  pleasant  to  talk  to,  and 
more  amusing  than  anybody  else 
at  Fernwood.  This  feeling  had 
never  crept  over  her  in  respect  to 
John.  When  he  went  away,  she 
was  sorry  because  he  left  her  half 
in  displeasure,  and  "had  not  en- 
joyed himself  ;  "  but  she  could  not 
persuade  herself  that  she  had  miss- 
ed his  company,  missed  a  hundred 
things  he  would  have  said  to  her, 
as  she  did  now.  She  was  in  reality 
almost  relieved  to  be  quit  of  the 
passionate  eyes  which  followed  her 
everywhere,  and  the  demand  which 
he  made  upon  her  for  her  society, 
for  her  very  inmost  self.  But 
Fred  made  no  such  claims.  Fred 
took  what  he  could  get,  and  was 
happy  in  it.  He  spared  her  trou- 
ble, and  watched  to  see  what  her 
wants  were,  and  was  always  ready 
to  talk  to  her  or  to  leave  her  alone, 
as  her  mood  varied.  Poor  Fred  ! 
she  sighed,  feeling  very,  very  sorry 
for  him,  with  a  half-tenderness  of 
pity  which  young  women  accord 
only  to  those  who  are  their  per- 
sonal victims.  Perhaps  she  exag- 
gerated his  sufferings,  as  it  was 
natural  to  do.  She  sat  and  mused 
over  him  all  that  evening  with  her 
fan  half  concealing  her  face.  "  My 
dear,  I  am  afraid  you  have  a  head- 
ache," one  of  the  elder  ladies  said 
to  her;  and  Kate  acquiesced  with  a 
faint  little  smile.  "  It  is  the  wea- 
ther," she  said,  softly;  and  the  old 
lady,  taking  her  cue,  sat  down  be- 
side her,  and  discussed  the  same. 
"  The  changes  are  the  worst,"  she 
said—"  the  thermometer  at  sixty 
one  day,  and  next  day  below  the 
freezing-point.  And  then,  in  an 
English  house,  it  is  so  difficult  to 
keep  cold  out." 

"  I  hope  your  room  is  warm," 
Kate  said  suddenly,  remembering 
her  hostess-ship.  "  You  must  tell 
me  if  you  find  it  chilly.  There  is 
such  a  difference  in  some  of  the 
rooms  ! " 

"  It  is  according  to  their  aspect," 
said  the  old  lady ;  "  mine  is  very 
comfortable,  I  assure  you.  It  is 
you  young  ones  that  expose  your- 


selves to  so  many  changes.  If  I 
were  you,  I  would  wrap  up  very 
warm,  and  keep  indoors  for  a  day 
or  two.  There  is  nothing  like  keep- 
ing in  an  equable  temperature.  I 
have  no  confidence  in  anything 
else." 

"Thanks,"  Kate  said,  with  a 
feeling  of  dreariness.  Instead  of 
Fred's  conversation  this  was  a  poor 
exchange.  And  she  grew  more  and 
more  sorry  for  him,  and  more  and 
more  compassionate  of  herself  as 
the  evening  stole  on.  Several  of 
the  people  who  interested  her  most 
had  left  within  the  last  few  days. 
There  was  but  the  moderate  aver- 
age of  country-house  visitors  left ; 
people  who  were  not  remarkable 
for  anything  —  neither  witty,  nor 
pretty,  nor  particularly  entertain- 
ing— and  yet  not  to  be  complained 
of  in  any  way.  She  did  her  duty 
to  them  as  became  Mr  Crediton's 
daughter,  and  was  very  solicitous 
to  know  that  they  were  comfort- 
able and  had  what  they  liked ;  but 
she  missed  Madeline,  she  missed 
Lady  Winton,  she  missed  her  acrid 
old  godfather,  who  was  said  to  be 
fond  of  nobody  but  Kate;  and, 
above  all,  she  missed  Fred  Huntley 
— poor  Fred ! 

A  week  had  passed,  somewhat 
weakening  this  impression,  when 
Fred  returned,  quite  as  suddenly 
as  he  went  away.  He  was  seen 
walking  up  the  avenue  when  the 
party  were  at  luncheon,  and  Kate's 
heart  gave  a  little  jump  at  the 
sight  of  him.  "Why,  there  is 
Huntley  come  back  again!"  some 
one  cried ;  but  he  did  not  make  his 
appearance  at  lunch  ;  and  it  was 
only  when  he  came  into  the  draw- 
ing-room before  dinner  that  Kate 
had  any  opportunity  of  seeing  what 
change  had  been  wrought  in  him 
by  the  discovery  of  his  sentiments 
towards  herself.  Fred  was  play- 
ing a  part;  but,  like  every  other 
actor  in  life  who  plays  his  part 
well,  had  come  to  believe  in  it 
himself,  and  to  feel  it  real.  He 
came  up  to  her  with  a  certain  con- 
fused but  melancholy  frankness. 


1370.] 


John.— Part  VII. 


627 


"Miss  Crediton,"  he  said,  "I  am 
afraid  you  cannot  like  to  see  me, 
but  I  have  come  about  business. 
I  would  not  for  the  world,  for  any 
other  reason,  have  brought  what 
must  be  an  annoyance  upon  you." 
And  then  Kate  had  lifted  to  him 
a  pair  of  very  sympathetic,  almost 
tender,  eyes. 

"Indeed  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  not  like  to  see  you,"  she 
s aid,  quietly.  "  You  have  always 
been  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Kind  ! "  he  had  answered, 
timing  away  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience,  and  not  another  word 
passed  between  them  until  the 
evening  was  almost  over,  and  all 
opportunity  past.  He  was  so  slow, 
indeed,  to  take  advantage  of  any 
opportunity,  that  Kate  felt  half 
angry — wondering  had  the  man 
quite  got  over  it?  had  he  ever 
meant  anything  ]  But  at  the  very 
lust,  when  she  turned  her  head  un- 
thinking, all  at  once  she  found  his 
eyes  upon  her,  and  that  he  was 
standing  close  by  her  side. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  not  ask  for 
my  old  situation,"  he  said,  softly. 
"  I  have  been  a  fool  and  forfeited 
all  my  advantages  because  I  could 
not  win  the  greatest.  You  used  to 
speak  to  me  once — of  the  subject 
most  interesting  to  yourself/' 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  be  in  the 
least  interesting  to  you  now,  Mr 
Buntley,"  said  Kate,  not  without 
a  little  pique  in  her  voice. 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  think  I  could  interest 
iryself  in  anything  that  was  inter- 
esting to  you." 

And  then  there  was  silence,  in 
which  Kate  began  to  feel  her  heart 
boat,  and  wondered  if  this  man 
could  be  an  oyster,  or  if  he  could 
really  be  so  inconceivably  fond  of 
hor  as  to  be  thus  concerned  in  all 
tliat  concerned  her  happiness.  It 
sounded  like  something  in  a  ro- 
mance ;  and  yet  Kate  knew  enough 
of  life  and  society  to  know  that 
romance  sometimes  gave  but  a  very 
colourless  picture  of  the  truth. 

"  I  hope  you  have  heard  lately," 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


he  went  on,  with  a  voice  which  was 
elaborately  and  yet  not  unnaturally 
subdued — for,  as  has  been  said, 
Fred  had  fully  entered  into  the 
role  he  was  playing — "  and  that  all 
is  going  well." 

Kate  blushed,  perhaps,  more  vio- 
lently than  she  had  ever  blushed 
in  her  life  before.  If  he  were 
making  this  sacrifice  of  his  feelings 
for  her,  surely  it  was  needful  for 
her  to  be  true  and  sincere  with 
him ;  and  what  she  had  to  say  was 
mortifying  to  her  pride.  She  looked 
at  him  stooping  over  her,  and  tried 
to  read  his  face,  and  asked  herself, 
with  a  simplicity  that  is  natural 
to  the  sophisticated,  whether  here, 
once  for  all,  she  had  found  the 
friend  who  is  equal  to  utter  self- 
abnegation,  and  of  whom  in  books 
one  sometimes  reads.  A  more 
simple-minded  girl,  probably,  would 
not  have  looked  for  so  self-sacrific- 
ing a  lover,  but  Kate  had  been 
brought  up  with  a  persuasion  of 
her  own  power  to  sway  everybody 
to  her  will.  "Mr  Huntley,"  she 
said,  hurriedly,  "  I  don't  think  I 
ought  to  speak  to  you  on  such  a 
subject ;  but,  indeed,!  feel  anxious, 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Then  do  speak  to  me,"  he  said, 
bending  over  her.  "  Do  you  think 
I  care  what  happens  to  myself  if  I 
can  be  of  use  to  you  T' 

There  are  sentiments  of  this 
heroic  description  which  we  would 
see  the  fallacy  of  at  once  if  ad- 
dressed to  others,  which  yet  seem 
natural  spoken  to  ourselves.  And 
Kate  had  always  been  so  important 
to  everybody  about  her.  She  looked 
up  at  him  again,  she  faltered,  she 
half  turned  away,  and  then,  after 
all,  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  tell 
you.  I  don't  know  what  it  means. 
I  have  not  heard  a  single  word  from 
him,  Mr  Huntley,  since  he  went 
away." 

A  sudden  gleam  of  light  came 
into  Fred's  eyes,  but  he  was  look- 
ing down,  and  she  only  saw  a  ghost 
of  it  under  his  lowered  eyelids. 
"  That  is  very  strange,"  he  said. 
2u 


628 


New  Books. 


[May 


"  Do  you  think  lie  can  be  ill  ? 
Do  you  think  anything  can  have 
happened  1 "  said  Kate. 

"  He  is  not  ill,  he  is  at  home  at 
Fanshawe,  and  his  burns  are  get- 
ting better.  I  saw  him  yesterday," 
said  Fred. 

"  At  home !  and  he  never  told 
me.  Oh,  how  unkind  it  is  !  It  used 
to  be  every  other  day,  and  now  it 
is  nearly  a  fortnight.  But  why 
should  you  care1?"  cried  Kate,  really 
moved  with  sharp  mortification, 
and  not  quite  aware  what  she  said. 


"  I  care  a  great  deal,"  he  said, 
very  low,  and  sighed.  And  Kate's 
heart  was  sore,  and  she  was  an- 
gry, and  wounded,  and  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  her  life  felt  that 
she  had  a  little  pride  in  her  na- 
ture. Did  the  other  despise  her 
to  whom  she  had  given  her  heart  1 
Did  he  think  she  was  not  worthy 
even  of  courtesy?  though  other 
people  were  so  far  from  thinking 
so.  The  tears  began  to  spring  up 
and  flow  apace  in  Kate's  impatient 
heart. 


NEW    BOOKS. 


THE  art  of  criticism  is  going  out 
of  fashion — at  least  the  popular 
branch  of  that  art  which  has  or  had 
the  office  of  directing  general  pub- 
lic opinion  in  respect  to  contempor- 
ary literature.  Perhaps  there  never 
were  so  many  literary  newspapers, 
so  many  vehicles  of  popular  criti- 
cism ;  but  the  art  has  sunk  into  a 
bandying  of  mutual  compliments, 
an  interchange  of  mutual  blows, 
the  recriminations  and  reprisals  of 
a  profession  from  which  the  gene- 
ral reader  can  derive  no  guidance, 
nor  the  young  writer  the  least  in- 
struction. We  believe  we  may 
safely  say  that  no  one  at  all  behind 
the  scenes,  in  respect  to  literature, 
ever  does  place  the  slightest  reli- 
ance upon  any  criticism  of  a  new 
book  in  the  literary  journals  of  the 
day ;  nor  can  even  the  experienced 
reader,  unconnected  with  literature, 
find  himself  able  to  trust  to  the 
professional  guides,  who  ought  to 
discriminate  for  him  not  only  what 
is  good  and  bad,  but  what  is  weak 
and  what  is  vigorous,  in  the  flood 
of  books  constantly  pouring  upon 
the  English  public.  This  rule,  of 
course,  is  not  universal,  for  by 
times  there  comes  a  book  which 
carries  the  world,  critical  and  un- 
critical, by  storm ;  and  by  times 
there  appears  an  unknown  name, 
neither  friend  nor  foe,  which  catches 
the  attention  of  some  journalist  at 
leisure,  and  secures  an  honest  no- 


tice and  real  judgment.  But  the 
distrust  is  so  universal,  that  the 
reader  does  not  appreciate  this 
chance  piece  of  fair-dealing  when 
he  meets  it.  So-and-so  has  a  friend 
on  the  staff  of  the  *  Critic,'  therefore 
his  work  is  reviewed  at  length 
with  the  most  favourable  comment ; 
while  What's  -  his  -  name's  book, 
which  is  much  better,  is  passed 
over  in  lordly  silence.  The  trick 
is  so  universal,  that  even  periodical 
writers  who  condemn  it,  find  them- 
selves drawn  in  to  the  pernicious 
habit.  We  have,  at  this  present 
moment,  under  our  eye,  a  book 
possessed  of  no  real  literary  merit, 
and  full  of  the  most  flagrant  of- 
fences against  good  taste  and  good 
feeling,  which  by  dint  of  this  com- 
bination of  mutual  aid,  this  trades- 
union  of  literary  craftsmen,  has 
been  reviewed  far  and  wide,  and 
attracted  a  degree  of  notice  which 
it  as  little  deserves  as  the  poorest 
anonymous  publication  out  of  Mr 
Newby's  or  Messrs  Tinsley's  book- 
manufactories.  Ourselves,  impar- 
tial, just,  and  severe,  refrain  from 
indicating  the  volume  in  question 
by  name,  for  the  very  same  reason 
which  has  led  so  many  others  to 
lend  it  a  friendly  push  into  a  posi- 
tion to  which  it  has  no  right.  The 
practice  is  universal ;  and  it  is  not 
only  intensely  unfair  to  the  public, 
and  to  the  authors  who  may  happen 
to  have  no  acquaintances  among 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


629 


the  critics  of  the  press,  but  it  is 
also  intensely  mortifying  to  those 
writers  who  have  already   won   a 
certain  place  in  general  estimation, 
but  who  have  the  humiliation  of 
knowing,   when    their   books    are 
favourably   reviewed,   that  this  is 
no  generous  and  real  appreciation, 
but  a  mere  friendly  puff  from  A., 
or  B.,  or  C.,  to  whose  private  and 
personal    regard    they   owe    what 
they  never  might  have  won  without 
that  backing.    C:  or  A.  may  really 
like,  admire,   and    appreciate    the 
book  he  reviews  ;  but  it  is  n'ot  for 
that  reason  that  he  reviews  it,  but 
because  the  book  is  written  by  D., 
or  by  D.'s  friend,  "  and  one  must 
say  a  good  word  for  it."    Or  per- 
haps, when  the  critic's  preparations 
ire  all  made  for  his  work — when  he 
is  just  ready  to  prick  the  bladder 
of  fictitious  fame,  and  replace  on 
its  proper  level  a  foolishly-lauded 
performance  —  his     editor    stands 
before  him  with  uplifted  arm,  like 
another  Jove.     "  If  you  can  say  any- 
thing good  of  it,  do  so,"  says  that 
awful  ruler  ;  "  if  not,  leave  it  out ; 
for  F.  is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  I 
don't  want  to  vex  him."     But  what 
does   it  matter  to  you,  oh  patient 
public  !  that  F.  is  a  good  fellow  ? 
what  does  it  matter  to  you  that  Mr 
A.  is  "  nice,"  and  Miss  B.  captivat- 
ing'?    What  you  want  is  to  know 
what  the  books  are — if   you  shall 
like  them ;  if  they  are  worth  sending 
to  Mudie's  for,  or  taking  up  when 
you  are  weary,  or  studying  when 
you  want  information.     All  this  we 
promise  to  inform  you  of  when  we 
lake  pen  in  hand;  we  pledge  our- 
f  elves  to  run  over  the  mass  with 
experienced  professional   eye,  and 
jind  you   out   what   is    best    and 
•what  is  worst,  and  to  allot  to  the 
indifferent  and  mediocre  their  nat- 
ural  secondary  place.      But  what 
•vve   really  do  is,   to  applaud   our 
friend's   platitudes,    and   tell    you 
they  are  full  of  true   philosophy 
jmd  insight — to  present  to  you  a 
pretty  little  commonplace  story  as 
a  work  of  genius — to  appropriate 
to  certain  writers  certain  kinds  of 
comments,  as  the  right  thing    to 


say — and  when  we  happen  to  have 
a  real  honest  enmity,  to  fall  upon 
our  brother  for  whom  we  entertain 
that  lively  sentiment  with  corre- 
sponding liveliness  of  assault.  Per- 
haps of  all  the  prevailing  modes  of 
treatment  in  criticism  this  last  is  the 
most  justifiable — at  least  it  is  the 
most  human  ;  for  to  have  a  foe,  and 
to  be  able  to  strike  a  good  straight- 
forward blow  at  him,  is  an  enliven- 
ing process,  and  generally  calls  forth 
in  the  most  vivacious  manner  a 
critic's  power.  How  often  has  the 
piteous  cry,  "  If  I  could  but  go  in 
at  this  book  now,  what  a  good 
thing  I  could  make  of  it ! "  come  to 
our  ears !  but  then  other  consid- 
erations come  in  which  forbid  that 
delight — considerations  totally  in- 
dependent of  the  interest  of  the 
public — that  he  is  a  good  fellow,  or 
she  is  a  nice  woman  ;  quite  valid 
reasons  to  the  being  who  holds 
the  pen  for  denying  himself  his 
fling,  but  not  valid  reasons  for 
representing  to  the  public  that  the 
books  in  question  are  full  of  sweet- 
ness and  light,  or  any  other  quali- 
ties identified  as  excellent  in  the 
slang  of  the  day. 

We  do  not  intend,  after  this  pre- 
amble, to  present  ourselves  before 
the  public  as  the  Honest  Critic ;  at 
least  if  we  do  so,  it  is  not  with  the 
elevated  pretensions  of  a  recent  be- 
ginning, caused,  we  imagine,  by  a 
similar  sentiment  to  our  own,  but 
sustained  by  a  more  perfect  con- 
sciousness of  that  divine  and  per- 
petual certainty  of  being  always 
right,  which  characterises  Mr  Mat- 
thew Arnold  and  his  friends.  We 
do  not  commence  by  saying,  11  n'y 
a  que  nous  qui  ont  toujours  raison. 
The  single  profession  we  make  is, 
that  we  shall  put  personal  prepos- 
sessions in  our  pockets  —  will,  so 
far  as  lies  in  human  power,  be 
deaf  even  to  the  blandishments 
of  our  editor,  and  callous  to  his 
threats  ;  and  will  say  our  opinion 
honestly,  be  the  book  that  of  a 
friend  or  that  of  a  foe,  without  fear 
or  favour.  At  the  same  time,  we 
do  not  pretend  to  erect  within  the 
genial  enclosure  of  Maga  any  tri- 


630 


New  Books. 


[May 


bunal  of  judgment  in  which  we 
shall  sit  superior.  The  Christian 
sentiment,  that  one  man  is  as  good 
as  another,  or  perhaps  better,  shall 
animate  all  our  comments  ;  and  we 
do  not  refuse  to  acknowledge  the 
still  higher  principle,  that  authors, 
after  all,  when  one  comes  to  think 
of  it,  are  as  good  as  critics — that 
probably  in  some  cases  they  know 
their  own  meaning  better  than  we 
do  ;  and  that  it  is  worth  while, — 
not  as  looking  down  from  above, 
which  destroys  the  perspective — but 
in  friendly  equality,  on  the  same 
level — or  even  sometimes  from  a 
step  lower, — to  look  into  that  mean- 
ing, and  give  our  best  endeavour  to 
find  it  out. 

There  is  something  curious  in  the 
simultaneous  publication  of  two 
books  on  the  same  subject,*  which 
attracts  the  attention  at  the  first 
glance  ;  especially  as  that  subject  is 
one  of  no  immediate  or  contem- 
porary interest,  though  it  has  a 
great  claim,  not  only  upon  the 
students  of  art,  to  whom  it  pri- 
marily commends  itself,  but  upon 
all  who  are  interested  in  the  study 
of  man,  of  national  characteristics, 
and  of  the  ways  of  thinking  and 
animating  principles  of  the  past. 
Albrecht  Diirer  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  figures  which  appear 
out  of  that  great,  full,  vigor- 
ous, yet  misty  Germany  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  in  which  the  old 
and  the  new  were  in  full  conflict, 
the  medieval  reluctantly  going  out, 
— the  modern  economy  defiantly, 
sometimes  offensively,  as  is  the  na- 
ture of  such  invasions,  breaking  in. 
Great  things  were  going  on  in  his 
day — great  men  abounded  around 
him.  The  highest  radiance  of  ge- 
nius which  had  ever  been  devoted  to 
Art  was  illuminating  Italy,  and  he 
himself  in  his  own  person  was  Art 
in  Germany,  a  giant  birth  spring- 
ing to  its  greatest  in  its  cradle. 
He  had  corresponded  with  Raffael, 


studied  with  Titian,  served  the 
great  Kaiser  Maximilian,  knew 
Erasmus  and  Melanchthon,  and,  in 
short,  held  a  place  in  the  very  cen- 
tre of  that  wonderful  outburst  of 
renewed  strength  arid  vitality  which 
the  world  has  scarcely  ever  equalled. 
Yet  with  all  this  wide  and  full  life 
about  him,  he  was,  above  all  things, 
a  burgher  of  a  petty  town,  bound 
in  closest  obedience  to  a  narrow  mu- 
nicipal corporation — living  for  the 
work  which  he  pursued  with  grave 
steadfastness,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
trade — making  money,  and  not  ap- 
parently objecting  to  make  merry 
also  with  his  fellow-craftsmen  and 
city  friends.  This  curious  com- 
pound of  the  great  and  the  small 
was  not  rare  in  his  time  ;  but  yet 
it  is  very  strange  to  us  in  this  age, 
to  which  such  a  development  of 
mingled  splendour  and  humility  is 
unknown.  We  will  not  assert  that 
the  English  or  any  other  public 
was  at  all  eager  for  the  story  of 
Diirer's  life.  But  no  doubt  it  is 
one  which  we  are  ready  to  receive 
with  respect,  and  with  anticipa- 
tions of  interest.  Who  that  has 
ever  seen  Nuremberg  itself,  and 
read  the  legend  on  his  tombstone, 
and  seen  the  tall,  quaint,  old  house 
raising  itself  stately,  yet  homely, 
over  against  the  Thiergartner 
Thor,  like  an  unchanged  antique 
figure  among  scores  of  other  pa- 
triarchs as  unchangeable  as  itself, 
could  refuse  to  be  interested  in  a 
book  which  should  set  before  us 
the  life  which  was  going  on  three 
hundred  years  ago  in  those  quaint 
streets  ]  The  steep  arid  lofty  roofs 
that  crowd  together,  whispering 
over  the  silent  ages  they  have  seen ; 
the  quaint  oriels  and  projections 
which  glimmer  at  each  other  in  the 
sunshine  across  the  little  stream 
which  traverses  the  city  ;  the  old 
castle — old  beyond  all  counting — 
with  the  tree  in  its  courtyard,  which 
was  a  well -grown  tree  when  Al- 
brecht Diirer  was  born;  the  great 


*  Life,  Letters,  and  Journal  of  Albrecht  Diirer.     By  Mrs  Heat  on.     London  : 
Macmillan. 

Life  and  Works  of  Albrecht  Diirer.     By  W.  B.  Scott.     London  :  Longman. 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


631 


noble  churches  with  their  medieval 
monuments,  and  bare,  chill,  modern 
.Protestantism, — everything  speaks 
to  us  of  a  time  and  a  history  which 
have  departed.  The  traveller  is 
•without  imagination,  indeed,  who 
does  not  conjure  up  the  fifteenth 
century  unawares  as  he  wanders 
;ibout  the  stony  streets  ; — and  very 
destitute  of  all  religious  and  philo- 
sophical tendencies  if  he  can  watch 
and  contrast  the  chilled  and  scanty 
gatherings  of  the  children  of  the 
jleformation  in  the  vast  old  cathe- 
dral built  for  another  form  of  wor- 
ship, and  the  eager  and  devout  mul- 
titude in  the  Frauenkirche,  without 
feeling  his  mind  stirred  by  a  thou- 
sand questions  ; — or  who  can  make 
his  way  unmoved  out  of  that  very 
^ateon  which  Diirer  must  have  gazed 
so  often  from  his  balcony  along  the 
long  solemn  way,  lined  with  the 
stations  of  the  Saviour's  passion,  to 
1  he  little  rude  burying-ground,  full 
of  turf-mounds  and  homely  crosses, 
where  the  great  painter  lies.  The 
mere  sight  of  the  place,  and  of  the 
names  of  its  past  inhabitants,  seems 
enough  to  wake  in  the  most  ordi- 
nary mind  distinctest  visions  of  the 
past. 

Perhaps  this  very  fact  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  flatness  and 
disappointing  character  of  both  the 
books  before  us.  So  much  of  the 
picturesque  lies  on  the  surface,  that 
the  subject  seems  almost  overflow- 
i  ng  to  a  hasty  glance  ;  and  we  can- 
not but  feel  that  the  writer  who 
had  thus  been  tempted  into  it  must 
have  fallen  into  a  very  abyss  of  dis- 
couragement on  finding  how  little 
material  there  was  for  any  novel 
chapter  of  captivating  semi-history. 
Mrs  Heaton  has  tried  very  hard  to 
keep  up  the  lofty  strain  with  which 
she  sets  out  from  those  wonderful 
characteristic  streets  of  old  Nurem- 
1  >erg,  but  the  effort  cannot  be  said 
to  be  very  successful.  No  one,  how- 
ever great  a  master  or  mistress 
of  the  art  of  word-painting,  can  go 
on  for  more  than  a  chapter  or  two 
about  the  high  roofs,  the  quaint 
Cables,  the  antique  perfection  of 
the  strange  old  city.  The  painter 


with  such  a  subject  in  hand  may 
permit  himself  unbounded  licence, 
but  not  the  writer ;  and  when  the 
Diirer-haus,  and  the  Sebald's  kirche 
and  the  Lorenz  -  kirche,  Adam 
Kraft  and  Peter  Vischer,  the  Castle, 
the  Pegnitz,  and  the  streets,  have 
been  exhausted,  it  is  sad  to  find 
how  little  there  is  to  be  said  about 
the  central  figure  which  gives  to 
this  picturesque  scene  so  much  of 
its  interest.  Mrs  Heaton  has  treated 
the  subject  picturesquely,  and  Mr 
Scott  thoughtfully.  The  lady,  we 
presume,  is  new  to  literature,  but 
she  writes  easily  and  well,  though 
perhaps  with  an  occasional  redund- 
ance of  adjectives,  and  repetition 
of  "grand  old  man,"  or  "grand 
winged  woman,"  which  is  slightly 
exasperating  to  the  reader.  But 
she  knows  what  she  is  about,  and 
has  evidently  given  much  care  and 
labour  to  her  list  of  Durer's  works 
and  estimate  of  them.  Mr  Scott — 
who  is  a  painter  himself,  and  there- 
fore has  an  additional  right  to 
undertake  the  subject — goes  into 
this  part  of  it  also  with  conscien- 
tious industry  and  skill ;  and  as  he 
is  less  fond  of  attributing  a  mys- 
tical uncertainty  of  meaning,  he  is 
perhaps,  on  the  whole,  a  more  sat- 
isfactory guide. 

This  portion  of  the  work  is, 
however,  thoroughly  well  done  by 
both  biographers,  and  nobody  can 
have  any  further  excuse  for  not 
knowing  what  are  Durer's  great 
works,  either  on  canvas  or  copper, 
or  for  lacking  some  certain  percep- 
tion of  the  strange  force  of  melan- 
choly meaning  and  Gothic  wealth 
of  genius  which  were  in  the  man. 
The  catalogue  is  not  only  clear, 
but  it  is  interesting,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  know  which  of  the  two  ver- 
sions of  it  deserves  the  preference. 
Each  writer  has  a  different  opin- 
ion about  the  marvellous  print 
of  the  "  Melinconia,"  and  about 
that  grim  and  solemn  composition 
called,  "The  Knight,  Death,  and  the 
Devil;"  but  these  are  subjects  on 
which  critics  will  differ  in  opinion 
as  long  as  pictures  are  discussed. 
Mrs  Heaton's  book  is  the  more  valu- 


632 


New  Books. 


[May 


able  of  the  two,  however,  in  so  far  as 
it  affords  the  reader  an  opportunity 
of  forming  his  own  opinion,  and 
brings  him  to  a  certain  extent  into 
the  personal  influence  of  Diirer 
himself  by  means  of  the  engravings 
and  photographs  with  which  it  is 
prof  usely  illustrated.  The  "Melin- 
conia,"  for  instance,  perhaps  the 
most  curiously  impressive  picture 
ever  composed  in  black  and  white, 
is  not  to  be  realised  from  mere 
description.  No  artist  in  any  kind 
has  ever  more  wonderfully  express- 
ed the  pause  and  wistful  suspension 
of  the  creative  mind  in  the  midst 
of  its  toils  and  thoughts.  The 
figure  which  fills  the  foreground 
is  that  of  a  woman,  large,  ample, 
and  divinely  tall,  a  great  splendid 
type  of  German  vitality,  nowise 
idealised  in  form,  though  with  more 
beauty  of  countenance  than  Diirer  is 
apt  to  indulge  in.  Though  her  dress 
is  that  of  any  contemporary  Frau 
in  Nuremberg,  and  she  carries  purse 
and  keys  at  her  girdle,  this  imper- 
sonation of  musing  genius  has 
wings  at  her  stately  shoulders,  em- 
blems of  a  power  beyond  that  of 
common  flesh  and  blood.  Around 
her  are  scattered  the  instruments 
of  art,  at  once  in  its  commoner 
and  its  more  mystic  forms.  She 
may  have  been  writing  her  fancies 
in  clay  or  on  canvas ;  she  may  have 
been  brooding  over  the  distant 
crucible,  making  meaner  metals  into 
gold,  according  to  the  dream  of  the 
sages  ;  she  may  have  been  measur- 
ing the  orbits  of  the  stars,  and 
naming  them  one  by  one ;  but 
now  she  has  dropped  upon  a 
bench  with  her  head  bent  and 
her  eyes  raised,  gazing  out  of 
their  deep  setting  in  that  wistful- 
ness  of  power  which  can  do  so 
much,  yet  never  can  do  all ;  which 
feels  almost  everything  within  its 
reach,  yet  realises  the  restraint  of 
that  "almost"  as  smaller  spirits 
capable  of  little  never  .do  realise 
their  heavier  bonds.  It  is  not  pain 
that  is  in  her  face ;  it  is  not  even 
weariness.  Near,  'so  near  the  di- 
vine secret,  but  sure  never  to  touch 


it,  penetrated  by  the  wistful  sense 
of  that  vicinity  and  that  impossi- 
bility, she  gazes  forth  at  awful 
nature,  at  wonderful  art,  so  well 
known,  deeply  fathomed,  closely 
embraced,  yet  never  to  be  fully 
understood.  Of  all  pictures  illus- 
trative of  human  genius,  this  is 
perhaps  the  most  intense  and  signi- 
ficant. It  is  the  first  that  should 
be  hung  in  the  study  of  every  poet, 
whatever  be  the  form  of  poetry  in 
which  he  expresses  himself.  Yet  it 
is  not  the  soft  celestial  melancholy 
of  the  poets,  nor  any  pensive  gen- 
tleness of  thought,  which  shines 
through  it.  The  creature  here  pre- 
sented to  us  is  not  softly  visionary, 
nor  a  dreamer  of  sweet  dreams ;  she 
is  not  even  poetry  herself,  always 
young  and  always  fair, — but  the 
strong,  mature,  potential  genius 
which  is  stern  as  well  as  sweet, 
and  knows  the  evil  as  well  as  the 
good,  and  the  bitterness  and  sever- 
ity and  suffering  of  life.  When 
she  leaves  her  various  and  great 
labours — labours  in  which  no  fa- 
culty is  left  unoccupied,  and  which 
still  brood  about  her  as  she  broods, 
filling  the  air  with  a  certain  sense  of 
energy  and  force  restrained — even 
in  the  stillness  the  thoughts  that 
move  her  are  great  thoughts. .  It  is 
not  despair,  for  hers  is  too  noble 
arid  full  a  being  for  despair  ;  nor  is 
it  despondency,  nor  fatigue,  nor 
sorrow.  It  is  the  sense  of  that 
limit  which  binds  the  highest  — • 
a  limit  which  she  does  not  fret 
against,  but  wistfully  gazes  at,  re- 
cognising it,  feeling  its  inevitable 
power,  against  which  no  resistance 
is  of  any  avail,  yet  ready,  when  the 
mood  is  over,  to  arise  in  greatness, 
and  set  all  her  glorious  strength  to 
work  again.  The  end  will  never  be 
attained,  she  knows — never  in  this 
world,  which  is  so  full  of  pain  and 
strife  and  imperfection  ;  but  never- 
theless, while  the  great  mystery 
lasts  life  lasts  ;  and  the  best,  on  the 
whole,  is,  that  care  and  toil  should 
go  on. 

Such  is  not  exactly  the  opinion 
of  either  of  Albrecht  Diirer's  pre- 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


633 


sent  biographers ;  but  yet  their 
differing  judgments  do  not  stray 
very  far  from  this  conception.  We 
M7ill  not  follow  them  into  any  fur- 
ther discussion  of  those  wonderful 
engravings  upon  which  so  much  of 
the  painter's  fame  rests.  We  can 
but  repeat  that  both  have  given 
the  fullest  diligence  to  make  out 
their  list,  and  that  in  both  cases  it 
•seems  conscientious  and  reliable — 
Mr  Scott's  information  being  at 
once  more  detailed  and  more  con- 
cise, a  thorough  guide  to  the  col- 
lector and  student ;  while  Mrs  Hea- 
ton's  is  more  diffuse,  and  much 
more  full.  This  is  no  small  praise  ; 
md  had  either  or  both  of  these 
writers  been  content  to  take  as  the 
subject  of  his  or  her  book  the 
works  of  Albrecht  Diirer — works 
which  have  been  before  the  world 
for  three  centuries,  which  are  sur- 
rounded by  as  many  means  of 
proving  their  genealogy  as  if  they 
were  German  archdukes,  and  which 
are  capable  of  many  an  interesting 
digression — their  work  would  have 
been  most  satisfactorily  performed. 
Both,  however,  unfortunately,  have 
been  beguiled  by  the  popular  mo- 
dern notion  that  a  great  workman 
must  also  at  the  same  time  have  a 
great  life — one  which  will  be  of  ever- 
lasting interest  to  his  fellow-crea- 
tures. Never  was  there  a  greater 
mistake.  We  look  with  dismay  upon 
the  heavy  Albrecht  of  Mr  Scott,  and 
the  half -commercial,  half -dreamy 
painter  of  Mrs  Heaton.  The  few  let- 
ters which  are  all  that  remain  to  be 
quoted,  and  the  account-book  jour- 
nal of  his  journey  into  the  Nether- 
lands, give  anything  but  an  enliv- 
ening picture  of  the  man.  He  was 
young  when  he  went  to  Venice, 
and  it  might  be  supposed  that  the 
society  of  so  many  young  painters  of 
the  highest  talent — amongst  them 
Titian  and  Giorgione — with  old  Bel- 
lini at  the  head  of  the  community, 
beautiful  Venice  around,  and  stren- 
uous life  and  energy  running  high  in 
theveinsof  the  young  Teuton,  would 
have  called  forth  some  clear  expres- 
sion of  his  nature.  But  his  letters 


to  his  friend  Pirkheimer  are  such 
as  any  vulgar  burgess  might  write 
to  another,  full  of  heavy  personal 
banter  and  insignificant  details — 
letters  of  the  most  completely  unin- 
teresting and  commonplace  descrip- 
tion. Here  and  there  occurs  a 
sentence  only'half  intelligible,  and 
the  reader  pricks  up  his  ears;  but  a 
second  glance  is  enough  to  assure 
him  that  the  mystery  is  not  worth 
solving,  and  that  it  is  no  meaning, 
and  not  wit,  which  puzzles  him. 
We  do  not  conclude  from  this  that 
Diirer's  mind  was  unworthy  of  in- 
vestigation, or  himself  without  in- 
terest, but  simply  that  he  was  a 
man  possessed  of  one  mode  of  utter- 
ance, which  he  used  largely  and 
nobly,  but  not  of  a  second;  and  that 
it  is  cruel  now,  three  hundred  years 
after,  to  force  him  before  the  bar 
of  public  opinion,  and  compel  him 
to  express  himself  in  words  for 
which  he  never  had  any  faculty. 
It  is  as  unjustifiable  to  print  poor 
Diirer's  journal,  as  it  would  be  to 
print  the  jottings  which  a  modern 
traveller,  going  over  the  same 
ground,  puts  down  in  the  blank 
leaves  of  his  Bradshaw,  of  his  hotel 
bills  and  incidental  expenses.  Pro- 
bably the  man  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  with  the  help  of  Murray, 
would  give  us  the  most  informa- 
tion. One  page  of  this  journal 
might  indeed  have  made  us  gener- 
ally aware  of  the  difference  between 
the  Murray -and -Bradshaw -guided 
traveller  and  him  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  but  there  can  be  no  excuse 
for  inflicting  so  many  uninteresting 
details  upon  us.  "The  impatient 
reader  can  skip  if  he  pleases,  but 
the  weary  translator  must  needs 
be  faithful,"  says  Mrs  Heaton,  as 
if  her  last  and  severest  duty  was 
the  reproduction  of  this  dreariest 
document.  And  Mr  Scott  also  in- 
flicts it  upon  us  at  full  length, 
though  it  is  very  hard  to  tell  why. 
The  impression  left  upon  the  read- 
er's mind  is  that  of  a  methodical 
and  orderly  soul,  careful  to  put 
down  all  his  expenses,  liberal  in  his 
way,  giving  presents  and  receiving 


634 


New  Books. 


[May 


them,  dining  out  a  great  deal,  and 
receiving  much  friendly  homage  in 
the  way  of  tavern-treats,  wine,  and 
sweetmeats,  and  sometimes  a  great 
banquet  where  everybody  does  him 
honour  ;  a  man,  too,  politic  in  his 
way,  not  neglectful  of  just  means 
of  advancing  himself,  and  with  a 

freat  deal  of  honest  curiosity  about 
im — but  without  a  sentiment  or  a 
thought  which  might  not  have  come 
equally  well  from  Willibald  Pirk- 
heimer,  or  from  Willibald's  clerk. 
The  only  exception  to  the  com- 
pletely uninteresting  character  of 
this  journal,  is  an  outburst  about 
Luther,  written  at  the  moment  when 
the  Reformer  was  carried  off  to  the 
Wartburg  in  the  middle  of  his  career 
— an  incident  which  rouses  Diirer  to 
sudden  energy.  He  throws  his  cal- 
culations aside  for  the  moment,  as 
he  laments  the  supposed  loss  of  the 
man  who  "so  clearly  and  trans- 
parently "  set  forth  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, and  expresses  himself  in  very 
distinct  terms  as  to  the  misde- 
meanours of  Rome.  He  did  not, 
so  far  as  is  apparent,  ever  separate 
himself  publicly  from  the  Church, 
but  the  state  of  his  feelings  is  suffi- 
ciently clear  from  this  very  earnest 
and  serious  utterance.  "  Oh  God  ! 
is  Luther  dead  ?  Who  will  hence- 
forward explain  to  us  so  clearly  the 
Holy  Gospel?"  he  cries,  with  a 
curious  painter-like  appreciation  of 
the  new  light;  and  then  goes  on 
with  quaint  simplicity,  and  that  ab- 
sence of  all  sense  of  humour  which 
distinguishes  the  primitive  mind,  to 
call  upon  Erasmus  to  take  Luther's 
place — Erasmus,  who  is  but  a  little 
old  manikin,  only  good  for  two 
years'  work  at  the  most,  and  whom 
Diirer  exhorts  to  make  a  grand  use 
of  these  two  years,  and  end  as  a 
martyr,  seeing  that  he  cannot  live 
long  anyhow,  nor  have  much  enjoy- 
ment of  his  life. 

"  Oh,  all  ye  Christian  men,  pray 
to  God  for  help,"  he  adds,  with 
that  curiously  commonplace  tone  of 
expression  which  confounds  all  char- 
acteristic differences  in  the  majority 
of  men  when  they  speak  of  religious 


subjects ;  "  for  His  judgment  draws 
nigh,  and  His  righteousness  shall 
be  made  plain.  Then  we  shall  see 
the  blood  of  the  innocent,  which 
popes,  bishops,  and  monks  have 
spilt,  rise  up  in  judgment  and  con- 
demn them  (Apocal.)  And  there 
are  the  souls  of  the  slain  that  lie 
under  the  altar  of  God  and  cry  for 
vengeance,  to  which  the  voice  of 
God  replies,  Fill  up  the  measure  of 
the  innocent  who  are  slain,  then 
will  I  judge." 

"And  I  have  changed  one  florin  for 
living  expenses  ;  I  have  given  the 
doctor  eight  stiver.  Item :  I  have 
dined  twice  with  Ruderigo  ;  I  have 
dined  with  the  rich  Canon,"  adds 
the  placid  Master,  when  he  has  said 
his  say  on  the  one  subject  of  popular 
enthusiasm  which  seems  to  have 
touched  him.  Strange,  yet  quite 
flat  and  uncharacteristic,  is  the  out- 
burst— wonderful  the  sudden  drop 
down  to  more  familiar  everyday 
matters.  Diirer  had  another  voice, 
in  which  he  spoke  as  no  man  of  his 
nation  was  speaking.  Why  should 
we,  or  rather  why  should  his  his- 
torians, demand  of  the  man  that  he 
should  have  two  1 

Another  curious  feature  in  these 
books  is  the  determined  set  which 
both  biographers  make  at  the  un- 
fortunate Agnes,  his  wife — a  poor, 
defenceless,  speechless  woman,  who 
absolutely  does  nothing,  so  far  as 
we  can  see,  to  deserve  the  repeated 
onslaughts  made  upon  her.  We 
are  told  she  made  him  wretched, 
forced  him  to  work,  exacted  a  rigid 
account  of  his  money,  and  generally 
was  the  very  nightmare  of  his  ex- 
istence, notwithstanding  that  he 
describes  himself  as  a  very  inde- 
pendent bourgeois  indeed,  giving 
stivers  right  and  left,  making  all 
sort  of  purchases,  and  even  playing 
and  losing,  without  a  word  of  any 
possible  scolding  from  the  good 
Frau,  whom  he  leaves  so  often  at 
home  in  her  inn,  with  her  maid 
for  company.  The  sole  founda- 
tion for  these  assertions  seems  to 
be  a  letter  written  after  DUrer's 
death  by  his  friend  Pirkheimer,  in 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


C35 


which  he  makes  very  severe  stric- 
tures on  the  wife,  about  whom  it  is 
evident  he  had  permitted  himself 
to  make  some  very  unseemly  sug- 
gestions during  Durer's  absence  in 
Venice.  Pirkheimer  seems  to  have 
been  a  man  of  well-known  licen- 
tious character,  and  Agnes  was  a 
beautiful  and  severely-proper  young 
woman  ;  so  that  it  is  not  very  diffi- 
cult to  see  how  a  feud  might  have 
arisen  between  them.  Nevertheless 
Mr  Scott  and  Mrs  Heaton  both  go 
over  the  same  well-worn  ground. 
They  remark  (both)  that  earlier  bio- 
graphers, unconscious  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  journal  by  which  it  is 
proved  that  the  painter  was  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  in  his  journey  into 
the  Netherlands,  have  described  that 
journey  as  a  despairing  attempt  on 
Diirer's  part  to  escape  from  his  do- 
mestic unbappiness — without,  how- 
ever, drawing  from  this  mistake 
the  natural  lesson,  that  the  general 
ill  report  brought  up  against  poor 
Agnes  rests  upon  the  very  slightest 
and  most  unsatisfactory  foundation. 
Diirer  himself  does  not  breathe  the 
shadow  of  a  reproach.  He  calls 
her  (or  some  one  else)  his  mistress 
of  accounts  in  one  of  his  early  let- 
ters— an  expression  much  relied 
upon  by  Agnes's  assailants,  but 
which  was  just  as  probably  a  title 
playfully  caressing  as  reproachful. 
And  if  there  is  anybody  to  be  found 
fault  with  in  the  Belgian  expedi- 
tion it  is  Herr  Albrecht  himself, 
who  contracts  with  his  host  for  his 
own  individual  dinner,  like  a  very 
uncivil  and  feast-loving  husband, 
adding,  "  My  wife  and  her  maid 
must  dine  by  themselves  up-stairs." 
Pretty  treatment  for  a  poor  lady  on 
a  holiday  tour  !  Yet  **  she  proba- 
bly considered  that  she  had  only 
done  her  duty  in  worrying  her  hus- 
band to  death,"  says  Mrs  Heaton, 
without  one  single  fact  or  even  well- 
founded  fancy  to  build  the  accusation 
upon,  except  Pirkheimer's  letter. 
Poor  Agnes  !  the  chances  are  that  if 


she  had  flirted  with  that  gross  Herr 
Willibald,  and  made  herself  agree- 
able to  him,  we  should  have  heard 
a  very  different  character  of  her. 

Nothing  could  be  more  unlike 
these  two  studies  of  medieval  his- 
tory, so  strong  in  art,  so  bare  in  the 
incidents  of  human  life,  than  the  lit- 
tle book  which  came  from  the  press 
about  the  same  time — the  'Memoirs 
of  the  Marquise  de  Montagu.'"""  The 
scene  changes  not  only  from  the 
verge  of  antiquity  to  the  bustle  of 
modern  life,  but  from  the  quiet  of 
obscure  safety  and  homely  comfort 
into  the  splendour,  the  misery,  the 
heartrending  chances  of  that  tragic 
moment,  in  which  the  eighteenth 
century  ended  in  France,  expiating 
its  wickedness  and  levity  and  gay 
hardness  of  heart  in  blood  and 
tears  such  as  have  not  watered  the 
soil  of  any  other  civilised  country. 
Some  doubt  has  been  thrown  upon 
the  perfect  accuracy  of  the  details 
of  this  book,  which  are  very  minute, 
and  in  which  it  may  well  be  that 
imagination  has  slightly  filled  out 
the  outlines  of  recollection.  But  as 
it  was  first  printed  for  private  circu- 
lation among  the  people  most  cer- 
tain to  be  well  informed  on  the  sub- 
ject, we  cannot  suppose  that  any- 
thing considerable  has  been  added 
to  the  Marquise's  journals.  We 
read  it  for  the  first  time  some  five 
years  ago,  in  a  copy  covered  over 
with  armorial  bearings,  in  the  Fau- 
bourg St  Germain,  the  property 
of  a  lady  connected  with  half  the 
families  recorded  in  its  pages.  It 
was  the  book  of  the  moment  in  that 
well -informed  region  ;  and  having 
passed  the  ordeal  of  such  criticism 
as  was  likely  to  be  given  there,  we 
cannot  suppose  there  can  be  much 
to  find  fault  with  in  point  of  fact. 
The  execution  and  spirit  of  the 
book  are  very  curious.  Its  heroes 
and  heroines  are  all  real  figures, 
taken  from  the  highest  rank  of 
French  aristocracy  at  a  time  when 
morals  were  low  everywhere,  and 


*  Memoirs  of  the  Marquise  de  Montagu, 
don :  Bentle.y. 


Bv  the  Baroness  de  Noailles.     Lon- 


636 


New  J3ooks. 


[May 


especially  low  in  France — at  a  time, 
in  short,  when  oppression  and 
misery  had  driven  a  whole  nation 
mad,  and  its  former  rulers  were 
finding  out,  at  once  what  awful 
penalties  attended  the  sins  of  their 
fathers,  and  what  noble  qualities 
were  in  themselves — upon  the  scaf- 
fold and  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
which  were  red  with  slaughter — and 
more  tediously,  if  less  sharply,  in 
exile  and  poverty.  We  have  heard, 
till  we  are  almost  weary  of  hearing, 
how  the  doomed  noblesse  sang  and 
flirted  and  talked  in  the  prisons  up 
to  the  last  fatal  moment ;  when,  one 
by  one,  the  victims  were  carried  off 
in  their  tragic  gaiety  to  end  at  once 
their  mirth  and  their  sorrows.  And 
even  in  this  volume  there  are  traces 
of  national  customs  at  which  many 
a  virtuous  insular  reader  will  shud- 
der. The  peasants  danced  before 
the  windows  of  the  chateau  on  the 
Sunday  evenings — with  an  awful 
profanity,  which,  we  do  not  doubt, 
will  still  seem  to  some  people  to 
justify  any  amount  of  "judgment" 
— under  the  very  eyes  of  Madame 
de  Montagu  herself.  But  yet,  not- 
withstanding this  confession,  the 
atmosphere  and  spirit  of  the  book 
are  Puritan  in  the  severest  sense  of 
the  word.  Madame  de  Montagu  was 
an  excellent  Catholic.  One  of  her 
great  distinctions  in  life  was,  that 
she  was  the  means  of  converting  a 
German  family,  hapless  children  of 
the  Reformation,  to  the  true  faith  ; 
and  yet  there  was  never  a  lady  of 
the  Commonwealth  more  Puritan 
than  she,  nor  a  Low-Church  sister 
more  Evangelical.  The  very  same 
strain  of  piety  which  is  in  the  reli- 
gious biographies — we  do  not  say 
of  the  present  day,  but  of  twenty 
years  ago,  when  the  Evangeli- 
cal party  was  more  potent  than 
now  —  breathes  through  this  re- 
cord of  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  the  French  Marquise  of  last  cen- 
tury. Probably  Madame  de  Mon- 
tagu would  have  looked  with  pity- 
ing hopelessness  upon  the  heretic 
graces  of  Hedley  Vicars,  while  to 
him  she  would  have  been  but  a  be- 


nighted Papist.  But  it  is  curious 
to  note  how  completely  the  spirit 
of  both  is  the  same.  Naturally,  in 
the  case  of  the  lady,  that  austere 
piety  is  sweetened  and  made  gra- 
cious by  a  hundred  pretty  circum- 
stances which  do  not  attract  us  to 
the  commonplace  Protestant  saint ; 
but  the  resemblance  ought  at  least 
to  convey  a  deeper  toleration,  if  not 
to  the  Catholic  reader,  at  least  to 
the  Protestant,  who  is  not  bound 
by  his  faith  to  excommunicate  his 
neighbour,  even  if  that  neighbour 
has  a  ball  on  Sunday — the  most 
curious  accompaniment  of  Puritan- 
ism which  the  English  imagination 
can  conceive. 

Madame  de  Montagu  was  the 
daughter  of  the  Due  d'Ayen,  of 
the  noble  family  of  Noailles.  Her 
mother  was  a  D'Aguesseau,  grand- 
daughter of  the  Chancellor.  She 
was  related  to  half  the  highest 
nobility  of  France,  inheriting  the 
bluest  of  blood,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance destined  to  the  highest  for- 
tune. The  story  of  her  family,  no 
less  than  her  own  individual  his- 
tory, throws  a  curious  light  upon 
the  constitution  of  the  family  in 
France  as  then  existing,  and  still, 
we  believe,  to  some  extent,  in  ex- 
istence; a  constitution  which  ex- 
plains the  extraordinary  force  of 
domestic  affections — the  bond,  for 
instance,  between  mother  and  chil- 
dren, which  is  the  one  relationship 
which  is  perfect  among  our  neigh- 
bours, and  held  most  sacred — not- 
withstanding the  comparative  lax- 
ity of  the  marriage-tie,  upon  which 
it  is  our  theory  to  believe  all  the 
domestic  affections  are  built.  No 
doubt  the  fact  that  the  young 
people  had  little  choice  in  the  elec- 
tion of  their  wives  and  husbands 
hindered  that  prompt  alienation 
from  the  old  family  into  the  new 
which  we  consider  the  order  of  na- 
ture in  England,  but  which  in  Eng- 
land, as  elsewhere,  gives  to  fathers 
and  mothers,  often  enough,  a  sore 
heart.  In  those  days  it  is  evident 
that  a  new  husband  never  dreamt 
of  absorbing  his  wife's  affections 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


637 


and  withdrawing  her  from  her 
family.  Such  an  idea  did  not 
enter  into  the  theory  of  life.  Ma- 
dame d'Ayen  brought  up  her  five 
daughters  without  any  great  assist- 
ance from  her  husband.  He  was 
busy  with  a  thousand  affairs,  a 
visitor  received  with  much  state 
and  pomp  and  appearance  of  joy, 
but  noway  necessary  to  the  house- 
hold. Such  seems  to  have  been  the 
lot  of  Madame  de  Montagu  herself 
to  a  considerable  extent.  She,  too, 
forms  her  little  world  about  her, 
not  independent  altogether  of  her 
husband,  but  without  any  necessary 
reference  to  him.  He  goes  and 
comes,  always  welcome,  but  never 
indispensable ;  his  duties  become 
her  duties,  and  she  accepts,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  the  care  and  tend- 
ance of  his  father  as  her  natural 
share  of  the  family  responsibility  ; 
but  her  children  are  hers,  and  so 
are  her  arrangements.  When  ne- 
cessity makes  it  desirable  to  divide 
their  expenses,  she  goes  her  way 
to  one  relation,  while  her  husband 
joins  another.  They  are  thoroughly 
kind,  attached  friends,  with  mutual 
interests  and  pleasures,  but  they 
never  pretend  to  have  but  one  life. 
The  theory  is  worth  consideration, 
and,  after  all,  is  perhaps  not  so  bad 
as  it  seems  ;  for,  to  be  sure,  a  great 
many  married  people  find  it  impos- 
sible to  have  but  one  life  between 
them  ;  and  the  sensible  understand- 
ing of  the  French  household  that 
such  a  thing  can  be  dispensed  with, 
without  heartburnings  or  that  de- 
plorable sense  of  failure  which  makes 
home  miserable,  might  be  worth 
cultivating  when  the  other  was 
not  to  be  had.  Thus,  it  is  evident, 
arose  that  pre-eminence  of  the  mo- 
ther, which  now  and  then  gives  a 
somewhat  sickly  character  to  French 
romance,  but  has,  it  cannot  be 
doubted,  a  wonderfully  softening 
and  elevating  effect  upon  life ;  for 
the  woman  is  always  supposed  to 
be  able  to  make  herself  happy  with 
her  children,  to  find  sufficient  com- 
pensation in  them  for  other  wants, 
and,  above  all,  to  have  possession 


of  them  beyond  all  doubt  or  ques- 
tion. We  are  not  sure,  indeed, 
whether  in  his  heart  of  hearts  a 
Frenchman  does  not  feel  it  to  be 
derogatory  to  a  woman  to  be  cap- 
able of  any  but  maternal  passion. 
While  we  in  England  proclaim 
upon  a  thousand  notes  the  pre- 
eminence of  Love,  distinctively  so 
called,  the  French  romancist  shrugs 
his  shoulders,  and  takes  a  different 
view  of  the  question.  His  model 
woman,  his  type  of  purity,  adores 
only  her  children.  Passion  he  will 
give  you  in  plenty,  but  not  of  that 
kind  which  we  consider  to  be  made 
commendable — nay,  to  be  converted 
into  the  highest  of  all  sentiments — 
by  the  marriage-vow.  He  does 
not  realise  the  force  of  that  mystic 
union.  His  is,  no  doubt,  a  lower 
theory — the  theory  of  nature  in 
her  inferior  forms  of  being.  We 
do  not  applaud  nor  hold  it  up  for 
imitation  ;  but  yet  there  are  cases 
in  which  it  works  well.  Madame 
d'Ayen  bringing  up  her  children  in 
content  and  dignified  tranquillity, 
with  a  charming  friendly  regard  for 
the  husband  who  comes  to  see  her 
now  and  then,  but  yet  quite  able  to 
do  without  him  when  need  is,  is 
surely  a  more  dignified  figure  than 
the  deserted  wife  raving  after  the 
object  of  her  passion,  or  than  the 
superior  wife  who  is  galled  by  her 
husband's  imperfections  at  every 
step  she  takes.  The  Frenchwoman 
accepts  the  life  she  cannot  mend  as 
&  fait  accompli,  and  throws  herself 
contentedly  into  the  young  lives, 
which  she  hopes  to  be  able  to  set 
right.  So  does  many  an  English 
wife,  no  doubt,  but  she  does  it 
against  her  theory ;  while  her  Con- 
tinental sister  has  all  the  support 
which  can  be  given  by  the  belief 
that  such  is  the  natural  course  of 
affairs. 

This  is  a  long  digression  out  of 
a  little  book,  but  there  is  a  certain 
interest  in  observing  how  any  the- 
ory of  life  gets  itself  into  being. 
The  Duchesse  d'Ayen  gave  herself 
up  to  her  five  girls.  "  She  em- 
braced them  affectionately  in  the 


638 


New  .Books. 


[May 


morning,  and  met  them  on  her  way 
to  hear  early  mass  at  the  Jacobins 
or  at  St  Roch  ;  she  dined  with 
them  at  three  o'clock,  and  after  the 
repast  she  took  them  to  her  bed- 
chamber :  this  was  a  large  room 
hung  with  crimson  damask,  orna- 
mented with  gold  lace,  and  con- 
taining an  enormous  bed.  The 
Duchess  sat  in  an  easy-chair  near 
the  fireplace,  having  her  snuff-box, 
books,  and  writing  materials  at 
hand,  while  her  daughters  were 
grouped  around  her,  the  eldest 
being  seated  on  chairs,  and  the 
younger  on  stools,  a  playful  strug- 
gle taking  place  between  them  as  to 
who  should  be  nearest  their  moth- 
er's chair.  While  they  worked,  they 
chatted  over  the  lessons  of  the  pre- 
vious night  and  the  little  events  of 
the  day.  Strange  peaceful  glimpse 
of  quiet  life  while  the  tempest  was 
brewing  and  the  wild  winds  rising 
outside  !  Two  of  these  women  were 
to  perish  by  the  guillotine,  inno- 
cent expiators  of  sins  not  theirs  ; 
another  was  to  be  the  wife  of  La 
Fayette,  to  live  through  triumph 
and  downfall,  to  pine  in  French 
and  Austrian  prisons ;  another  to 
wander  from  one  strange  country 
to  another  in  want  and  misery. 
The  happy  one  was  the  one  most 
mourned,  the  early  dead  who  sat 
and  chattered  like  the  rest,  uncon- 
scious what  doom  lay  over  her.  The 
house  was  in  the  Rue  St  Honore, 
opposite  St  Roch,  and  all  was  still 
and  bright  about  the  young  mother 
and  her  girls.  The  book  is  a  very 
calm,  soberly-toned  book,  but  the 
reader  will  find  it  difficult  to  look 
at  this  tranquil  domestic  picture, 
the  young  creatures  at  their  needle- 
work, the  mother  with  her  soft  ad- 
visings  and  reproofs,  without  feeling 
a  shudder  and  thrill  run  over  him 
at  thought  of  the  approaching  fate. 
The  women  thus  trained  were 
equal  to  the  terrible  yet  high  des- 
tiny which  awaited  them.  The 
eldest  bore  the.  horrors  of  the  Lux- 
embourg prison,  the  Conciergerie, 
and  the  scaffold,  with  that  noble  and 
sweet  composure  which  prevents 


the  dreadful  story  of  the  French 
Revolution  from  becoming  mere- 
ly a  horror  and  fear  in  the  pages 
of  history ;  and  two  at  least  of 
the  others  acquitted  themselves  as 
gallantly  as  any  of  their  warlike 
ancestors,  and  with  a  dauntless 
patience  and  unflagging  energy 
which  might  have  turned  the  scale 
of  national  fortune  had  it  been  the 
men  and  not  the  women  who  pos- 
sessed it  at  that  momentous  time. 
But  the  women  were  innocent, 
which  perhaps  was  the  secret  of 
their  strength.  Madame  de  Mon- 
tagu was  one  of  the  early  emigres 
along  with  her  husband  and  his 
father,  and  was  tossed  about  the 
world  from  England  to  Germany, 
and  back  again  into  Holland  and 
Switzerland,  never  losing  her  cour- 
age nor  forgetting  her  fellow-crea- 
tures in  her  own  troubles.  The  story 
of  these  distresses,  which  might 
otherwise  become  monotonous,  is 
lightened  by  the  person  and  house- 
hold of  a  delicious,  strong-minded 
aunt,  philosopher  and  Voltairian, 
who  offers  her  pious  niece  a  shel- 
ter with  genuine  kindness ;  but 
drives  her  half  frantic  in  the  even- 
ings, what  with  novel-reading  and 
bold  discussions  of  everything  in 
heaven  and  earth.  This  lady, 
the  Comtesse  de  Tesse,  had  been 
prudent  enough  and  fortunate 
enough  to  realise  a  part  of  her  for- 
tune before  leaving  France,  with 
which  she  purchased  a  farm  in  the 
canton  of  Fribourg,  called  Lowen- 
berg.  "  She  was  of  a  very  noble 
character,"  we  are  told ;  but  she 
was  a  strange  companion  for  Ma- 
dame de  Montagu,  whose  tender 
Puritanism  and  boundless  charity 
must  have  received  many  a  shock 
from  the  strange,  worldly-mind- 
ed, freethinking  old  lady,  whose 
imperious  manner  and  philosophi- 
cal talk,  her  nervous  twitches,  and 
her  card-playing,  and  her  curiously- 
compounded  household,  are  all  set 
before  us  with  a  certain  sense 
of  humour.  There  was  a  M.  de 
Tesse",  though  his  existence  seems 
quite  unimportant ;  and  there  was 


1870.] 


Neiv  Bootes. 


639 


also,  a  M.  le  Marquis  de  Man,  an 
old  friend,  with  his  son — "  a  good 
conversationist,  a  skilful  player  of 
cards,  very  witty,  benevolent,  and 
imperturbably  even-tempered."  M. 
de  Tesse  "  superintended  the  culti- 
vation of  the  land;  when  necessary 
he  went  on  journeys  ;  but  he  did 
not  occupy  much  attention  nor  any 
prominent  place  in  the  drawing- 
room,"  says  the  candid  story. 
Nevertheless  the  worldly  old  wo- 
man was  kind,  and  though  she  pro- 
fessed to  hate  the  clergy,  supported 
three  poor  exiled  priests  from  the 
proceeds  of  her  garden.  When 
Madame  de  Montagu  heard  this, 
she  took  to  watering  the  garden 
with  a  zeal  which  infinitely  amazed 
her  aunt,  especially  as  the  poor 
young  soul,  with  her  head  full  of 
miserable  anxiety  about  her  friends 
in  danger,  took  special  pains  to 
water  the  nettles,  which  were  plants 
she  was  not  acquainted  with.  Un- 
der Madame  de  Tesse's  roof  she 
heard  of  the  execution  of  her  own 
mother  and  sisters,  of  which  a 
most  touching  account  is  given  ; 
and  after  that  awful  crisis  accom- 
panied her  aunt  in  further  wander- 
ings, which  at  length  brought  them 
to  the  shores  of  the  Baltic.  During 
this  time  she  had  in  her  humble- 
ness originated  a  gigantic  scheme 
for  the  relief  of  the  often  starv- 
ing emiy?-es,  whose  fortune  she  had 
herself  shared  for  some  years — 
and  had  been  at  length  reunited  to 
her  husband.  But  the  evening  talk 
and  the  reading  was  always  a  great 
trial  to  her.  She  sat  apart  when 
she  could,  and  did  her  knitting,  and 
thought  her  own  pious  thoughts, 
taking  very  little  part  in  the  con- 
versations. One  week  they  read '  Les 
Chevaliers  des  Cynge,'  by  Madame 
de  Genlis  ;  for  a  month  they  were 
occupied  by  *  Clarissa  Harlowe,' 
then  '  Tristram  Shandy.'  And  then 
folio  wed  discussions  which  were  still 
more  hard  to  bear.  When  her  nieces, 
the  Demoiselles  de  la  Fayette,  joined 
the  circle,  however,  the  gentle  Pu- 
ritan could  stand  it  no  longer.  She 
withdrew  with  the  girls,  and  read 


to  them  while  they  made  and 
mended  their  clothes.  "  It  will  be 
readily  conceived/'  says  her  bio- 
grapher, "  that  she  did  not  read 
novels  to  them,  but  sermons  of 
Fenelon,  the  Book  of  Job  (!), 
Bossuet's  '  Oraisons  Funebres  ;'  in 
fact,  all  that  was  fitted  to  raise 
their  minds  above  the  misery,  and 
also  above  the  joys,  of  this  earth." 
Poor  Anastasie  and  Virginie  !  pro- 
bably they  would  have  preferred 
the  novels. 

The  book  is  perhaps  a  little  dull, 
or  at  least  mild  in  its  interest ;  but 
it  is  a  curious  and  not  unattractive 
study  of  French  patrician  life  as 
seen  not  from  without  but  within, 
a  change  of  view  which  makes  all 
the  difference.  It  does  in  its  way 
for  the  noblesse  of  the  Revo- 
lution what  the  'Recit  d'une 
Sreur  '  has  done  for  their  descend- 
ants. It  lifts  the  veil  in  front  of 
which  we  see  only  the  flash  and 
sparkle  of  a  national  gaiety  and 
vivacity  which  no  trouble  can  sub- 
due, and  which  we  are  so  apt  in 
our  scornful  insular  way  to  call 
frivolity  ;  and  shows  the  delicate 
Puritanism  and  highly  -  strained 
piety  just  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  exaggeration,  which  is  almost 
always  the  mournful  companion, 
watcher,  reprover,  and  expiator  of 
a  reckless  and  vicious  generation. 
How  often  this  austere  yet  gentle 
figure,  almost  warped  from  percep- 
tion of  the  most  natural  and  in- 
nocent joys  by  the  burden  of  the 
sins  of  its  age,  stands  in  the  back- 
ground behind  the  libertine  and  the 
oppressor,  can  perhaps  never  be  dis- 
covered by  any  human  power  of 
reckoning.  Its  faults  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  its  own,  but  its  vir- 
tues are  all  nobly  individual.  For- 
tunately the  story  here  is  so  told 
that  even  while  he  smiles  at  the 
pensive  Puritan,  who  makes  her 
appearance  in  the  strange  disguise 
of  a  French  Marquise  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  the  reader  will  feel 
more  than  half  disposed  at  the  same 
moment  to  bend  his  knee  to  the 
pure,  courageous,  tender,  and  cha- 


640 


New  Books. 


[May 


ritable  woman,  whose  intense  do- 
mestic affections  never  dim  her  per- 
ception of  the  wants  of  others,  and 
who  endures  almost  every  anguish 
that  life  can  bring — calamities  far 
beyond  the  common  level,  and  petty 
worries  of  the  very  pettiest  and 
most  exasperating  description  — 
without  ever  flinching  or  breaking 
down.  It  is  a  side  of  the  Revolu- 
tion story,  that  grand  tragedy  which 
no  spectator  can  see  or  hear  of  with- 
out blanched  cheek  and  bated 
breath,  which  is  but  little  known  ; 
but,  still  more,  it  is  a  phase  of 
French  and  Roman  Catholic  life, 
which  it  will  be  well  for  us,  who  are 
so  ready  to  brand  the  nation  with 
levity  and  the  Church  with  spiri- 
tual darkness,  to  mark  and  learn. 

This  is  no  place  to  discuss  the 
chief  of  recent  contributions  to  the 
poetry  of  the  time — the  new  vol- 
ume which  Mr  Tennyson  entitles 
'  The  Holy  Grail ;'  neither,  indeed, 
should  we  think  it  fair  under  any 
circumstances  to  criticise  a  fragment 
of  a  work,  or,  what  is  still  more,  a 
collection  of  fragments,  meant  to  be 
judged,  not  separately,  but  in  their 
relative  place.  It  is  unfortunate, 
however,  that  the  stories  contained 
in  this  new  volume  are  precisely 
those  which  least  bear  individual 
inspection,  and  are  most  insepa- 
rably connected  with  the  great 
drama  which  they  complete.  Enid 
andElaine  are  quite  comprehensible 
by  themselves,  and  may  rank  as 
separate  romances  if  the  reader  so 
chooses.  But  this  is  not  the  case 
with  any  one  of  the  new  chapters. 
They  are  of  the  last  importance  to 
the  completed  cycle  of  legends,  to 
which,  in  fact,  they  are  in  some 
degree  a  key.  But  they  do  not 
take  rank  by  themselves  ;  they  are 
inseparably  linked  with  that  which 
comes  before  and  that  which  follows 
after.  The  reader  who  attempts  to 
take  them  as  independent  produc- 
tions, will  find  himself  confused 
by  a  perpetual  reference  to  some- 


thing out  of  the  book  he  is  reading, 
and  with  the  flutter  about  him  of 
a  hundred  threads  which  must  be 
attached  elsewhere  before  harmony 
can  come  out  of  the  chaos.  This 
will  probably  prolong  their  time  of 
probation,  and  postpone  the  mo- 
ment at  which  they  may  be  ex- 
pected to  have  found  their  proper 
place  ;  and  indeed  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  they  never  will  take 
their  proper  place  until  the  pre- 
sent separate  editions  are  exhausted, 
and  the  Arthurian  poems  finally  go 
to  our  grandchildren  in  the  arrange- 
ment their  author  intended.  It  is 
unfortunate  for  Mr  Tennyson's  con- 
temporaries that  this  should  be  so, 
even  though  it  will  not  hinder  the 
circulation  of  his  new  volume,  or 
prove  any  drawback  to  it  in  a 
mercantile  point  of  view — for  it 
puzzles  the  popular  mind  and 
troubles  the  hasty  reader ;  and  are 
not  the  most  of  us  hasty  readers  in 
these  quick-moving  days  1  There- 
fore we  will  not  attempt  to  say 
anything  about  the  'Holy  Grail,' 
not  having  space  or  opportunity  to 
discuss  it,  as  it  ought  to  be  dis- 
cussed, along  with  the  other  parts 
of  the  work  to  which  it  belongs. 
Under  the  head  of  Poetry  we 
turn  in  the  first  place  to  a  very 
different  production,  a  thing  as 
small  as  the  other  is  great — a  book 
entitled  *  Poems  by  Menella  Bute 
S medley/  *  to  which  our  own  atten- 
tion has  been  drawn  (we  confess,  with 
shame ;  for  ought  we  not  to  have 
known  better  1)  by  the  newspapers. 
In  the  newspapers  we  have  learned 
that  a  certain  dramatic  sketch  con- 
tained in  it,  called  "Lady  Grace,"  is 
the  first  essay  at  the  drama  of  the 
nineteenth  century ;  a  new  begin- 
ning in  dramatic  literature,  a  com- 
bination of  fine  poetry  with  skilful 
plot  and  high  purpose,  and  a  great 
many  other  fine  things  besides.  We 
confess,  and  we  are  ashamed  of  it, 
that  having  no  previous  acquaint- 
ance with  the  writer's  name,  we  were 
so  simple,  so  foolish,  so  forgetful 


*  Poems  l>y  Menella  Bute  Smedley.     London :  Strahan  &  Co. 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


641 


of  experience,  as  to  believe  in  the 
newspapers,  and  send  for  the  book. 
And  here  is  another  great  in- 
justice involved  in  all  such  unfair 
and  untrue  criticism.  The  book  is 
a  harmless  little  book,  which,  no 
doubt,  amused  the  author  and 
pleased  her  friends,  and  demanded 
no  special  notice  one  way  or  other, 
until  it  occurred  to  some  injudicious 
supporter  to  write  it  up.  If  we 
withhold  our  hand,  now  that  it 
lies  before  us,  some  other  operator 
less  remorseful  will  one  day  pro- 
bably have  it  thrown  in  his  way, 
and  will  not  withhold  his  hand; 
so  that  we  silence  the  compassion 
which  pleads  for  the  poor  little 
weakling,  as  something  not  de- 
serving of  any  Nemesis.  It  is 
not  on  Miss  Smedley,  however, 
that  Nemesis  frowns,  but  upon 
the  Superfine  Review,  and  the 
Looker-on,  and  the  other  influ- 
ential vehicles  of  criticism  which 
have  chosen  to  present  Miss  Smed- 
ley to  the  world  as  a  genuine 
candidate  for  poetical  honours  ; 
and  not  only  for  the  honours  of 
poetry,  but  for  those  of  dramatical 
literature — a  branch  of  art  which 
requires  very  rare  qualities,  and 
is  not  to  be  taken  up  promis- 
cuously at  the  will  of  any  nov- 
ice. We  grant  that  Miss  Smedley 
writes  pretty  verses;  and  there  is 
one  thing  in  the  volume,  which 
has  a  right  in  its  gentle  way"  to 
be  called  a  poem — a  right  which 
we  do  not  think  is  possessed  by 
any  of  the  others.  The  "Little 
Fair  Soul "  is  very  sweet,  and 
tender,  and  touching.  It  is  the 
story  of  a  little  human  spirit, 
which,  looking  "  over  the  edge  of 
Paradise,"  sees  a  brother  striving 
to  get  in.  The  spirit  outside 
can  find  no  way  of  entrance;  the 
gate  is  fast,  and  there  is  no  one 
to  open;  and  the  little  brother 
who  is  safe  within  is  disturbed 
in  his  tranquil  bliss.  He  is  not 
an  evangelical  little  soul,  able  to 
wrap  himself  up  in  his  little 
white  robe,  and  pull  his  gold 
crown  all  the  more  securely  on  his 


brow,  and  be  smugly  happy  over 
his  good  fortune,  while  the  forlorn 
spirit  weeps  and  beats  at  the  golden 
gates.  It  is  thus  that  his  pity  and 
love  and  eagerness  work  in  behalf 
of  the  petitioner  without. 

"  I  cannot  move  this  mighty  weight, 
I  cannot  find  this  golden  key  ; 

But  hosts  of  heaven  around  us  wait, 
And  none  has  ever  said  'No1  to  me. 

'  Sweet  Saint,  put  by  thy  palm  and  scroll, 
And  come,  undo  the  door  for  me  !  ' 

'  Eest  thee  still,  thou  little  fair  soul, 
It  is  not  mine  to  keep  the  key.' 

'  Kind  Angel,  strike  these  doors  apart ! 

The  air  without  is  dark  and  cold.' 
'Rest  thee  still,  thou  little  pure  heart; 

Not  for  my  word  will  they  unfold.' 

Up  all  the  shining  heights  he  prayed 
For  that  poor  shadow  in  the  cold  ; 

Still  came  the  word,  (  Not  ours  to  aid  ; 
We  cannot  make  the  doors  unfold.' 

But  that  poor  shadow,  still  outside, 
Wrung  all  the  sacred  air  with  pain, 

And  all  the  souls  went  up  and  cried 
Where  never  cry  was  heard  in  vain. 

No  eye  beheld  the  pitying  face, 
The  answer  none  might  understand, 

But  dimly  through  the  silent  space 
Was  seen  the  stretching  of  a  hand." 

This  is  very  touching  and  sweet ; 
it  is  the  only  real  gem  in  all  the 
volume,  and  we  feel  that  we  have 
done  full  justice  to  Miss  Smed- 
ley's  poetical  power  when  we  have 
pointed  it  out  to  the  impartial  read- 
er who  is  capable  of  judging  of  its 
merits  for  himself.  But  Lady 
Grace  is  a  very  different  matter. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  sentimental 
widow  whose  husband  has  made  a 
very  ridiculous  will,  by  which  he 
commits  to  her  charge  two  of  his 
wards,  a  nephew  and  niece,  putting 
their  fortunes  and  their  future  en- 
tirely in  her  hands.  The  man 
must  have  been  insane ;  and  it  is 
quite  clear  that  his  will  could  not 
have  sustained  any  searching  in- 
vestigation, for  he  goes  on  in  a 
secret  codicil,  which  nobody  knows 
of  but  his  lawyer,  to  ordain  that  if 
his  widow  marries  again,  one  half 
of  her  fortune  shall  be  forfeited  on 
the  spot,  and  the  other  half  "  shall 
be  secured  to  her  second  husband 
for  his  sole  use  and  benefit."  The 


642 


New  -Books. 


[May 


lawyer  who  is  trusted  with  this 
strange  document  is  as  sentimental 
as  Lady  Grace  and  her  early  but 
unavowed  lover  ;  and  it  may  easily 
be  supposed  what  trouble  is  thus 
brewed,  and  how  he  stifles  his  affec- 
tions lest  he  should  seem  mercen- 
ary, after  a  well-worn  expedient  of 
lovers.  The  motive  of  the  piece, 
therefore,  is  to  disembarrass  the 
too  conscientious  solicitor,  and  so 
entrap  the  lady,  that  it  may  be 
absolutely  for  her  advantage  that 
he  should  interpose.  No  Minerva 
Press  heroine  ever  fell  into  a  snare 
more  helplessly  than  does  this 
gushing  and  foolish  widow.  She 
adopts  the  nephew  and  niece  whom 
her  husband  has  left  to  her,  wildly 
pay  ing  the  debts  of  the  Guardsman, 
and  taking  the  girl  of  the  period  to 
live  with  her,  and  offering  to  be  a 
mother  to  them  all ;  although  she 
herself  all  the  while,  according  to 
the  narrative,  is  sufficiently  young 
and  charming  to  suggest  very  differ- 
ent ideas.  She  is  rich,  fair,  unfet- 
tered, party-giving,  and  popular — as 
unlikely  a  person,  according  to  ordi- 
nary principles,  to  have  any  thing  un- 
pleasant happen  to  her  as  can  be  con- 
ceived ;  but  her  author  means  that 
she  should  be  ruined  socially,  and 
has  to  accomplish  it  as  best  she  can. 
The  niece  Rosa  has  been  beguiled 
by  a  braggart  and  roue  to  visit  him 
at  his  rooms,  in  order,  as  she  thinks, 
to  receive  an  ornament  she  has  won 
from  him,  but  in  reality  to  be  exhib- 
ited to  a  party  of  men  assembled  for 
the  purpose,  on  a  bet  made  by  the 
Lothario  that  she  will  come  to  him 
on  a  certain  day  at  a  certain  hour. 
Lady  Grace  knows  that  her  niece 
has  gone  away  with  Sir  George,  and 
hurries  after  her  in  a  very  high- 
flown  state  indeed,  resolving  to  do 
or  die  in  the  service  of  the  girl, 
who  is  about  a  hundred  years  older 
than  she  is,  and  a  thousand  times 
more  knowing.  She  arrives  when 
Rosa,  beginning  to  be  frightened, 
is  prevented  from  escaping  by  the 
servant,  who  declines  to  let  her 
pass.  This  famous  (and  altogether 
novel)  obstacle  quenches  all  the  re- 


solution of  Lady  Grace,  who  finds 
it  easy  enough  to  get  in,  but  is 
driven  desperate  by  this  refusal 
to  let  them  go.  Fancy  any  flunky, 
however  pampered  a  menial,  defy- 
ing a  matron  and  lady  of  fash- 
ion, and  keeping  her  locked  into 
a  bachelor's  apartments  in  the 
calm  respectable  streets  of  modern 
London  !  Lady  Grace  finds  no  bet- 
ter expedient  than  to  change  cloaks 
with  Rosa  (who,  we  are  already 
told,  had  put  on  a  mantle  of  her 
aunt's  to  come  out  in,  which  makes 
the  expedient  curiously  unneces- 
sary), and  send  her  away,  remaining 
in  her  place.  She  has  then  a  most 
high-flown  conversation  with  the 
roue,  who  has  been  absent  during 
this  change  of  visitors.  Instead  of 
denouncing  and  exposing  him,  as 
it  is  clearly  both  her  duty  and 
policy  to  do,  she  throws  herself 
metaphorically  at  his  feet,  plead- 
ing that  he  will  not  betray  her 
niece,  but  lets  him  betray  her- 
self with  the  strangest  imbecility. 
His  friends,  with  whom  he  has 
betted,  come  pouring  into  the  room, 
among  them  a  man,  whom,  not  car- 
ing the  least  for  him,  she  has  been 
persuaded  to  accept  as  her  future 
husband.  And  though  she  is  re- 
presented to  us  as  a  woman  suf- 
ficiently mature  to  have  some  com- 
mand of  herself,  and  some  percep- 
tion of  her  own  dignity,  Lady 
Grace  shrinks  and  trembles  like  any 
poor  governess,  suffers  the  villain 
to  make  some  pretence  of  a  chari- 
table errand,  falters,  and  "claims 
the  gentle  judgment"  of  these  gap- 
ing sneering  spectators,  and  slinks 
out  with  her  character  irretrievably 
injured.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing 
which,  we  are  told,  is  an  attempt  at 
the  formation  of  a  genuine  drama 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  never 
seems  to  occur  to  the  author  for  a 
moment  that  her  heroine  behaves 
like  the  silliest  school-girl,  or  that 
even  the  silliest  school-girl  might 
have  found  something  to  say  for 
herself  in  so  outrageous  a  situation. 
The  reader  shall  have  this  scene, 
that  he  may  judge  whether  there 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


643 


is  any  grace  of  poetry  to  make  up 
for  its  unnatural  folly. 

"LADY  GRACE. 

Will  you  tell  your  man 
To  let  me  pass  ?  He  barred  the  way  before, 
According  to  your  honourable  orders. 

SIR  GEORGE. 
•  Pointing  to  the  vestibule  door,  and  speaking 

with  an  air  of  confusion.} 
The  room  is  full  of  men. 

LADY  GRACE. 

You  can  dismiss  them. 

SIR  GEORGE. 

Bui  how  ?  They  know  there  is  a  lady  here. 
Though  you  disdain  me,  I  would  do  you 

pleasure 

If  it  were  possible.     This  was  a  wager. 
They  know  too  much  to  go,  not  knowing 
more. 

LADY  GRACE. 
Know  they  the  lady's  name  ? 

SIR  GEORGE. 

Not  certainly. 
LADY  GRACE. 
Hwear  to  me  that  you  will  not  breathe  her 

name  ! 
Let  me  pass  for  her;   none  will  aim  at 

me, — 

1  am  wide  of  all  the  targets.  Ah,  be  kind  ! 
]  will  believe  you  never  purposed  harm — 
Nay,  I'll  think  nobly  of  you. 

SIR  GEORGE. 

T  were  loath 

To  lose  my  chance  of  such  a  thought, 
and  if 

LADY  GRACE. 

( With  her  hands  on  his  arm.) 
Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  set  not  a  traitor  '  If  ' 
]  between  your  soul  and  any  gracious  act ! 
You  shall  not  stir  till  you  have  promised 
me  ! 

SIR  GEORGE. 

(Turning  to  her,  and  taking  her  hand.) 
Nay — there's  my  promise  ! 

(Enter  FITZERSE,   RAYMOND,  CAPEL,  and 
LORD  LYNTON.) 

ALL. 
(Speaking  as  they  enter.) 

Treason,  Sandys,  treason  ! 
Where  is  this  lady  ?     Is  the  wager  lost  ? 
Or  do  you  mock  us  ? 

SIR  GEORGE. 
(To  them.) 

Were  you  not  entreated 
To  wait  my  summons  ?  Do  not  be  amazed. 
£-he  came  upon  a  charitable  errand. 

(To  LADY  GRACE.) 

And  so,  dear  lady,  having  heard  your  tale, 
And  helped  your  client,  you  will  suffer  me 
To  be  your  honoured  escort. 

LADY  GRACE. 

You  are  thanked 
"With  all  the  words  I  have. 
CAPEL. 

It  is  Lady  Grace  ! 
VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


RAYMOND. 
I  am  struck  dumb. 

FITZROSE. 

If  I  had  met  a  ghost 
I  should  be  less  disturbed. 

LORD  LYNTON. 
(Gravely  advancing  with  LADY  GRACE'S  hat 

and  cloak.) 

Pray  you,  permit  me  ; 
Your  charitable  errand  being  fulfilled, 
You  may  resume  your  cloak. 
(He  puts  it  on  for  her.    She  stands  in  mani- 
fest embarrassment.) 

The  hour  is  late  ; 

My  carriage  can  convey  you  home,  unless 
Some  exigence  of  charitable  duty 
Demand  a  journey  with  this  gentleman. 

LADY  GRACE. 
I   claim  your    gentle   judgment,   having 

never 
Deserved  a  doubt. 

LORD  LYNTON. 
(Conducting  hei-  to  the  door.) 

I  do  not  judge  a  woman  ; 
I  trust  her — when  1  can. 

(RAYMOND,  CAPEL,  FITZERSE,  all  draw 
back  to  let  LADY  GRACE  pass.  RAYMOND 
opens  the  door  for  her.) 

LADY  GRACE. 

Thank  you.     Good-night ! 
I  shall  meet  you  at  the  ball  on  Thursday  ? 

RAYMOND. 

Yes; 
I  book  you  for  a  valse. 

LADY  GRACE. 

I  do  not  dance. 

RAYMOND. 

You  did  not — all  things  change — I  live  in 
hope. 

LADY  GRACE. 

{Aside.') 
Means  he  to  twit  me  with  my  past?    I 

like  not 

That  phrase  of  '  change  '  and  f  hope.' 
(She  turns  as  she  is  leaving  the  room,  and 
speaks  with  great  dignify.) 

My  presence  here 

Is  a  dark  sentence  ;  pray,  decipher  it 
By  the  unflinching  lustre  of  my  life, 
And  you  shall  find  the  words  are— inno- 
cent. 
(They  stand  silent.    Exit  LADY  GRACE.)" 

If  this  is  the  drama  of  the 
future,  heaven  preserve  the  poor 
actresses  and  actors!  It  nevei 
seems  to  occur  to  Miss  Smedley 
that  a  respectable  woman  might 
make  a  simple  explanation  to  her 
friends  and  lover  without  any  flut- 
terings  or  protestations  of  inno- 
cence, or  that  a  high-bred  lady 
might  have  a  little  more  discretion 
than  a  milliner's  girl.  This  is  the 
2  X 


644 


New  Books. 


[May 


stuff  which  the  most  accredited 
organs  of  popular  criticism  have 
attempted  to  foist  upon  us  as  a 
dramatic  poem,  representing  the 
new  conditions  and  characteristic 
aspects  of  life  in  the  nineteenth 
century  !  We  beg  Miss  Smedley's 
pardon  for  having  given  so  pro- 
minent a  place  to  a  piece  of  am- 
bitious dulness  and  nonsense  like 
the  above.  But  it  is  not  our  fault, 
but  that  of  her  too  kind  reviewers, 
who  have  thus  endeavoured  to  per- 
suade the  public  into  receiving,  as 
something  worth  its  attention,  a 
very  poor  and  very  false  piece  of 
mingled  flippancy  and  sentiment- 
ality. Such  delusive  guidance  is 
a  thing  far  more  dangerous  than 
dozens  of  books  of  so-called  poetry, 
which  harm  nobody,  and  are  capa- 
ble, we  suppose,  of  being  swallowed 
and  assimilated  by  the  amazing 
digestion  of  youth.  Once  upon  a 
time  we  too  remember  to  have  been 
able  to  read  and  get  some  modest 
pleasure  out  of  the  pretty  slim 
volumes  which  a  young  writer  with 
an  admiring  circle  of  friends  may 
be  forgiven,  once  in  a  way,  for 
calling  poetry  ;  but  to  be  requested 
to  receive  such  gentle  jingle-jangle 
as  meriting  a  serious  judgment,  and 
still  more  to  have  an  absurd  story 
in  broken  lines  recommended  to  us 
as  the  drama  of  the  future,  is  more 
than  any  conscientious  reader  can 
be  expected  to  bear. 

Our  impatience  calms  down  as 
by  a  sudden  peaceful  touch,  when 
we  escape  out  of  this  babble  into  the 
dreamy  quiet  of  the  '  Earthly  Para- 
dise/ *  and  see  Mr  Morris's  ancient 
travellers  seated  calm  in  their  great 
hall,  or  out  upon  the  sunny  lawns, 
with  now  arid  then  a  leaf  dropping 
through  the  soft  air,  and  the  young 
folk  busy  with  their  harvesting, 
gathering  the  ruddy  apples  on  the 
ground  by  the  river-side,  the  great 
purple  grape-bunches  on  the  ter- 
races. The  serene  maturity  of  au- 
tumn has  come  into  the  round,  full, 
sweet  monotony  of  the  verse.  No 
stir  is  in  it  of  the  livelier  younger 


year.  A  haze  obscures  the  blue,  the 
very  air  drowses  full  of  a  murmur- 
pus  warmth  and  sound.  Life  and 
its  doings  are  all  as  a  dream  to 
those  spectators,  who  see,  while  the 
tale  goes  on,  glimpses  of  all  the 
various  dreams  and  deceits  of  exist- 
ence— the  joys  that  are  to  come  to 
nothing,  the  griefs  that,  when  they 
are  past,  will  make  a  joy  to  others. 
This  is  the  key-note  of  the  new 
volume.  Life  is  as  a  tale  that  is 
told.  The  misery  and  the  delight 
are  not  altogether  for  their  own 
sakes,  as  if  any  man  could  appro- 
priate his  fate  to  himself,  but  also 
for  the  use  of  others,  all  the  world 
sharing  in  the  profit  and  the 
pain. 

"Both  the  blind  and  they  who  see  full 

well 

Go  the  same  road,  and  leave  a  tale  to  tell 
Of  interwoven  miseries  ;  lest  they 
Who  after  them  a  while  on  earth  must 

stay, 
Should  have  no  pleasure   in   the  winter 

night, 
When  this  man's  pain  is  made  that  man's 

delight." 

As  is  natural  with  such  a  dreamy 
philosophical  yet  sympathetic  view 
of  life,  and  its  strange  and  melan- 
choly chances,  the  tone  of  this 
new  volume  is  chiefly  melancholy. 
There  is  nothing  in  it  like  the  cheer- 
ful vitality  of  the  Man  born  to  be 
a  king,  or  the  passionate  delight  of 
the  story  of  Pygmalion.  The  reader 
sees  everything  that  passes  before 
him  as  the  old  men  see  it,  who  sit 
there  like  gods,  knowing  good  and 
evil,  with  a  half  sense  in  their 
calm  attentive  souls  that  life  was 
made  for  them,  to  keep  them  sub- 
tly, strangely  alive  with  currents 
of  other  men's  existence,  and  re- 
flections from  other  men's  thoughts. 
The  story  of  the  "  Death  of  Paris" 
is  told  to  us  not  so  much  for  itself 
as  for  the  effect  upon  the  young 
ones  which  the  old  men  watch, 
noting  how  it  swells  those  same 
life-currents  in  their  fountains,  and 
guides  the  half-born  stream  into 
the  channel,  of  which  in  time  there 
shall  come  another  tale. 


The  Earthly  Paradise.     By  William  Morris.     Part  III.     London  :  Ellis. 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


645 


"  .     .    .    Good  it  was  for  them  to  note 
The    slim    hand    set   into    the   changing 

throat, 

The  lids  down  drooped  to  hide  the  pas- 
sionate, eyes 
Whereto  the  sweet    thoughts    all  unbid 

would  rise ; 
The  bright-cheeked  shame,  the  conscious 

mouth,  as  love 
Within   the   half-hid  gentle  breast  'gan 

move, 
Like  a  swift-opening  flower  beneath  the 

sun  ; 
The  sigh  and  half-frown  as  the  tale  was 

done, 
And  thoughts  uncertain,  hard  to  grasp,  did 

flit 

'Twixt  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it — 
And  to  their  ancient  eyes  it  well  might 

seem 
Lay  tale  in  tale,  as  dream  within  a  dream." 

Thus  the  mystic  tide  floats  soft- 
ly along  from  one  dreamy  tale  to 
another,  each  contributing  its  special 
nourishment  to  the  quiet  of  the  old 
men's  lives.  The  strain  is  monot- 
onous, but  only  sufficiently  so  to 
be  in  perfect  keeping  with  its  occa- 
sion and  purpose.  Perhaps  the  tale 
which  follows  the  "  Death  of  Paris," 
— the  story  called  "  East  of  the  Sun, 
West  of  the  Moon  " — is  the  most 
charming  in  its  lingering  wistful 
sweetness.  It  is  one  of  those  strange 
fancies,  dear  to  the  Gothic  mind, 
of  a  youth  passing  into  an  unknown 
visionary  land  through  the  love  of 
some  spirit-maiden — coming  back 
again  after  a  vague  dreamy  interval 
— livi  ng  for  love  of  her  as  in  a  dream, 
and  finally  disappearing  at  the  end 
mystically  in  search  of  the  love 
without  which  the  world  is  waste 
to  him.  The  hero  is  John,  the  least 
practical,  least  useful,  of  all  a  nor- 
thern farmer's  homely  large-limbed 
sons — the  musing  poetic  youth,  full 
of  dreams  and  silence,  who  is  so 
dear  to  northern  verse ;  and  his 
love  is  a  beautiful  weird  lady,  whose 
swan-skin  he  secures,  and  who  is 
consequently  bound  to  him,  at  first 
by  fate,  and  finally  by  love.  The 
variety  in  the  tale  is,  that  John's 
love  is  not  cruel  nor  faithless,  and 
has  no  swan-husband  already,  wait- 
ing her  in  her  mysterious  country, 
as  is  usually  the  burden  of  such 
dreams ;  but  is  sweet  and  true,  and 
only  unlike  a  human  maiden  in  the 
wisdom  which  raises  her  above  his 


simple  love.  But  it  is  the  suprem- 
acy of  this  love  which  is  the  burden 
of  the  tale ;  even  after  he  has  gone 
from  her,  and,  drawn  by  human 
longing,  has  come  back  out  of  vi- 
sionary joy  into  the  real  world, 
which  is  as  a  dream  about  him,  to 
see  his  kindred  and  his  father's 
house — his  love,  when  driven  des- 
perate, has  the  power  of  calling  her 
out  of  her  sweet  unknown  land 
of  dreams  into  visible  revelation. 
Should  he  ever  do  this,  she  warns 
him  it  will  be  at  the  cost  of  suf- 
fering and  pain  to  her,  and  pos- 
sible separation  for  ever;  but  there 
comes  a  moment  when  John  can- 
not forbear,  but  gives  utterance  to 
his  passionate  longing.  In  a  sud- 
den access  of  wild  love  and  impa- 
tience he  cries — 

"  'Ah!  what  love, 
What  love/  he  cried,  '  my  heart  should 

move, 

But  my  own  love,  my  worshipped  sweet  ? 
Would  God  that  her  beloved  feet 
Would    bless    our    threshold    this    same 

night ! '  " 

She  comes,  and  John  is  distraught 
with  mingled  rapture  and  terror. 
In  the  wild  darkness  of  the  Christ- 
mas night  there  is  a  sound  of  the 
horn  without  announcing  some  new 
comer. 

"  Then  opened  they  the  door,  and  strong 
The  wild  wind  swept  the  hall  along, 
Driving  the  hangings  here  and  there, 
Making  the  torches  ruddier, 
Darkening  the  fires.     But  therewithal 
An  utter  hush  came  o'er  the  hall, 
And  no  man  spake  of  bad  or  goo  J  ; 
For  in  the  midst  of  them  there  stood 
A  white-clad  woman,  white  as  though 
A  piece  of  fair  moonlitten  snow 
Had  entered  the  red  smoky  hall ; 
Then  sweet  speech  on  their  ears  did  fall, 
Thrilling  all  hearts  through  : 

'  Joy  and  peace 

Be  on  this  house,  and  all  increase 
Of  all  good  things  !  and  thou,  my  love, 
I  knew  how  sore  desire  must  move 
Thy  longing  heart,  and  I  am  come 
To  look  upon  thee  in  thy  home : 
Come  to  me,  give  me  welcome  here  ! ' 

He  stepped  adown,  and  shame  and  fear, 

Mixed  with  the  joyful  agony 

Of  love  and  longing,  as  anigh 

He  drew  unto  her  loveliness. 

A  moment,  and  his  arms  did  press 

His  own  love  to  his  heaving  breast, 

And  for  an  instant  of  sweet  rest, 

'Midst  clicging  hands  and  trembling  kiss, 

Did  he  forget  all  things  but  bliss, 

And  still  she  murmured : 


646 


New  Books. 


[May 


'  Now  rejoice 

That  far  away  I  heard  thy  voice, 
And  came  !  rejoice  this  night  at  least, 
And  make  good  ending  to  the  feast ! ' 

Therewith  from  out  his  arms  she  drew, 
Yet  held  his  hand  still ;  scarce  he  knew 
Of  where  he  was,  and  who  were  round, 
And  strange  and  flat  his  voice  did  sound 
Unto  himself,  as  now  he  spake : 

'  Kinsmen,  see  her,  who  for  my  sake 

Has  left  her  mighty  state  and  home, 

Fair  beyond  words,  that  she  might  come 

With  you  a  little  to  abide  ! 

How  say  ye  ?  are  ye  satisfied, 

Her  sweet  face  in  your  midst  to  see?' 

Therewith,  though  somewhat  timidly, 
Folk  shouted ;  sooth,  they  deemed  her  such 
As  mortal  man  might  scarcely  touch 
Or  dare  to  love  ;  with  fear  fulfilled, 
With  shame  of  their  rough  joyance  chilled, 
They  sat,  scarce  moving;  but  to  John 
Some  sweet  familiar  thing  seemed  won 
Despite  his  fear,  as  down  the  hall 
He  led  her 

Now  softly  to  the  fair  high  seat 
With  trembling  hand  he  led  his  sweet, 
Who  kissed  the  goodman  and  goodwife, 
And  wished  them  fair  and  happy  life  ; 
Then  like  the  earth's  and  heaven's  queen, 
She  sat  there  beauteous  and  serene, 
Till,  as  men  gazed  upon  her  there, 
Joy  of  her  beauty  slew  their  fear  ; 
Hot  grew  their  hearts  now,  as  they  turned 
Eyes  on  her  that  with  strange  light  burned  ; 
And  wild  and  eager  grew  the  speech 
Wherewith  they  praised  her  each  to  each, 
As  'neath  her  eyes  they  sat. 
If  he 

Who  knew  the  full  felicity 
Of  all  they  longed  for,  hushed  at  whiles, 
Might  answer  not  her  healing  smiles 
With  a.ught  but  sad  imploring  eyes, 
When  he  bethought  him  in  what  wise 
She  there  was  come— yet  none  the  less 
Amid  bewildered  happiness 
The  time  went  by  ;  until  at  last 
Night  waned,  and  slowly  all  folk  passed 
From  out  the  hall,  and  the  soft  sleep 
O'er  all  the  marvelling  house  did  creep, 
Bearing  to  folk  that  night  such  dreams, 
As   showed,    through   wild  things,    very 

gleams 

Of  heaven  and  perfect  love,  to  last 
Till  grey  light  o'er  the  world  was  cast." 

The  result  of  this  unfortunate  call 
upon  the  spirit-bride  is,  that  she 
is  banished  to  a  land  of  strange 
unconsciousness  and  insensibility 
East  of  the  sun,  west  of  the  moon — 
where  at  length,  however,  her  lover 
finds  her,  and  arouses  her  out  of  her 
trance  by  the  same  warmth  of  love 
which  had  wrought  her  harm.  Sweet 
and  wistful,  like  the  very  echo  of  a 
dream,  is  this  strange  tale.  "  The 
man  who  never  laughed  again  "  is, 


though  much  more  melancholy,  of 
the  same  description  ;  and  though 
Eastern  in  manner  and  vague 
splendour  of  description,  is  essen- 
tially Gothic  in  its  inspiration.  The 
story  of  "  Rhodope,"  however,  which 
is  intended  to  be  classical,  fails  in 
many  of  the  points  in  which,  in  his 
former  classical  poems,  Mr  Morris 
was  so  successful.  The  atmosphere 
is  not  Greek,  but  northern  ;  the 
house  of  the  priest  of  Jove  might 
almost  be  a  farm-steading  in  the 
Norseland,  with  its  grey  elms  and 
"  meads  with  oaks  beset,"  and  the 
rooks  and  daws  in  its  pine-woods ; 
neither  is  Rhodope  herself  a  primi- 
tive classical  maiden,  but  a  much- 
musing  modern  one,  thinking  upon 
her  thought,  and  considering  her 
fate  almost  as  much  as  if  she  had 
been  the  heroine  of  a  new  novel. 
This  is  a  strange  departure  from 
that  curious  unquestioning  direct- 
ness and  simplicity,  acceptance  of 
the  strangest  facts  without  discus- 
sion of  them,  and  matter-of-fact 
assent  to  the  wildest  conditions, 
which  Mr  Morris  so  perfectly 
caught  in  several  of  his  classic  nar- 
ratives in  the  former  volumes. 
Atalanta's  love,  for  instance,  wins 
that  troublesome  young  woman,  and 
takes  possession  of  her  with  tri- 
umph, without  pausing  to  ask  him- 
self whether  it  was  "  nice  "  of  her 
to  have  outrun  and  procured  the 
death  of  all  those  unlucky  wooers 
— which  is  a  question  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  put  to  himself  had  he 
been  born  in  the  nineteenth  centu- 
ry; and  the  skill  of  the  poet  could  not 
be  more  clearly  shown  than  by  thus 
acknowledging  the  utter  difference 
between  the  ancient  and  the  modern 
mind.  But  Rhodope  must  have 
been  brought  into  this  world  some- 
where in  the  eighteen-thirties,  we 
should  say,  at  the  very  earliest,  and 
questions  herself  about  herself  as 
much  as  one  of  Miss  Bronte's  young 
ladies,  or  any  of  their  free-spoken  suc- 
cessors. She  is  more  modest  a  great 
deal,  but  she  is  not  more  contented. 
Space  does  not  permit  us  to  discuss 
the  longest  tale  of  all,  the  story  of 
Gudrun  and  her  lovers.  The  volume 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


647 


altogether  is  perhaps  scarcely  up  to 
the  level  of  the  former  volumes,  and 
it  has  no  longer  the  first  freshness 
of  that  novel  gift  of  poetical  story- 
telling, not  philosophical,  nor  ana- 
lytical, nor  anything  but  narrative, 
which  was  such  a  delight  to  en- 
counter among  all  the  "thought- 
ful" and  heavy  works  of  the  age. 
It  is  a  perennial  delight,  and  per- 
haps the  one  of  all  others  of  which 
the  world  is  least  likely  to  tire ;  but 
yet  Mr  Morris  must  remember  that 
the  sweet  monotony  and  dreamy 
harmonious  lingering  of  the  strain 
is  apt  to  weary  the  multitude,  which 
has  not  time  for  those  subtle  fit- 
nesses of  style  and  atmosphere 
which  are  the  highest  enjoyment 
of  art :  and  it  is  for  the  multitude — • 
not  for  the  critic,  nor  the  amateur, 
nor  that  limited  class  which  alone 
has  leisure  and  capacity  to  enter 
fully  into  a  poet's  finer  meanings 
— that  the  poet  ought  primarily 
to  write.  He  must  satisfy  their 
broader,  larger,  more  simple  judg- 
ment, not  neglecting  the  others  ; 
for  unless  it  is  in  him  to  charm  the 
common  mind  as  well  as  the  refined, 
no  poet  can  reach  any  real  great- 
ness. 

We  feel  disposed  to  remind 
several  of  the  favourite  writers  of 
the  public  in  another  department 
of  literature — in  that  branch  which 
has,  in  many  respects,  taken  the 
place  of  poetry  among  us,  the  art 
of  fiction — of  a  defect  not  exactly 
like  that  of  Mr  Morris,  but  pro- 
ducing a  somewhat  similar  effect. 
The  monotony  of  repetition  is  a 
different  kind  of  monotony  from 
that  which  is  correctly  expressed  by 
the  word  monotone.  A  man  may  tell 
us  a  great  many  stories  in  monotone, 
and  yet  be  always  original  and  varied 
in  what  he  tells — in  which  case  the 
measure  and  cadence  may  distress 
us,  but  not  the  flatness  of  concep- 
tion, nor  any  want  of  material  ex- 
cellence as  distinguished  from  excel- 
lence of  expression.  But  to  go  over 
the  same  ground  and  reproduce  the 
same  kind  of  scene  over  and  over, 
is  a  mistake  which  sooner  or  later 


will  bear  its  own  punishment.  It 
is  not  a  mistake  when  the  mind  we 
have  to  deal  with  is  that  of  a  great 
genius,  limited  in  breadth  but  illim- 
itable in  depth,  like  that,  for  in- 
stance, of  George  Eliot,  from  whom 
we  know  beforehand  we  have  no 
great  variety  to  expect,  but  only 
different  developments  of  a  few 
characters,  the  leading  figures 
which  it  is  evident  fill  up  the  fore- 
ground of  human  life  to  that  great 
writer,  capable  of  any  amount  of  ex- 
pansion within  themselves,  but  not 
of  addition  from  without.  Such 
an  author  produces  comparatively 
little,  and  it  is  in  nature  that  her 
great  efforts  should  be  impressed 
upon  the  mind  of  the  world,  if 
not  by  repetition,  at  least  by  re- 
production ;  but  this  is  not  the 
case,  for  instance,  with  respect  to 
Mr  Trollope's  vivacious  and  inex- 
haustible imagination,  from  which 
out  of  mere  idleness  he  is  throwing 
forth  upon  us  the  same  characters, 
the  same  situations,  with  a  certain 
contempt  for  the  public  which  has 
been  so  faithful  to  him.  Why 
should  he  have  abandoned  those  ear- 
lier, sweeter,  charming  young  wo- 
men, of  whose  thoughts  and  ways 
and  fancies  his  comprehension 
was  so  wonderful,  to  toss  us  about 
with  all  the  doubts  and  tribula- 
tions of  a  Nora  Kowley  or  a 
Mary  Lowther,  girls  whose  mar- 
riage out  of  hand  to  anybody 
would  rejoice  the  reader,  only  to 
get  rid  of  their  endless  fluctua- 
tions and  rebounds  from  one  to 
another  1  Among  all  the  indecen- 
cies of  the  time,  there  is  nothing 
more  marked  than  this  necessity, 
manifested  by  every  young  lady  in 
every  novel,  to  have  a  lover  on 
hand  at  every  moment,  and  to  per- 
mit no  vacuum  between  one  and 
another.  Mr  Charles  Reade,  to  the 
wild  indignation  of  half  the  novel- 
readers  in  England,  has  just  per- 
mitted his  heroine  to  contract  a 
marriage  (or  supposed  marriage) 
with  a  second  lover  only  jive 
months  after  her  first  one  is  sup- 
posed to 'be  killed.  And  Mr  Trol- 
lope  encourages  his  heroine  to  en- 


648 


New  Books. 


[May 


gage  herself  to  a  man  she  cares  no- 
thing for  in  less  than  that  interval 
after  the  breaking- off  of  her*  en- 
gagement with  the  man  she  loves  ; 
not  to  say  that  he  permits  her  to 
throw  off  the  first  unfortunate  the 
moment  the  other  again  holds  out 
his  hand  to  her.  We  protest  against 
such  utter  indecorum.  Even  though 
the  exigencies  of  the  tale  may  seem 
to  demand  it,  and  the  story  might 
fail  altogether  but  for  the  interpo- 
sition of  the  impropriety,  we  object 
strenuously  to  the  repeated  use  of 
such  a  poor  expedient.  Mr  Trollope 
is  always  amusing,  always  interest- 
ing, when  he  pleases  to  take  the 
trouble — and  of  course  he  knows  it; 
but  we  have  no  patience  with  his 
Mary  Lowthers.  If  it  is  to  be  that 
we  are  never  to  see  Archdeacon 
Grantley  again,  nor  enter  the 
peaceful  palace  where  Mrs  Proudie 
reigns  no  more,  we  hope  we  know 
how  to  submit  without  any  un- 
seemly exhibition  of  impatience ; 
but  we  decline  to  put  up  with  the 
disagreeable  young  women  who  first 
accept  one  man  and  then  another, 
and  toss,  not  their  hearts  perhaps, 
but  their  hands,  their  kisses,  their 
proprietorship,  from  one  to  an- 
other with  a  painful  promiscuous- 
ness.  We  may  acknowledge  that 
the  love-tale,  which  is  so  short  a 
chapter  in  real  life,  is  in  reality  the 
one  most  interesting  to  the  general 
world,  and  has  the  greatest  gen- 
uine attraction  both  for  old  and 
young ;  did  we  say  anything  else, 
the  balance  of  evidence  would, 
we  fear,  be  against  us :  but  then  it 
must  be  a  real  love-story.  And  we 
decline  to  believe  that  a  history  of 
how  Miss  or  Mr  Somebody  man- 
aged to  get  married  is  at  all  the 
same  thing.  It  is  hard  for  us  to 
say  a  word  against  a  writer  from, 
whom  we  have  received  so  much 
amusement  \  but  we  must  entreat  of 
him  to  consider  his  ways — to  take 
a  thought  and  mend — to  go  back 
upon  his  original  canons,  and  to 
free  us  of  the  Mary  Lowthers.  The 
less  we  hear  about  such  people  the 
better,  if  there  are,  as  we  suppose 
there  are,  such  people  in  the  world. 


And  we  have  just  half-a-dozen 
words  in  passing  to  say  to  a  young 
author  who  ought  not  yet  for  years 
to  come  to  have  required  such  an 
admonition  at  our  hands.  The 
author  of  '  The  Village  on  the  Cliff ' 
is  aware  that  Maga  has  not  been 
slow  to  appreciate  her  charming 
gift.  But  Maga  droops  her  head 
over  the  little  bits  of  unsustained 
and  careless  work  with  which  she 
is  suffering  a  fine  talent  to  be  frit- 
tered away.  A  pretty  description 
of  here  and  there  a  pretty  domestic 
scene — an  effect  of  sky,  or  trees,  or 
sunny  lawn,  with  a  few  figures  re- 
lieved against  them — these  are  very 
nice  things  to  hang  on  the  walls  of 
a  boudoir,  but  they  do  not  even 
help  to  make  a  great  picture.  They 
are  so  pretty,  and  it  must  be  so 
pleasant  to  do  them,  that  the  critic 
feels  harsh  and  unkind  for  ventur- 
ing upon  such  a  remark.  But  still 
it  is  true.  It  is  allowable  for  peo- 
ple whose  strength  is  waning,  or 
for  people  who  have  no  particular 
strength  at  all,  to  collect  baskets  of 
fragments  for  the  amusement  of 
the  public,  and  make  use  of  every 
scrap  they  write.  But  such  a  mode 
of  proceeding  is  bad  for  a  young 
and  promising  writer.  Miss  Thack- 
eray ought  to  be  able  to  afford  to 
let  those  wayside  flowers  drop  from 
her  hands,  if  she  likes  to  produce 
them,  instead  of  staking  or  rather 
risking  her  fame  upon  a  bundle  of 
little  stories  which  have  answered 
their  purpose.  She  is  capable  of 
something  more,  surely — something 
better ;  and  her  fame  may  be  as 
evanescent  as  it  has  been  great,  if 
she  leaves  it  to  repose  solely  upon 
the  three  beautiful  little  books 
which  are  like  a  portfolio  of  the 
most  charming  sketches,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  have  dipped  very  little 
into  the  real  depths  of  life  and  art. 
In  her  last  sketches  there  is  just 
the  dawning  of  a  suspicion  that  the 
pretty  pictures  are  growing  fixed 
and  set,  and  the  spontaneity  and 
appropriateness  going  out  of  them. 
This  would  be  so  melancholy  a  con- 
clusion to  so  much  promise,  that  we 
cannot  but  pause  on  the  way  to  de- 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


649 


liver  one  word  of  warning.  Water- 
colours  are  very  charming,  but  life 
is  deeper  than  water-colours,  and  a 
writer  differs  from  a  member  of  the 
Society  in  Suffolk  Street  in  a  great 
many  ways.  The  nature  of  the  pro- 
fession is  different ;  the  effect  is  less 
rapidly  produced ;  the  effort  has  to 
be  more  continuous  ;  and  when  the 
talent  is  equal  to  that  of  the  author 
of  '  Elizabeth/  perhaps  we  may  be 
permitted  to  say  that  even  out  of 
plain  pen  and  ink  we  have  a  right 
to  expect  a  fine  result. 

Having  delivered  our  conscience, 
however,  we  will  wind  up  with  two 
books  which  are  not  of  the  usual 
character  of  novels,  but  may  be 
described  rather  as  belonging  to 
the  old  school  of  fiction  than  to 
the  new.  Mr  Dasent's  '  Annals  of 
an  Eventful  Life '  has  been  so  well 
praised  that  we  confess  frankly  to 
having  approached  it  with  a  certain 
suspicion.  Here,  we  said  to  our- 
selves, is  another  book  written  up. 
But,  for  once,  prejudice  was  wrong 
and  the  newspapers  right.  It  is 
not  profound,  nor  touching,  nor 
eloquent,  to  speak  of, — but  it  is 
amusing;  and  we  read  it  without 
feeling  any  of  that  shame  of  our- 
selves which  fills  us  when  we  look 
up  from  a  few  hours'  absorption  in 
a  book  which  is  all  about  the  self- 
made  distresses  of  some  pair  of 
young  fools  whom  personally  we 
should  be  disposed  to  whip  and 
send  to  bed,  were  they  in  our  hands. 
We  will  not  assert,  either,  that  the 
life  is  very  eventful  of  which  these 
annals  are  written ;  but  it  certainly 
has  one  big  plot  in  it,  not  at  all 
badly  managed,  and  is  written  in 
the  kind  of  clever  monologue,  full 
of  digressions  and  allusions  of  all 
kinds,  which  conveys  to  us  the  im- 
pression that  we  have  been  talking 
with  a  clever  agreeable  companion, 
who  is  so  good  as  to  tell  us,  not 
only  his  love-story,  but  a  good  deal 
about  the  world  in  general,  and 
how  a  man  can  get  on  in  it.  The 
hero  is  sadly  weak-minded  in  the 
beginning  of  his  troubles,  but  he 
does  not  surely  deserve  the  utter 
downfall  that  comes  upon  him. 


His  letters  are  intercepted — a  com- 
mon enough  device,  but  managed 
this  time  in  a  sufficiently  clever  arid 
original  way ;  but  he  is  really  very 
little  to  blame  in  the  matter ;  and 
it  is  bard  upon  the  poor  fellow  that 
he  should  thus  lose  not  only  his 
love  and  his  fortune,  but  even  the 
chance  of  setting  himself  right  with 
the  kind  woman  who  has  been  a 
mother  to  him,  and  who  is  allowed 
to  die  without  knowing  how  badly 
used  and  simply  unfortunate  the 
silly  boy  had  been.  As  for  Are- 
thusa,  we  cannot  say  that  we  regret 
the  loss  of  her  half  so  much  as  we 
do  that  of  Aunt  Mandeville.  She 
is  another  of  the  young  ladies  who 
make  such  rapid  progress  in  their 
love-affairs,  being  actually  married 
to  the  schemer  three  months  after 
the  date  of  her  engagement  to  the 
true  lover.  Everybody,  in  short, 
gives  up  poor  Edward  with  the 
most  extraordinary  speed.  Three 
months  are  enough  to  shake  the  faith 
of  everybody  belonging  to  him ; 
even  his  aunt,  who  adores  him, 
gives  him  up  and  leaves  her  fortune 
to  his  enemy,  and  dies  of  a  broken 
heart,  all  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  a 
year.  Things  do  not  go  so  fast  in 
ordinary  life.  But  notwithstanding 
this  mistake,  the  '  Annals  of  an 
Eventful  Life '  is  a  book  which 
belongs  to  the  same  class  as  those 
which  rose  in  the  immediate  shadow 
of  Sir  Walter — the  stories  of  life 
rather  than  of  love,  which  were  the 
delight  of  our  youth. 

Still  more  remarkable,  though 
perhaps  not  so  amusing,  nor  so 
likely  to  be  popular,  is  the  book 
called  '  Wenderholme.'  It  is  a 
story  of  Yorkshire,  with  all  the 
fresh  originality  about  it  of  an  un- 
hackneyed and  primitive  race.  The 
Ogden  family,  with  its  wealth  and 
its  peculiarities,  its  sound  family 
affection,  and  rational,  unsentimen- 
tal treatment  of  its  difficulties,  is  as 
clever  a  piece  of  character-painting 
as  we  have  seen  for  a  long  time. 
It  is  impossible  to  go  into  the  story, 
which  is  perhaps  of  less  importance 
to  the  book  than  a  story,  strictly 
speaking,  ought  to  be ;  but  the 


G50 


Neio  Boole?. 


[May 


fresh  life  and  reality  of  the  novel 
world  thus  opened  to  us,  is  infin- 
itely refreshing  after  all  the  love- 
making,  true  and  false,  and  see- 
sawing between  one  man  and  an- 
other, or  one  woman  and  another 
— or  even  than  the  series  of  experi- 
ments how  far  a  young  woman  can 
go  without  losing  her  character  or 
her  lover — with  which  we  are  per- 
petually edified.  No  lady  walks 
into  any  gentleman's  bedroom,  or 
is  guilty  of  any  other  impropriety, 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  the 
book,  and  thus  one  fine  source  of 
excitement  is  thrown  away.  But 
the  struggles  of  Isaac  Ogden  with 
himself  in  the  dreary  solitude  of 
Twistle  Farm,  may  to  some  people 
supply  a  more  intense  if  graver 
kind  of  interest.  There  is  in  it  a 
certain  reflection  from  the  wild 
early  works  of  the  Bront6  family 
in  their  dealings  with  the  dales- 
men ;  but  it  is  infinitely  less  repul- 
sive, and  more  natural.  Mr  Ham- 
erton  introduces  us  not  to  one  pair 
of  lovers,  with  a  little  circle  of 
spiteful  or  friendly  spectators  round 
them,  existing  solely  on  their  ac- 
count, but  to  a  whole  breadth  of 
country  full  of  people  who  are  none 
of  them  perfect,  but  most  of  whom 
have  a  great  deal  of  good  about 
them  —  a  picture  which  is  much 
more  like  what  we  see  in  the  ordi- 
nary daylight,  and  perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  more  consistent  with  human 
character  than  the  other  ideal  of 
existence.  We  quote  the  following 
sketch  of  Jacob  Ogden  as  an  ex- 
ample of  his  powers  in  portrait- 
painting  : — 

"His  annual  outlay  upon  literature 
was  within  twenty  shillings ;  not  that 
it  is  to  be  supposed  that  he  spent  so 
large  a  sum  as  one  pound  sterling  in  a 
regular  manner  upon  books,  but  he  had 
been  tempted  by  a  second-hand  copy 
of  Baines's  'History  of  Lancashire,' 
which,  being  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
had  been  marked  by  the  bookseller  at 
five  pounds,  and  Jacob  Ogden,  by  hard 
bargaining,  had  got  it  for  four  pounds 
nine  shillings  and  ninepence.  After 
this  extravagance  he  resolved  to  spend 
no  more  '  foolish  money,'  as  he  called 


it,  and  for  several  years  made  no  addi- 
tion to  his  library,  except  a  book  on 
dog-breeding,  and  a  small  treatise  on 
the  preservation  of  game,  which  he 
rightly  entered  amongst  his  expenses  as 
a  sportsman.  We  are  far  from  desiring 
to  imply  that  Jacob  Ogden  is  in  this 
respect  to  be  considered  a  representa- 
tive example  of  the  present  generation 
of  cotton -manufacturers,  many  of  whom 
are  highly -educated  men;  but  he  may 
be  fairly  taken  as  a  specimen  of  that 
generation  which  founded  the  colossal 
fortunes  that  excite  the  wonder,  and 
sometimes,  perhaps,  awaken  the  envy, 
of  the  learned.  When  nature  produces 
a  creature  for  some  especial  purpose, 
she  does  not  burden  it  with  wants 
and  desires  that  would  scatter  its 
force  and  impair  its  efficiency.  The 
industrial  epoch  had  to  be  inaugurated, 
the  manufacturing  districts  had  to  be 
created — and  to  do  this,  a  body  of  men 
were  needed  who  should  be  fresh  springs 
of  pure  energy,  and  reservoirs  of  all  but 
illimitable  capital ;  men  who  should 
act  with  the  certainty  and  steadiness  of 
natural  instincts  which  have  never  been 
impaired  by  the  hesitations  of  culture 
and  philosophy — men  who  were  less 
nearly  related  to  university  professors 
than  to  the  ant,  and  the  beaver,  and  the 
bee.  And  if  any  cultivated  and  intel- 
lectual reader,  in  the  thoughtful  retire- 
ment of  his  library,  feels  himself  supe- 
rior to  Jacob  Ogden,  the  illiterate 
cotton-spinner,  he  may  be  reminded 
that  he  is  not  on  all  points  Ogden'<? 
superior.  We  are  all  but  tools  in  the 
hands  of  God ;  and  as  in  the  mind  of  a 
writer  great  delicacy  and  flexibility  are 
necessary  qualities  for  the  work  he 
appointed  to  do,  so  in  the  mind  of 
great  captain  of  industry  the  most 
valuable  qualities  may  be  the  very 
opposite  of  these.  Have  we  the  energy, 
the  directness,  the  singleness  of  pur- 
pose, the  unflinching  steadiness  in  the 
dullest  possible  labour,  that  mark  the 
typical  industrial  chief  ?  We  know 
that  we  have  not ;  we  know  that  these 
qualities  are  not  compatible  with  the 
tranquillity  of  the  studious  tempera- 
ment and  the  meditative  life.  And  if 
the  Ogdens  cannot  be  men  of  letters, 
neither  can  the  men  of  letters  be 
Ogdens. 

"It  is  admitted,  then,  that  Jacob 
Ogden  was  utterly  and  irreclaimably 
illiterate.  He  really  never  read  a  book 
in  his  life,  except,  perhaps,  that  book 
on  dog-breaking.  Whenever  he  tried 
to  read,  it  was  a  task  and  a  labour  to 
him;  and  as  literature  is  not  of  the 


1870.] 


New  Books. 


651 


least  use  in  the  cotton  trade,  the  energy 
of  his  indomitable  will  had  never  been 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  mastery  of  a 
book.  And  yet  you  could  not  meet 
him  without  feeling  that  he  was  very 
intelligent — that  he  possessed  a  kind  of 
intelligence  cultivated  by  the  closest 
observation  of  the  men  and  things 
within  the  narrow  circle  of  his  life. 
Has  it  never  occurred  to  the  reader 
how  wonderfully  the  most  illiterate 
people  often  impress  us  with  a  sense  of 
their  intelligence — how  men  and  women 
who  never  learned  the  alphabet  have 
its  light  on  their  countenance  and 
in  their  eyes  ?  In  Ogden's  face  there 
were  clear  signs  of  that,  and  of  other 
qualities  also.  And  there  was  a  keen- 
ness in  the  glance  quite  different  from 
the  penetration  of  the  thinker  or  the 
artist — a  keenness  which  always  comes 
from  excessively  close  and  minute  at- 
tention to  money  matters,  and  from  the 
passionate  love  of  money,  and  which  no 
other  passion  or  occupation  ever  pro- 
duces. 

"In  all  that  related  to  money,  Jacob 
Ogden  acted  with  the  pitiless  regularity 
of  the  irresistible  forces  of  nature.  As 
the  sea  which  feeds  the  fisherman  will 
drown  him  without  remorse  —  as  the 
air  which  we  all  breathe  will  bury  us 
under  heaps  of  ruin  —  so  this  man, 
though  his  capital  enabled  a  multitude 
to  live,  would  take  the  bed  from  under 
a  sick  debtor,  and,  rather  than  lose  an 


imperceptible  atom  of  his  fortune,  in- 
flict the  utmost  extremity  of  misery. 
Even  Hanby,  his  attorney,  who  was  by 
no  means  tender-hearted,  had  been 
staggered  at  times  by  his  pitilessness, 
and  had  ventured  upon  a  feeble  remon- 
strance. On  these  occasions  a  shade  of 
sternness  was  added  to  the  keenness  of 
Ogden's  face,  and  he  repeated  a  terrible 
maxim,  which,  with  one  or  two  others, 
guided  his  life  :  '  If  a  man  means  to  be 
rich,  he  must  have  no  fine  feelings;' 
and  then  he  would  add,  '  /  mean  to  be 
rich.'  " 

Time  does  not  permit  us  to  enter 
more  into  the  novels  of  the  day, 
though  their  name  is  legion.  The 
two  which  we  have  instanced  have 
this  in  common,  that  they  are  not 
like  the  novels  of  the  day,  but  be- 
long to  a  different,  and,  we  are  dis- 
posed to  believe,  more  wholesome, 
if  less  exciting,  class  of  fiction.  On 
another  occasion  we  shall  return  to 
the  more  ordinary  tenor  of  contem- 
porary literature,  in  this  its  most 
fruitful  and  productive  branch — 
that  literature  which  is  more  the 
product  of  the  times  than  its  guide 
— an  indication  of  what  is,  rather 
than  an  influence  for  shaping  what 
is  to  be. 


652 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


THE  EDUCATION  DIFFICULTY. 


THE  present  movement  in  the 
direction  of  National  Education  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able features  of  the  age  through 
which  we  are  passing.  Many  of 
us  are  old  enough  to  remember  when 
the  phrase — "The  schoolmaster  is 
abroad" — was  used  somewhat  deri- 
sively. It  was  pointed  at  the  Uto- 
pian schemes,  as  they  were  then 
considered,  of  a  few  educational 
enthusiasts  who  wanted  to  send  all 
the  world  to  school.  Even  at  an 
earlier  date,  good  King  George  III. 
was  said  to  have  expressed  a  wish 
that  every  man  in  his  dominions 
should  be  able  to  read  his  Bible 
and  have  a  Bible  to  read ;  but, 
like  another  benevolent  wish  said 
to  have  proceeded  from  a  French 
king's  lips — that  every  man  should 
have  a  fowl  to  boil  in  his  pot  (and, 
we  suppose,  a  pot  to  boil  it  in) — 
these  aspirations,  were  classed  by 
the  majority  of  their  unsympathis- 
ing  subjects  in  the  same  category 
of  things  impossible.  Those  who 
read  the  biographies  of  the  earlier 
apostles  of  education,  such  as 
Hannah  More  and  Raikes  of  Ches- 
ter, almost  within  the  present  cen- 
tury, cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with 
the  remarkable  contrast  between 
the  state  of  public  feeling  on  such 
points  then  and  now.  Church  and 
State  appeared  then  alike  indiffer- 
ent to  the  mental  training  of  their 
children.  The  "National  Society 
for  the  Education  of  the  Poor"  has 
had  barely  sixty  years  of  existence; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  year  1833 
that  a  timid  and  half-reluctant  Par- 
liament made  the  first  public  grant 
of  £20,000  for  building  schools. 
As  to  anything  like  a  demand  for 
education  on  the  part  of  those  who 
were  to  be  educated,  not  even  its 
most  enthusiastic  promoters  were 
so  visionary  as  to  expect  it.  It 
would  have  been  held  about  as 
reasonable  to  expect  from  the  chil- 
dren themselves,  when  suffering 


under  measles  or  hooping-cough,  a 
demand  to  be  physicked  and  put  to 
bed. 

We  have  changed  all  that  now. 
While  the  educational  Mahomet 
has  been  making  gradual  and  ten- 
tative advances  towards  the  moun- 
tain, the  mountain  has  all  on  a 
sudden  come  to  Mahomet ;  and 
Mahomet,  apparently,  is  somewhat 
puzzled  and  overwhelmed  at  the 
unexpected  movement.  The  work- 
ing man,  whom  philanthropists  of 
all  shades  of  opinion  had  so  long 
been  coaxing  to  come  and  be 
taught,  has  suddenly — if  we  may 
trust  those  who  profess  to  represent 
his  feelings  and  opinions — risen  up 
and  demanded,  not  only  that  he 
shall  be  taught,  but  that  he  shall 
be  compelled  to  learn. 

Such  a  position  of  things  is,  to 
say  the  least,  very  curious.  If  the 
working  classes  really  wish  that 
their  children  should  be  educated, 
what  need  is  there  for  them  to  de- 
mand an  Act  of  Parliament  which 
shall  compel  them,  under  peril  of 
fine  or  imprisonment,  to  send  them 
to  school?  That  they  should  de- 
mand help  and  assistance  from  the 
State  for  this  purpose,  one  can  very 
well  understand;  but  what  need 
of  compulsion  for  those  who  are 
willing  1  As  a  rule  (especially  in 
the  towns,  whence  we  are  told  the 
cry  chiefly  comes)  the  class  is  rather 
fond  of  independence,  and  looks 
with  somewhat  unfriendly  eyes  up- 
on the  interference  of  the  law  in 
any  way  with  their  private  and 
domestic  arrangements.  The  or- 
derly and  respectable  labourer  or 
artisan  has  a  very  natural  and 
praiseworthy  dislike  to  being 
brought  into  contact  with  the  law's 
representative  in  a  policeman's 
uniform ;  while  the  disorderly  of  the 
class  maintain  a  still  more  jealous 
dislike  of  such  functionaries,  and 
have  hitherto  stood  up  stoutly  for 
those  privileges  of  an  Englishman, 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


653 


dear  to  him  long  before  household 
suffrage  was  thought  of, — the  right 
to  "  wallop  his  own  donkey/7  and 
bring  up  his  children  in  such  ig- 
norance as  pleases  him.  Whence 
comes  this  sudden  revolution  in 
~,he  national  British  mind  1 

So  far  as  it  is  real,  it  may  be  at- 
tributed to  the  gradual  dawning 
upon  the  minds  of  the  uneducated 
or  half-educated  masses  of  the  truth 
that  "  knowledge  is  power."  We 
were  warned,  after  the  late  politi- 
cal crisis,  half  ironically,  that  we 
should  have  to  educate  our  future 
masters ;  and  all  at  once  our  mas- 
ters— if  such  indeed  they  are  to  be 
— have  endorsed  the  proposition 
emphatically  for  themselves.  Some 
of  the  clearer  -  headed  and  more 
earnest  politicians  among  the  work- 
ing men  have,  no  doubt,  an  honest 
appreciation,  of  the  fact  that  the 
inferiority  of  their  education  places 
them  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared 
with  the  classes  above  them,  in 
spite  of  a  nominal  equality  in  their 
political  rights  ;  especially  as  it 
effects  one  of  their  most  cherished 
objects,  that  of  placing  at  least  some 
few  individuals  of  their  own  order 
among  the  national  representatives 
in  Parliament. 

But  this  does  not  explain  the  cry 
for  compulsion.  There  would  be 
no  need  for  any  pressure  to  induce 
men  of  this  type  to  send  their  chil- 
dren to  school.  That  this  cry  pro- 
ceeds really  from  any  large  propor- 
tion of  working  men,  may  in  fact 
be  more  than  doubted.  It  is  raised 
by  a  few  prominent  leaders,  and 
taken  up,  as  any  cry  raised  by  them 
would  be,  by  an  unreasoning  mul- 
titude, many  of  whom  would  be 
loud  in  their  protests  against  such 
compulsion  if  it  had  been  proposed 
from  any  other  quarter,  and  will  be 
loud  hereafter  in  their  complaints, 
if  such  proposition  should  ever  be- 
come law.  There  are  also  two 
motives  which  may  have  consid- 
erable share  in  a  demand  which, 
coming  from  the  quarter  it  does, 
appears  at  first  sight  so  unaccount- 
able. Compulsion,  in  any  direct 


form,  means  free  education.  It  will 
be  hardly  possible  for  any  legisla- 
tion to  compel  the  working  man  to 
send  his  children  to  school  and  to 
pay  for  them.  It  will  be  quite  hard 
enough  for  such  a  parent,  in  many 
cases,  to  forego  his  children's  pos- 
sible earnings,  even  if  the  education 
is  offered  him  without  cost.  Take 
the  case  of  a  labouring  man  with  a 
family,  earning,  say  thirteen  shil- 
lings a-week, — which  is  taking  by 
no  means  a  low  average  of  agricul- 
tural wages.  Suppose  such  a  man 
to  have  two  boys  between  the  ages 
of  nine  and  twelve.  He  can  pro- 
bably obtain  employment  for  both ; 
and  a  compulsory  educational  law 
is  to  deprive  him  of  the  five  or 
six  shillings  a-week  which  their 
united  wages  would  add  to  his  own 
earnings,  and  to  oblige  him  at  the 
same  time  to  pay  the  weekly  pence 
to  the  schoolmaster.  A  supple- 
mentary Act  of  Parliament  will 
have  to  be  passed,  somewhat  after 
the  fashion  of  Jack  Cade's  legis- 
lation, which  shall  enact  "  that 
seven  halfpenny  loaves  shall  be 
sold  for  a  penny;"  otherwise  the 
boys  are  likely  to  be  better 
taught  than  fed.  Compulsion,  then, 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  day-la- 
bourer with  his  twelve  or  fourteen 
shillings  of  weekly  wage,  means 
free  education,  out  of  the  public 
pocket,  for  the  son  of  the  artisan 
who  is  earning  from  thirty  to  fifty  ; 
and  for  whom,  we  must  remember, 
such  education  will  have  an  actual 
money-value,  in  introducing  him  to 
higher  branches  of  skilled  labour. 

Compulsory  education,  then, 
means  free  schools ;  and  free 
schools  must  be  established  by 
rate,  and  supported  by  rate ;  and 
schools  so  established  and  so  sup- 
ported must,  it  is  argued,  and 
with  some  show  of  fairness,  be 
secular,  or  as  nearly  secular  as  may 
be.  Therefore  the  secular  party — 
unhappily  a  large  and  powerful 
party  in  our  large  towns,  and  more 
than  proportionately  noisy  and  ag- 
gressive—  have  helped  with  all 
their  energy  to  swell  this  cry  for 


654 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


compulsion,  in  the  hope  that  when 
free  secular  schools  have  been  once 
established,  they  will,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  starve  out  in  course  of 
time  all  schools  at  which  any  pay- 
ment is  demanded,  and  become 
the  rule  instead  of  the  exception 
throughout  the  country. 

The  moderate  and  well-considered 
measure  which  Mr  Forster  has  in- 
troduced, does  not  embody  either 
of  these  principles.  It  does  not 
encourage,  though  it  does  not  for- 
bid, the  foundation  of  secular 
schools ;  nor  does  it  recognise  com- 
pulsion except  as  a  last  resort,  in 
cases  where  the  local  public  opin- 
ion would  thoroughly  support  the 
application  of  a  remedy  which  is 
sure,  primd  facie,  to  be  unpopular. 
Compulsion  left  optional  with  local 
boards  would,  it  is  admitted  on  all 
hands,  be  very  sparingly  exercised. 
It  might  be  brought  to  bear  occa- 
sionally upon  a  family  whose  va- 
grant and  predatory  habits  made 
the  children  a  nuisance  to  the 
parish,  to  be  abated  so  far  as  pos- 
sible by  the  schoolmaster ;  quite  as 
exceptional  a  case  as  that  which  is 
quoted  as  a  precedent  (surely  most 
unfairly)  by  the  advocates  of  com- 
pulsory education  —  the  sending 
children  of  the  same  class,  who 
have  broken  out  into  actual  crime, 
to  a  reformatory,  and  taxing  the 
parents  for  their  support.  But  to 
suppose  that  in  the  rural  districts, 
boys  of  ten  and  twelve  years  of 
age  are  to  be  hunted  up  out  of  the 
fields  and  farmyards  and  driven  to 
school,  or  that  the  father  of  a  fam- 
ily is  to  be  "  had  up "  before  the 
nearest  squire  and  fined  or  impri- 
soned for  letting  them  go  to  work, 
when  work  is  to  be  had  and  he  has 
their  hungry  mouths  to  feed,  im- 
plies a  faith  in  the  power  of  law 
merely  as  law,  when  neither  found- 
ed on  reason  nor  supported  by  the 
public  opinion  of  those  on  whom 
it  acts,  which  the  experience  of 
past  legislation  will  hardly  justify. 

This  question  of  compulsion, 
however,  is  one  which  will  answer 
itself  in  the  end.  If  it  does  not  get 


itself  settled  by  some  fair  compro- 
mise in  a  committee  of  the  House, 
it  will  be  settled  in  practice  by  the 
common-sense  of  all  classes  alike. 
The  parson  —  who  is  generally 
credited  with  all  disagreeable  duties 
which  concern  the  education  of  the 
poor  in  country  places — will  not 
be  found  an  eager  ally  of  the  law 
which  substitutes  fine  and  imprison- 
ment for  the  moral  suasion  which 
he  has  been  used  to  employ  in  the 
case  of  recusants ;  and  the  employers 
of  labour  will  hardly  act  as  literary 
policemen.  The  real  difficulty,  and 
the  present  battle-field  of  parties, 
is  the  religious,  or,  looking  at  it 
from  another  point  of  view,  the 
"  irreligious ;;  question. 

At  present,  most  schools  for  the 
education  of  the  working  classes 
have  what  is  called  a  "  denomi- 
national "  character, — that  is,  they 
are  in  connection  with  some  re- 
ligious body,  whether  Church  of 
England,  Nonconformist,  or  Ro- 
man Catholic.  The  penny  or  two- 
pence a-week  paid  by  the  parents 
for  each  child,  does  not  supply 
more  than  one-third  of  the  cost  of 
the  education  in  any  efficient  school; 
and  the  remaining  two-thirds  have 
to  be  made  up  either  wholly  by 
private  benevolence,  or  partly  by 
a  grant  from  the  Committee  of 
Council.  These  schools  have  been 
built  originally  in  the  same  way, — by 
private  subscription,  aided  in  most 
cases  by  a  grant  of  public  money. 
The  trust-deeds  of  these  schools 
have  placed  them  under  certain 
managers,  and  they  are  recognised 
as  belonging  to  that  religious  deno- 
mination by  whom  they  were  built, 
and  in  whom  the  management  is 
vested.  Religious  instruction  is 
given  in  them  according  to  the 
creed  and  discipline  of  such  deno- 
mination; guarded,  in  most  cases 
where  a  grant  of  public  money  has 
been  given,  by  a  "conscience  clause," 
as  it  is  termed,  which  allows  any 
parent  who  may  be  of  a  different 
creed  to  withdraw  his  child,  by 
formal  notice,  from  the  religious 
teaching.  Of  these  elementary 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


655 


schools,  the  vast  majority  have  been 
founded,  and  are  in  the  main  sup- 
ported, so  far  as  the  voluntary  sub- 
scriptions go,  by  members  of  the 
Church  of  England,  though  very 
largely  used  by  the  children  of  Non- 
conformist parents.  The  reason  for 
this  has  lain  partly,  no  doubt,  in 
the  greater  wealth  of  the  individual 
members  of  the  Church  of  England, 
— partly  in  the  fact  that  the  Non- 
conformists have  thrown  their 
efforts  rather  upon  their  Sunday- 
schools, — but  partly  also  in  the 
greater  importance  attached  to 
general  education  by  churchmen, 
as  a  more  generally  educated  body, 
and  their  consequently  more  active 
zeal  in  promoting  it.  The  unre- 
f  ormed  Church  has  been  reproached 
with  a  desire  to  keep  the  masses  in 
ignorance  ;  it  is  a  reproach  which 
is  to  a  great  extent  very  unfair 
even  as  against  the  medieval 
Church  ;  but  it  must  be  a  very 
unscrupulous  antagonist  who  would 
venture  to  bring  it  against  the 
Church  of  England  of  the  nine- 
teenth century. 

Hitherto  this  concordat  in  the 
matter  of  religious  education  has 
been  very  generally  acquiesced  in. 
When  the  Nonconformists  were  not 
numerous  enough,  or  not  rich 
enough,  to  found  distinct  schools 
for  themselves,  they  were  content 
with  the  security  of  the  "  conscience 
clause/'  which  protected  their  chil- 
dren from  the  doctrine  to  which 
they  objected;  or — far  more  fre- 
quently—  they  were  either  indif- 
ferent in  the  matter,  or  had  the 
good  sense  to  understand  that  very 
iittle  distinction  could  be  made,  in 
the  teaching  of  a  child  of  eight  or 
ten  years  old,  between  one  deno- 
mination of  Christians  and  another. 
Those  who  were  really  conscientious 
in  their  nonconformity  were  con- 
tent to  leave  any  distinctive  doc- 
trines to  the  Sunday-school  and  the 
chapel;  and  a  very  considerable 
proportion  both  of  nominal  Church- 
men and  nominal  Dissenters  were 
very  indifferent  to  any  such  distinc- 
tive teaching  at  all. 


When,  therefore,  by  the  present 
Education  Bill,  it  was  proposed  to 
leave  all  existing  schools  unaffected 
as  to  their  religious  basis,  except 
so  far  as  to  insist  henceforward  on 
the  universal  acceptance  of  a  "  con- 
science clause  "  as  an  absolute  con- 
dition of  any  public  money — a  step 
in  favour  of  the  Nonconformists — 
to  allow  schools  to  be  established, 
if  desired,  upon  a  strictly  secular 
basis,  and  to  give  them  an  equal 
claim  to  public  aid,  and  to  allow 
the  future  "  school  board  "  in 
any  district  or  parish  to  choose 
their  own  religious  (or  nonreli- 
gious)  basis  of  management  for  any 
new  school  to  be  founded  or  sup- 
ported by  public  rate, — it  might 
have  seemed,  and  did  seem  at  first, 
that  all  parties,  except  Churchmen 
of  a  very  uncompromising  stamp, 
would  be  as  fairly  satisfied  as  it  was 
possible  for  parties  of  such  discord- 
ant views  to  be  satisfied  with  any 
moderate  measure. 

But  there  had  been  a  strong 
party  already  formed,  who  had  laid 
down  for  themselves  a  programme 
of  a  national  education  which  was 
to  be  compulsory,  supported  by 
rate  (supplemented  by  Government 
grant),  free  of  charge  to  parents,  and 
— as  a  necessary  consequence — un- 
sectarian.  These  may  be  briefly 
but  not  unfairly  stated  as  the  broad 
principles  of  the  Birmingham  "  Na- 
tional Education  League ; "  because, 
although  it  did  not  profess  to  in- 
terfere with  such  denominational 
schools  as  are  now  in  existence,  it 
must  be  clear  enough  to  any  com- 
prehension that  in  course  of  time 
the  free  schools  would  starve  out 
all  schools  where  payment  was  de- 
manded, in  almost  every  locality. 

Different  interpretations  seem  to 
have  been  put  by  the  various  mem- 
bers of  the  League  on  the  word 
"  unsectarian."  Some  held  it  to 
mean  the  teaching  of  something 
which  was  called  "  Common  Chris- 
tianity"— a  somewhat  impalpable 
creed,  supposed  to  be  entertained 
by  all  apparently  because  confessed 
by  none  —  which  would  exclude 


656 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


catechisms  and  formularies.  Others 
wished  to  understand  by  it  the  read- 
ing of  the  Scriptures  in  the  school 
without  note  or  comment ;  others 
boldly  declared  it  must  correspond 
to  the  word  "  secular."  As  a  mat- 
ter of  party  tactics,  this  vagueness 
of  interpretation  has  been  found 
convenient.  As  Mr  Richards,  the 
member  for  Merthyr,  and  one  of 
the  representative  men  of  the 
Nonconformists,  frankly  confessed, 
"  there  was  a  difference  of  opinion 
among  themselves,  and  they  thought 
by  using  the  two  words  they  might 
get  over  the  difficulty."  Accord- 
ingly, the  alternative  explanations 
have  been  given  by  the  different 
writers  and  speakers  of  the  party, 
according  as  the  religious  dissenter 
or  the  indifferent  secularist  has  to  be 
propitiated  and  enrolled.  But  this 
latter  section  of  the  party,  though 
not  the  most  numerous,  are  the 
most  outspoken  and  energetic ;  too 
much  so,  probably,  in  the  opinion 
of  their  half-hearted  allies.  The 
cause  was  not  much  strengthened 
when,  at  the  interview  of  the 
League  deputation  with  Mr  Glad- 
stone, upon  the  Minister  attempting 
to  ascertain  what  were  the  limita- 
tions under  which  they  would  ad- 
mit the  teaching  of  Holy  Scripture, 
he  was  answered  from  the  extreme 
left  of  the  party  with  shouts  of 
"  No  Scriptures  at  all !  "  The  veil 
was  lifted,  too,  rather  prematurely, 
by  Mr  Mill  at  St  James's  Hall,  when 
he  spoke  plainly  of  his  hope  of  the 
"ultimate  absorption"  of  all  schools 
where  distinct  religious  teaching 
was  permitted,  into  "  something  " 
which  he  and  his  party  "could  more 
cordially  approve,"  and  when  he 
made  the  outrageous  proposition, 
that  those  who  wished  to  have  their 
children  religiously  educated  should 
be  "  free  to  found  schools  of  their 
own,"  while  those  who  would  con- 
sent to  ignore  religion  altogether 
should  alone  be  entitled  to  national 
aid.  Even  the  '  Times '  was  roused 
to  characterise  this  proposal  in 


words  at  least  as  strong  as  any  we 
should  care  to  use,  as  "  a  conspicu- 
ous illustration  of  the  flagrant  one- 
sidedness  of  illiberal  liberalism."  * 

But  with  such  allies  as  these  a 
large  majority  of  Nonconformists 
have  allowed  themselves  to  unite, 
simply  because  they  saw,  or  thought 
they  saw,  an  opportunity  for  crip- 
pling the  missionary  work  of  the 
Church  of  England.  We  are  told 
that  no  less  than  five  thousand  one 
hundred  and  seventy-three  Noncon- 
formist ministers  have  petitioned 
against  the  religious  clauses  of  the 
Bill,  which  stand  as  we  have  briefly 
stated.  The  movement  has  been 
by  no  means  spontaneous :  it  has 
been  entered  into  with  manifest 
reluctance  by  many  sections  of  Dis- 
senters, notably  by  the  Wesleyan 
Methodists.  But  Nonconformity 
is  just  at  present  in  a  state  of 
very  complete  organisation  (such 
as  Churchmen  may  well  envy)  for 
political  purposes,  and  fresh  from 
some  political  triumphs.  The  order 
was  passed  from  headquarters,  and 
the  names  were  given  in.  But  even 
still  there  are  not  wanting  symp- 
toms of  some  dissatisfaction  in 
many  quarters  of  the  camp,  both 
with  the  plan  of  campaign  and  the 
company  in  which  they  are  to 
march. 

The  Church  party  have  as  yet  been 
remarkably  passive  in  the  question,, 
as  a  body.  Some  honest  and  out- 
spoken members  of  it,  who  have 
consistently  advocated  Church 
schools  pure  and  simple,  and  re- 
sisted the  imposition  of  a  conscience 
clause  of  any  kind,  object  to  Mr 
Forster's  scheme,  because  it  makes 
the  adoption  of  some  such  clause  a 
condition  hereafter  of  any  money 
aid  either  from  Government  grants 
or  local  rates.  Such  men  deserve 
to  be  spoken  of  with  all  honour,  as 
having  been  in  many  cases  conspi- 
cuous for  their  zeal  and  self-denial 
in  the  work  of  education.  They 
form  but  a  small  minority  of  the 
clergy,  but  they  number  in  their 


;  Times,'  March  26. 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


657 


ranks  some  of  its  best  men.  But 
they  are  surely  captives  to  a  theory. 
The  theory  is  true  enough  in  itself, 
and  is  not  very  unfairly  expressed 
in  words  by  the  Society  of  Arts 
Commissioner,  though  that  gentle- 
man quotes  it  with  evident  disap- 
Eroval — "  that  the  Church  of  Eng- 
md  clergy  are  the  hereditary 
instructors  of  the  poor/'  There 
certainly  was  a  time — and  not  so 
very  long  ago — when  they  were  at 
least  almost  the  only  instructors, 
and  when  very  few  were  disposed 
to  help  them,  or  to  dispute  their 
claim,  so  long  as  they  were  willing 
to  find  the  time  and  the  money,  and 
when  Church  reformers  would  have 
been  loud  in  their  complaints  of 
negligence  against  the  idle  parsons 
who  neglected  this  duty  in  their 
several  parishes.  Those  who  now 
dispute  this  claim  find  it  convenient 
to  forget  all  this,  and  to  forget  also 
that  a  national  Church  is  necessarily 
older  than  any  phase  of  Noncon- 
formity. There  was  even  an  Act  of 
Parliament  which  forbade  any  per- 
son to  "  instruct  or  teach  any  youth 
before  licence  obtained  from  the 
archbishop  or  bishop "  of  the 
diocese.  It  is  true  that,  prac- 
tically, this  hereditary  right  has 
lapsed.  Yet  surely,  to  this  day,  the 
minister  of  a  national  Church  enters 
upon  his  sphere  of  duty  in  a  very 
narrow  spirit — which  might  be  much 
more  fitly  described  as  sectarian  than 
a  good  deal  which  goes  by  that  name 
— unless  he  does  look  upon  himself 
as  the  religious  educator  of  every 
soul  within  the  limits  of  his  parish. 
He  is  bound  to  teach  them — if  they 
will  be  taught.  Nay,  if  he  be  a 
man  of  any  moderate  power  him- 
self, he  does  educate  them,  more  or 
less.  He  brings  out  their  faculties, 
and  warms  them  into  activity,  even 
if  it  be  sometimes  in  opposition  to 
himself.  Those  who  never  listen  to 
his  teaching  are  influenced  by  it 
nevertheless.  The  preaching  at  the 
chapel  has  to  be  kept  up  to  the 
mark,  when  the  church  pulpit  is 
occupied  by  a  man  of  any  character 
and  power.  If  the  day  ever  comes 


when  we  lose  the  services  of  an 
educated  national  clergy,  and  are 
handed  over  to  a  body  of  religious 
teachers  who  are  formed  by  "natural 
selection,"  the  national  religion  and 
the  national  character  will  suffer 
grievously  from  the  loss  of  these 
"  hereditary  "  educators.  There  will 
be  no  longer  any  mean  between 
fanaticism  and  indifference.  But 
the  same  theory  which  claims  for 
this  clergy  this  duty  and  privilege 
of  national  education,  must  rest  also 
on  the  parallel  assumption,  that 
schools  are  built,  endowed,  and 
supported  exclusively  by  members 
of  the  national  Church.  So  long  as 
this  is  the  case,  we  suppose  that  not 
even  the  League  itself  would  object 
to  the  teaching  in  such  schools  be- 
ing exclusively  Church  teaching. 
But  when  religious  unity  has  been 
broken,  and  when  the  funds  which 
are  to  support  a  common  education 
are  to  be  drawn  either  by  way  of 
rate  or  otherwise  from  the  pockets 
of  those  who  dissent  from  the 
Church,  it  is  but  reasonable  that 
they  should  be  allowed,  if  they 
please,  to  withdraw  their  own  chil- 
dren from  its  distinctive  teaching, 
while  they  have  still  a  right  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  secular  public 
education  which  is  thus  provided. 
The  clergyman  who  still  insists  upon 
looking  on  his  parish,  under  the 
full  glare  of  this  nineteenth  century, 
as  an  unbroken  and  harmonious 
whole,  is  far  too  sublime  a  theorist 
to  have  much  weight  in  those  prac- 
tical discussions  which  must  always 
have  for  their  object,  not  the  best 
conceivable,  but  the  best  attain- 
able. 

But  unfortunately,  perhaps,  in 
one  sense,  for  the  interests  of  Church 
education,  it  is  this  particular  school 
of  opinion  which  alone  seems  to 
have  marked  out  for  itself  a  distinct 
and  consistent  line  of  conduct.  They 
would  still  object,  as  they  have  long 
objected, to  any  limitation  of  Church 
teaching  in  Church  schools.  The 
far  more  numerous  body  who  would 
be  inclined  to  accept  a  fair  compro- 
mise, in  the  shape  of  a  conscience 


658 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


clause  or  otherwise,  are  too  much 
divided  at  present  among  them- 
selves, although  the  sense  of  a 
common  danger  from  the  inroad  of 
secularism  is  now  beginning,  it  may 
be  hoped,  to  draw  the  various 
shades  of  opinion  so  far  together 
as  to  admit  of  common  action. 
The  National  Society,  which  ought 
in  this  matter  to  represent  the 
calm  and  moderate  mind  of  the 
Church,  has  apparently  hesitated 
as  to  what  course  to  take,  and 
seems,  from  time  to  time,  to  shift 
its  ground.  It  has  taken  objection 
to  points  of  comparatively  little 
importance  in  the  present  Bill — 
such  as  the  withdrawal  in  future  of 
any  inquiry,  on  the  part  of  Govern- 
ment inspectors,  into  the  religious 
instruction  of  the  school,  which 
may  surely  be  safely  trusted  in 
most  cases  to  its  natural  guardians, 
the  parish  clergy  ;  and  to  the  word- 
ing of  the  clause  which  requires  a 
parent's  objection  to  any  portion  of 
the  teaching  to  be  made  "  on  reli- 
gious grounds,"  "  because"  (as  they 
say)  "  the  managers  cannot  decide 
upon  the  parents'  motives ; ;'  a 
task  undoubtedly  beyond  the  powers 
of  any  man,  manager  or  not,  and 
surely  never  meant  to  be  imposed  : 
but  once  admit  the  parent's  right 
to  withdraw  his  child  at  all,  and  he 
alone  must  be  left  responsible  for 
the  sincerity  of  his  objection.  The 
last  manifesto  which  we  have  seen 
from  the  Society  appears  to  imply 
that  such  objections  will  not  be  in- 
sisted on,  and  directs  its  opposition 
now  to  the  last  compromise  as  to 
a  conscience  clause,  as  indicated  by 
Mr  Gladstone.  A  resolution  has 
been  passed  declaring  that  there  are 
"grave  objections  to  any  system  by 
which  religious  instruction  shall  be 
confined  by  a  rigorous  time-table  to 
particular  hours." 

Yet  perhaps  most  moderate  men 
would  admit  that,  granting  the 
principle  of  such  a  clause  itself,  the 
best  way  of  putting  it  in  operation 
really  and  honestly  is  by  fixing  a 
definite  hour,  known  to  the  parent 
from  the  first,  at  which  such  teach- 


ing is  given,  so  that  during  that 
time  the  child  may,  if  he  desires 
it,  be  wholly  withdrawn  from  the 
school.  For  such  a  clause  will  take 
effect,  in  the  most  numerous  in- 
stances, in  small  places  where  there 
is  only  one  school ;  in  the  larger 
towns,  where  all  denominations  are 
strongly  represented,  there  will 
probably  be  distinct  schools,  each 
aided  by  rate  or  by  a  Government 
grant,  where  such  a  clause  will 
be  almost  superfluous.  In  the 
smaller  schools  there  will  often  be 
only  one  teacher  ;  and  unless  the 
child  has  the  opportunity  of  being 
altogether  withdrawn  at  certain 
times,  he  can  hardly  be  really  sepa- 
rated from  the  teaching;  he  must 
hear  it,  in  many  cases,  and,  as  has 
been  very  fairly  said,  will  be  apt  to 
listen  all  the  more  curiously  if  he 
understands  it  is  something  which 
he  is  not  to  attend  to.  The  real 
objection  felt  to  this  "  time-table" 
clause,  as  it  is  called,  comes  to  this  ; 
that  it  seems  to  separate  religion 
altogether  from  the  regular  daily 
work,  and  forbids  that  atmosphere 
of  religious  tone  and  feeling  which 
all  earnest  teachers  would  wish  to 
pervade  their  school  at  all  hours. 
But  this  may  be  an  unfounded 
apprehension.  If  the  teacher  is 
a  religious  man,  this  tone  will 
be  kept  up  amongst  his  scholars, 
so  far  as  he  is  able,  in  spite  of 
all  restrictions  upon  his  definite 
teaching ;  and  if  he  is  not  a  re- 
ligious man,  it  will  not  be  kept 
up  even  during  the  positive  reli- 
gious lesson.  But  no  Act  of  Par- 
liament will  ever  make  it  a  condi- 
tion that  all  national  teachers  shall 
be  atheists,  or  can  guard  even 
the  child  of  an  atheist  from  the 
contagion  of  a  Christian  teacher. 
The  most  that  can  be  done  for  him 
is  that  he  shall  be  exempted  from 
direct  instruction  in  the  truths  of 
Christianity:  its  spirit,  both  he  and 
the  National  Society  may  rest  as- 
sured, will  pervade  many  a  school 
during  every  hour  of  its  time-table. 
Are  those  who  advocate  exclu- 
sively secular  teaching  in  our  week- 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


659 


day  schools  really  aware  of  the  de- 
structive effects  which  their  system 
would  have,  if  it  should  ever  be 
carried  out  into  practice  1  In  their 
zeal  for  this  forced  education  of  the 
masses,  do  they  ever  calculate  the 
amount  of  energy  and  interest  in 
the  cause  of  education  which  they 
are  positively  discouraging  and 
shutting  out  1 

It    is    not    merely    the    money 
question  —  it    is    not    merely   the 
flow  of  private  benevolence  which 
will   be    checked  at  once  by  this 
dry  hard   system    of  rate  -  estab- 
lished   schools,  though    a    branch 
of  educational  revenue  which  has 
hitherto  contributed  at  least  one- 
third  of  the   cost   of  schools   for 
the   poor  is  worth    consideration, 
one  would  think,  as  a  matter  of 
political  economy — but  they  will 
be    sacrificing,    besides,  what    no 
money  could  buy,   the  warm  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  cause,  the  ac- 
tive superintendence  and  encour- 
agement which  the  teachers  need 
as  well  as  the  children — which  the 
earnest  and  zealous  master  looks 
for  and  appreciates,  and  which  the 
careless  master  requires.     Mr  For- 
ster  honestly  admits  that  if  the  ex- 
clusion   of  religion   banishes    the 
clergy  from  our  schools,  he,  "  for 
one,  should  not  know  how  to  replace 
them,"     But,  it  may  be  asked,  why 
should  not  the  same  or  an  equal 
amount   of  personal   interest   and 
superintendence    be   bestowed    by 
benevolent   persons    upon   secular 
schools'?      Why  should  not  those 
who  have  the  means  and  the  leisure 
still  put  into  practice  the   advice 
which  the  poet  gives  to  his  imagi- 
nary Lady  Clara — 

"  Go  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read, 
Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew  "  ? 

Simply  because  such  teaching  is 
seldom  taken  up  in  earnest  except 
by  those  who  have  also  a  strong 
conviction  that  life  was  not  given, 
even  to  such  children,  entirely  for 
reading  and  sewing ;  because  those 
who  are  willing  to  devote  their 
time  and  money  to  such  work  do, 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLV. 


as  a  rule,  undertake  it  in  a  reli- 
gious spirit ;  and  because  the  same 
feeling    which    prompts   them  to 
the    discharge    of    this   Christian 
duty  towards  their   less  fortunate 
fellow-creatures,  would  lead  them 
also  to  impress  upon  those  whom 
they  teach,  as  the  basis  of  all  teach- 
ing, their  own  duties  to  God  and 
man.     Men  may  call  this  fanatical, 
sectarian,  narrow  -  minded,  or    by 
what  name  they  will ;  but  it  is  this 
feeling  which  has  already  carried 
the  light  of  education  into  the  dark 
places  of  our  manufacturing  towns 
and  of  our  country  villages,  not  as 
thoroughly  and  universally,  indeed, 
as  it  would  have  wished  and  desired, 
but  to  an  extent  which  would  never 
have  been   reached   by  any  other 
agency.       The  sudden  awakening 
of  this  secular  zeal  for  enlighten- 
ment has  something  about  it  which 
in  a  less  serious  matter  would  be 
actually  ludicrous.    If  education  is, 
as  we  are  now  so  loudly  told,  the 
one  thing    needful,  the  right  and 
privilege  of  every  child  in  the  na- 
tion, how  comes  it  that  up  to  this 
moment  it   has   been   left   almost 
entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  "sects" 
and  the  "  denominations "  to  pro- 
mote it  1    Where  have  the  secular 
apostles  been  all  this  time  ?     Is  it 
to  their  zeal,  their  self-denial,  their 
time,    or     their    money,  that    the 
working    classes   of    England    are 
indebted    for    such    education    as 
they  have  had  any  time  this  fifty 
years  1 

But  it  is  not  the  clergy  only  who 
are  the  present  voluntary  educators. 
Take  the  common  case  of  a  school 
in  a  country  village.  Hitherto,  un- 
der the  present  system,  the  rector's 
wife,  or  the  squire's  daughters,  or 
both,  as  the  case  may  be,  look  in 
from  time  to  time.  There  is  very 
little  dogmatic  teaching  on  their 
part.  Such  religion  as  they  teach 
there,  is,  in  a  "  denominational " 
point  of  view,  of  a  very  harmless 
character.  Indeed,  if  that  very  ab- 
stract form  of  religion  which  is  now 
in  so  many  mouths  as  "  our  common 
Christianity"  exists  anywhere  at  all 
2  Y 


660 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


in  the  concrete,  it  would  probably 
be  found  in  a  Scripture  lesson  given 
by  one  of  these  volunteer  professors. 
Nay,  even  in  some  secular  branches 
of  learning,  we  can  conceive  that 
a  rigid  observance  of  formularies 
could  not  be  fairly  charged  against 
them.  Ladies'  arithmetic,  for  in- 
stance, we  have  generally  found  to 
be  of  a  highly  undenominational 
character.  But  there  enters  into  a 
school,  along  with  such  teachers,  an 
atmosphere  of  gentleness  and  re- 
finement which  the  little  scholars 
breathe,  as  they  do  the  physical 
atmosphere,  without  being  sensible 
of  the  process  or  its  effects.  It  is 
what  not  one  trained  master  or 
mistress  in  a  thousand,  with  all 
the  zeal  and  good  intentions  in 
the  world,  can  give.  There  will 
be  a  silent  education  going  on 
in  every  school  open  to  such  in- 
fluences, which  is  by  no  means 
limited  to  the  three  stereotyped 
heads  of  Government  requirement. 
It  is  an  instruction  which  cannot 
be  supplied  out  of  any  rate  that 
can  be  levied,  and  which  no  min- 
utes of  "My  Lords"  of  the  Privy 
Council  can  secure.  It  is  an  educa- 
tion of  the  finer  senses,  in  which 
the  children  of  the  poor  are  no  more 
naturally  deficient  than  our  own,  but 
which  are  so  constantly  obscured 
and  blunted,  and  often  wholly  ob- 
literated, for  want  of  opportunities 
of  development  and  exercise  :  an 
education  in  gentleness,  in  self- 
control,  in  truthfulness;  an  antidote 
to  the  meanness  and  coarseness  of 
their  hard  daily  life.  It  warms  them 
out  of  sullenness  and  shyness,  and 
awakens  those  feelings  of  love  and 
respect  for  something  higher  and 
more  perfect  than  themselves,  which 
is  the  first  step  to  salvation  for  every 
human  soul.  Children  learn  who 
their  "  betters "  are,  in  a  way  in 
which  no  catechism  could  teach 
them ;  and  they  learn  it  by  the 
breaking  down  of  the  artificial  bar- 
rier which  seemed  to  separate  their 
"  betters"  from  themselves,  so  that 
the  "  reverence"  of  which  they  have 
been  told  becomes  a  natural  and 


spontaneous  offering,  and  not  an 
exacted  tribute.  Such  dim  per- 
ceptions of  womanly  delicacy  and 
purity  as  the  working  man's  daugh- 
ter carries  out  with  her  into  the 
world,  she  will  have  caught  from 
this  silent  teaching  which  she  has 
received  at  school.  Whatever  little 
refinements  of  taste  may  gild  the 
coarser  clay  of  her  nature  in  days 
to  come — whatever  higher  concep- 
tions of  her  duties  as  a  wife  and 
mother  may  help  to  make  her  house- 
hold somewhat  different  from  what 
an  English  labourer's  household 
too  commonly  is  —  she  will  have 
learnt,  however  unconsciously,  un- 
der the  same  instructors.  Few 
and  faint  such  conceptions  may 
often  be,  at  the  best ;  but  it  is 
hardly  wise  in  the  advocates  of 
progress  to  take  any  step  to  extin- 
guish them. 

It  is  the  quality  of  such  teaching 
also  that,  like  mercy, 

"  It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that 
takes." 

It  has  been  a  blessing  to  these  vo- 
luntary educators  as  well  as  to  their 
poorer  neighbours.  It  has  brought 
into  communication,  naturally  and 
easily,  those  whose  lines  of  life 
would  otherwise  have  lain  wide 
apart.  The  spheres  of  rich  and 
poor  have  touched  each  other  at 
the  single  point  where  a  sympathetic 
impact  was  possible — the  children. 
There  may  be  suspicion  and  jeal- 
ousy of  the  interference  of  a  super- 
ior on  many  points ;  but  it  is  an 
unusually  churlish  nature  which  is 
not  won  to  something  like  a  return 
of  cordiality  towards  those  who  take 
a  kindly  interest  in  the  little  ones. 
Such  teaching  as  this  is  not  re- 
ligion :  it  is  almost  secular  enough 
for  the  programme  of  the  League. 
And  cannot  this  be  taught,  then, 
it  may  be  asked,  in  strictly  secular 
schools  It  Is  not  all  this  moral 
training,  direct  and  indirect,  ex- 
actly what  we  want  to  have,  and 
are  willing  that  the  State  should 
pay  for,  so  that  it  be  kept  separate 
from  creeds  and  formularies  ?  And 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


661 


cannot  the  children  get  it  just  the 
same,  under  the  system  which  we 
advocate  1  No — not  until  all  the 
best  women  in  England  turn  secu- 
larists ;  and  that  no  Act  of  Par- 
liament, no  National  League,  no 
partisan  agitation,  will  ever  accom- 
plish. Here  and  there  may  be 
found  a  benevolent  enthusiast  who 
is  better  than  her  creed  ;  but  once 
write  over  a  school-door,  "  Here 
religion  does  not  enter,"  and 
Christian  benevolence  (and  there 
is  very  little  true  benevolence  or 
self-denial  in  this  country  which  is 
not  Christian)  will  turn  aside  as 
from  unholy  ground,  and  go  its 
sorrowful  way,  and  gather  here 
and  there,  in  their  Master's  name, 
as  it  may,  at  such  times  and  in 
such  places  as  God's  providence 
may  permit,  the  children  whom  a 
Christian  Legislature  forbids  to  be 
so  taught  within  any  walls  subject 
to  its  jurisdiction. 

But  the  religious  element  which  is 
to  be  banished  from  our  day-schools 
is  to  have  ample  scope,  we  are  told, 
in  the  Sunday-school.  All  things 
have  their  time  and  place — read- 
ing, writing,  arithmetic,  geography, 
history,  "useful  knowledge" — for 
the  six  days,  religion  for  the  se- 
venth —  for  such  as  choose.  Of 
the  exceeding  value  of  Sunday- 
schools  there  can  be  no  doubt.  If 
the  present  Bishop  of  Winchester 
has  not  long  since  repented  his  hasty 
and  injudicious  condemnation  of 
them,  his  Nemesis  has  found  him 
out  now.  Those  who  have  talked 
about  the  confinement  and  restric- 
tion inflicted  by  their  means  upon 
poor  children,  thus  making  the 
Sunday  a  misery  to  them  instead 
of  a  rest  and  refreshment,  were 
simply  talking  of  what  they  did 
not  understand.  If  the  teachers 
be  kind  and  intelligent — especially 
if  they  be  drawn  from  the  higher 
ranks — the  Sunday  is  perhaps  the 
happiest  day,  as  it  ought  to  be,  in 
the  little  scholar's  life.  If  it  were 
not  so,  why  should  they  come  so 
regularly  and  cheerfully  1  Why 
should  big  boys,  glorying  in  their 


independence  and  emancipation 
from  the  daily  schoolmaster,  yet 
come,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  to  the 
class  of  the  voluntary  teacher,  and, 
except  for  an  addiction  to  surrep- 
titious apples  and  peppermint,  be- 
come of  their  own  free  will  his 
docile  and  obedient  pupils  1  Un- 
doubtedly, there  is  a  beautiful 
theory  which  is  being  continually 
violated  in  this  case,  as  in  so  many 
others.  That  the  working-man 
and  his  wife  should  go  to  church 
themselves,  each  with  an  octavo 
prayer-book  under  their  arm,  fol- 
lowed by  their  small  family,  two  and 
two  (have  we  not  seen  it  set  forth 
in  pictures  ?) ;  that  they  should,  in 
the  intervals  between  the  services, 
sit  each  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  with 
a  quarto  family  Bible,  and  an  array 
of  smaller  editions,  on  the  table, 
and  hear  the  little  ones  read, — it  is 
this  sacred  family  life  which  the 
parson  and  the  Sunday-school 
teacher  are  accused  of  breaking  up, 
and  forcing  or  beguiling  their  vic- 
tims into  the  ungenial  prison-house, 
whence  they  are  marched  off  like 
convicts  to  church.  The  system,  it 
has  been  said,  destroys  the  Sabbath 
rest  of  a  Christian  home.  We  have 
too  much  respect  and  sympathy  for 
the  real  difficulties  which  stand  in 
the  way  of  the  working  man  to 
draw,  as  it  might  truthfully  be 
drawn,  the  sorrowful  contrast  be- 
tween the  ideal  picture  and  the 
true.  Whatever  early  religious 
training  most  children  of  the  work- 
ing class  obtain  at  all,  is  obtained 
first  in  the  day-school,  and  supple- 
mented and  carried  out  to  a  more 
advanced  age  in  the  Sunday-school. 
They  have  little  enough,  in  most 
cases,  in  their  homes  ;  not  always 
through  defect  of  honest  will  on 
the  parents'  part — quite  as  often 
from  honest  inability.  Teaching 
comes  naturally  to  very  few  unedu- 
cated minds.  They  may  be  very 
wrong  in  looking  to  the  schoolmas- 
ter and  the  parson,  or  their  denomi- 
national minister,  to  do  this  work, 
which  undeniably  should  be  their 
own  j  but  they  notoriously  do  look 


662 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


to  them  in  this  matter.  They  have 
not  the  quiet  roomy  home,  the 
abundant  leisure  from  family  cares, 
the  ready  books  and  helps  at  hand, 
which  make  it  easy  for  us  to  teach 
and  train  our  little  ones.  To  wash 
and  dress,  and  send  to  school  in 
decent  and  comely  Sunday  trim, 
the  four  or  five  little  ones  who  are 
old  enough,  is  the  practical  religion 
of  many  such  a  mother.  Are  we 
all  sure  that  it  is  a  religion  of  less 
love,  of  less  patient  self-denial,  of 
less  reality — a  service  less  "  accord- 
ing to  that  we  have" — than  our  own 
much  reading  arid  many  prayers  1 

But  after  allowing  all  possible 
merit  to  the  Sunday-school  as  a 
means  of  religious  instruction,  it  is 
idle  to  expect  that  this  means  alone 
will  be  sufficient.  Jt  is  impossible 
to  crowd  into  a  couple  of  hours' 
teaching,  once  a-week,  the  bare 
historical  facts  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, where  the  teacher  has  un- 
educated minds  to  deal  with.  In 
a  household  where  the  Bible  is 
daily  read  at  home,  the  public 
teaching  of  the  Sunday  may  be 
held  sufficient;  but  for  the  class 
with  which  educational  legislation 
has  to  deal,  unless  the  child  gathers 
in  the  day-school  some  substratum, 
as  it  were,  of  religious  knowledge, 
most  of  the  Sunday  teaching  is 
lost.  Even  with  this  weekly  aid, 
the  ignorance  on  the  part  of  a 
majority  of  those  who  come  to 
the  Sunday-school  would  astonish 
most  inquirers  who  were  not 
familiar  with  it  from  long  personal 
experience.  Besides,  the  class  for 
whom  education  is  most  loudly 
demanded  are  exactly  those  for 
whom  Sunday-schools  will  open 
their  doors  in  vain.  Dissolute 
and  careless  parents  will  not  send 
their  children  to  such  places,  and 
children  so  unfortunately  neglected 
will  not  care  to  go.  It  is  de- 
manded that  the  day-schools  main- 
tained by  rate  shall  be  wholly 
without  religious  teaching.  This  is 
refusing  even  the  chance  of  any 


such  training  to  those  who  need  it 
most.  It  is  declaring — to  quote  the 
words  of  a  Liberal  journal  which 
has  taken  a  nobly  independent 
line  on  this  question — "  that  the 
vagrant  and  the  destitute  shall  be 
brought  up  to  believe  in  this  world 
and  no  other,  and  not  even  learn 
in  early  youth  that  there  is  a  world 
of  the  first  moment  within  each 
child's  breast,  on  the  insight  into 
which  the  colour  of  his  whole  life 
must  depend."* 

Perhaps   the  most  futile   of  all 
propositions,   by   way   of   compro- 
mise, which  have  been   suggested 
on  this  question,  is,  that  the  Bible 
shall  be  allowed  to  be  read  in  all 
schools,    but     "without     note    or 
comment ; "  read,  that  is,  without 
being  taught.     If  this  is  intended 
merely  as  a  sop  to  the  ignorance 
and  bigotry  of  Christians,  thrown 
out  by  their  wiser  and  more  en- 
lightened  secularist   opponents,  it 
is  intelligible  enough  ;   otherwise, 
it  is   hardly  possible   to   conceive 
such  a  proposal  seriously  advocated 
by  any  man  who  knows  what  the 
education  of  children  of  the  labour- 
ing classes    means, — nay,  by    any 
man    who   has  himself   any  intel- 
ligent   knowledge    of    the    Bible. 
Yet    the   proposal    is    made — and 
made,  no  doubt,  in  all  good  faith — 
by  some  who  ought  to  know  what 
they    are    talking     about.       JLord 
Russell  has  lent  it  his  advocacy — 
the  last  results  of  his  meditations  in 
retirement,  being  somewhat  in  the 
way  of  a  palinode,  as  he  confesses, 
on  some  of  his  former  utterances 
— and  has  been   so   liberal   as  to 
throw  supplementary  "hymn"  into 
the  bargain  ;  which  hymn,  it  has 
been  very  fairly  observed,  may  be 
easily  made  at  least  as  sectarian  as 
any  exposition,  and  would  also,  it 
may  be  added,  take  much  deeper 
hold  of  the  memory  of  a  child.    But 
Lord  Russell's  performances   as  a 
letter-writer    have   been   generally 
as  damaging  to  his  friends  as  to 
his    opponents,    and    the    League 


'Spectator,'  March  12. 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


663 


would  perhaps  have  preferred  that 
he  had  not  volunteered  his  last 
two  commendatory  epistles  in  their 
favour.  But  the  words  of  another 
letter  have  a  ring  of  eloquent 
plausibility,  which  may  seem  to 
justify  the  prominent  type  with 
which  the  '  Times  '  has  honoured  it. 

"  It  is  a  painful  revelation  of  the 
true  nature  of  the  sectarian  spirit 
to  learn  that  men  should  openly 
declare  that  the  divine  text  of  the 
Bible,  of  which  they  are  not  the 
authors,  is  nothing,  and  that  the 
human  commentary,  which  is  all 
their  own,  is  everything ;  that 
they  should  care  so  little  for  what 
the  Scriptures  say,  and  so  much 
for  what  each  man  may  think  fit 
to  make  them  mean.';  '*. 

It  may  be  quite  true  that  to 
those  who  can  understand  what  "the 
Scriptures  say/'  they  tell  their  own 
story,  and  are  their  own  best 
interpreters.  But  what  do  they 
say  to  the  child  who  reads  them 
with  difficulty,  and  as  a  mechani- 
cal task  1  It  is  not  a  question  of 
this  or  that  doctrine  to  be  drawn 
from  them.  Do  the  words  them- 
selves say  anything  practically  in- 
telligible 1  For  all  the  under- 
standing that  an  average  child  in 
an  elementary  school  would  have 
of  them,  he  might  as  well  read 
them,  if  he  could  but  make  out  the 
letters,  in  the  original  Hebrew  or 
Greek.  He  would  thus  be  much 
more  sure  of  having  the  actual 
words  of  the  "divine  text/'  without 
even  the  alloy  of  a  human  transla- 
tion ;  and  the  instruction  which 
they  would  convey  to  his  mind 
would  be  very  much  the  same  in 
both  cases.  For  the  perverse  mis- 
interpretation which  even  some  of 
the  simplest  passages  go  through 
in  the  mind  of  such  children,  is 
often  more  objectionable  than  a 
stolid  unconsciousness  of  any 
meaning  at  all.  We  will  not  be 
tempted  into  the  quotation  here 
of  the  strange  interpretations 
which  even  elder  scholars,  guided 


solely  by  the  light  of  their  natural 
reason  or  unreason,  will  give  of 
what  seem  to  us  the  simplest  forms 
of  expression  in  the  Bible.  Its 
antique  phraseology  is  utterly 
different  from  the  language  of 
their  daily  life  ;  even  its  "  un- 
common beauty  and  marvellous 
English,"  to  which  Mr  Forster 
referred  so  happily  in  his  open- 
ing speech,  present  special  diffi- 
culties of  their  own  to  minds 
trained  in  the  narrowest  groove  of 
thought  and  the  most  limited 
vocabulary.  The  continual  refer- 
ence to  the  manners  and  customs 
of  a  period  and  a  climate  so  very 
different  from  this  modern  Eng- 
land, the  parabolic  and  symbolic 
language  which  are  of  the  very 
essence  of  the  sacred  text,  require 
a  continual  and  careful  commen- 
tary from  the  teacher  to  make 
them  intelligible  to  this  class  of 
minds.  If  such  earnest  champions 
of  the  undiluted  Word  as  were 
Luther  and  Melancthon  declared 
that  "Scripture  could  never  be 
understood  theologically,  until  it 
was  first  understood  grammati- 
cally/' surely  the  same  truth 
applies  to  the  reading  of  the 
Scripture  in  our  elementary 
schools,  if  the  reading  is  to 
deserve  in  any  degree  the  name  of 
a  "  religious "  exercise.  A  con- 
scientious teacher  of  such  children 
will  find  quite  enough  to  do  in 
making  the  Bible  lesson  fairly  in- 
telligible in  its  literal  meaning  to 
his  class,  without  attempting  to 
found  upon  it  any  deductive 
teaching,  except  some  lesson  of 
the  simplest  and  most  childlike 
character. 

Nothing  can,  in  fact,  be  more 
true  than  the  remark  made  by  a 
practical  schoolmaster  at  the  late 
conference  held  at  the  Westminster 
Hotel,  that  the  religious  difficulty 
is,  after  all,  neither  a  teachers'  dif- 
ficulty, nor  a  parents'  difficulty,  but 
a  "  platform  difficulty/'  It  would 
never  have  been  heard  of,  or  at  least 


*  Mr  Vernon  Harcourt,  Letter  to  the  '  Times,'  April  12. 


664 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May 


might  have  been  easily  disposed  of 
by  such  concessions  as  reasonable 
men  of  all  denominations  would 
have  been  ready  to  make,  had  it 
not  been  found  a  convenient  engine 
for  that  form  of  dissent  which  is 
rather  political  than  religious,  as 
presenting  a  convenient  opportunity 
for  a  side  attack  on  the  Church  of 
England  as  an  Establishment.  It 
has  been  the  fashion  to  praise  very 
highly  the  speech  which  Mr  Winter- 
botham  made  in  support  of  Mr 
Dixon's  amendment.  It  was  a 
speech  of  considerable  ability,  no 
doubt ;  but  the  animus  which  it 
openly  displayed  was  hardly  of  a 
dignified  character.  The  watchful 
jealousy  on  the  part  of  Dissenters, 
of  which  he  spoke,  is  no  doubt  a 
natural  feeling,  and  finds  its  excuse, 
to  a  considerable  extent,  in  that 
supercilious  tone  adopted  by  some 
Churchmen  which  must  be  con- 
fessed and  lamented,  and  to  which 
the  speaker  alluded.  But  mere 
jealousy  is  not  a  principle  which 
commands  much  respect,  or  has 
much  claim  to  be  considered  in  an 
act  of  legislation  which  is  of  immense 
national  importance.  No  attempt 
was  made  to  show  that  the  pro  visions 
of  the  Bill  were  unfair  towards 
any  denomination ;  and  the  fact 
that  a  majority  of  the  schools  which 
would  be  founded  under  such  pro- 
visions would  probably  be  Church 
schools,  was  put  forth  as  a  sufficient 
argument  against  such  even-handed 
justice.  Had  the  probable  results 
been  the  other  way,  we  should  have 
had  the  old  argument  of  the  infalli- 
bility of  the  vox  populi. 

The  prejudice  against  what  is 
considered  the  "denominational" 
teaching  in  Church  schools  is  no 
doubt  often  founded  upon  an  honest 
ignorance  of  what  that  teaching  is. 
People  abuse  the  Church  Catechism, 
like  Mr  Auberon  Herbert  at  Not- 
tingham, without  any  distinct  re- 
collection of  what  that  dangerous 
manual  contains.  A  somewhat 
amusing  instance  of  this  may  be 


found  in  the  report  of  Mr  Allen  to 
the  Society  of  Arts.  He  quotes 
with  approbation  a  passage  from  a 
report  by  one  of  her  Majesty's  In- 
spectors as  an  instance  of  what  he 
(Mr  Allen)  considers  "the  results  of 
good  teaching  of  the  sort  called  in 
Holland  neutral  religious  teaching, 
— that  is,  of  undenominational  teach- 
ing on  the  basis  of  a  common  Chris- 
tianity." Here  is  the  passage — 

"  '  I  cannot,'  says  the  rev.  gentleman, 
'  refrain  from  giving  an  instance  of 
practical  interpretation  by  a  boy  of 
eleven  years,  living  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  which  might  be  profitably 
adopted  by  many  persons  of  riper  years 
and  more  exalted  station.'  'Tell  me 
of  any  state  of  life  to  which  it  may 
please  God  to  call  you?'  'A  water- 
man. '  *  Well,  how  would  you  do  your 
duty  in  that  state?'  'Take  no  more 
passengers  than  the  licence  says. '  '  Well, 
anything  besides  ? '  '  Behave  civil  to 
the  passengers.'  'Anything  else?' 
'  Land  'em  dry  on  the  other  side. '  'Any- 
thing else  ?'  '  Keep  some  of  the  money 
for  my  father  and  mother. '  '  Anything 
more ?'  ' Try  to  lead  a  good  life.'  Mr 
Brookfield  continues  :  '  I  have  heard  in 
my  time  some  lengthy  and  less  com- 
plete commentaries  on  your  duty  to- 
wards your  neighbour  than  undertaking 
no  more  than  your  boat  will  carry, 
claiming  no  more  than  your  regular 
fare,  and  landing  them  dry  on  the 
other  side.'"  * 

Her  Majesty's  Inspector  was  quite 
right,  though  one  cannot  help  won- 
dering whether  he  or  the  boy  had 
ever  read  Corporal  Trim's  famous 
exposition  of  the  fifth  command- 
ment : — 

"  'Prithee,  Trim,'  quoth  my  father, 
turning  round  to  him,  '  what  dost  thou 
mean  by  "honouring  my  father  and 
mother  ?"  ' 

"'Allowing  them,  an'  please  your 
Honour,  three  halfpence  a-day  out  of 
my  pay,  when  they  grow  old.'  .  .  . 
'  And  didst  thou  do  that,  Trim  ? '  said 
Yorick.  .  .  .  '  He  did  indeed, '  replied 
my  uncle  Toby.  .  .  .  '  Then,  Trim, '  said 
Yorick,  springing  out  of  his  chair,  and 
taking  the  Corporal  by  the  hand,  '  thou 
art  the  best  commentator  upon  that 
part  of  the  Decalogue  ;—  and  I  honour 
thee  more  for  it,  Corporal  Trim,  than 


Supplement  to  Society's  Journal,  Feb.  4. 


1870.] 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


665 


if  thou  hadst  had  a  hand  in  the  Talmud 
itself.'  " 

But,  at  all  events,  the  Inspector 
and  the  Corporal  both  knew,  what 
the  "  Arts  "  Commissioner  appa- 
rently did  not,  that  this  "  neu- 
tral "  and  undenominational  teach- 
ing— this  common  Christianity — 
about  "doing  one's  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  shall  please 
God  to  call  us,"  was  nothing  more 
or  less  than  the  poor  old  Church 
Catechism,  and  the  illustration  very 
much  what  any  sensible  parson, 
catechising  in  his  parish  school, 
would  try  to  draw  out  of  the  work- 
ing lads  in  his  first  class. 

Let  this  also  be  remembered  by 
those  who  would  judge  the  matter 
fairly.  The  parochial  clergyman  is, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  a  gentle- 
man. Even  those  who  have  enter- 
tained no  love  for  the  Church  of 
England  as  a  religious  institution, 
have  been  ready  to  admit  this  fact, 
and  to  recognise  the  immense  ad- 
vantage to  the  country  of  such  men's 
presence  and  active  interest  in  their 
several  parishes  on  that  ground 
only.  If  he  is  a  man  who  takes 
any  active  interest  in  the  parish 
school,  the  chances  are  even  yet 
more  largely  in  favour  of  his  having 
not  only  the  instincts  of  a  gentle- 
man, but  a  liberal  and  generous 
appreciation  of  the  rights  of  others 
as  well  as  of  his  own.  It  is  no  in- 
justice to  the  average  of  Noncon- 
formist ministers  to  say  that  his 
notion  of  his  religious  duty  will,  in 
one  point  at  least,  be  not  exactly 
what  they  would  suppose,  nor  ex- 
actly what  their  own  might  be. 
Granted  that  he  looks  upon  all  the 
children  in  the  school — nay,  all  the 
children  in  his  parish — as  his  pupils 
of  right.  He  does  so.  But  he  recog- 
nises also  another  fact,  that  by  the 
will  of  their  parents,  some  of  these 
children  are,  through  no  fault  of 
his,  virtually  withdrawn  from  his 
spiritual  superintendence.  This  he 
laments ;  but  in  this  world  he 
knows  there  is  often  a  conflict 
of  duties.  And  in  an  old  and 
much-abused  formulary — which  as 


yet,  however,  he  is  permitted  to 
teach,  at  least  where  the  parent 
makes  no  objection — he  finds  a 
short  and  peremptory,  but  very 
intelligible,  bit  of  "  dogmatic  teach- 
ing," which  he  has,  with  more  or 
less  success,  been  trying  to  impress 
upon  these  little  people,  Dissenters 
and  orthodox  alike — "  Honour  thy 
father  and  thy  mother."  It  would 
seem  to  him  a  very  incongruous 
commentary  upon  this  precept  to 
teach  any  child  specially  that  his 
father  and  mother's  religious  views 
were  wrong  •  that  they  were  train- 
ing him  up  in  the  way  in  which 
lie  should  not  go;  that  in  the 
one  most  important  point  of  all, 
their  wishes,  their  views,  their 
opinions  were  not  deserving  of  his 
"  Honour."  Putting  all  higher  con- 
siderations for  the  moment  apart, 
his  natural  sense  of  delicacy,  of 
honour,  of  the  duty  which  one  man 
owes  to  another,  would  seal  his  lips 
against  any  expression  which  could 
encourage  a  child  to  dishonour  his 
parent.  Even  supposing  that 
parent,  instead  of  merely  differing 
from  the  teacher  himself  upon 
certain  articles  of  belief  or  of 
Church  discipline,  were  a  thief  or  a 
drunkard,  surely  the  teacher  would 
think  himself  bound  to  ignore  the 
miserable  truth  as  far  as  possible  in 
his  communications  with  the  child, 
and  to  leave  him,  so  long  as  might 
be,  in  happy  ignorance  that  the 
parent  was  in  any  way  undeserving 
of  his  reverence  and  love.  For  he 
would  feel  that  to  loosen  the  natural 
bond,  which  is  the  first  law  which 
a  child  can  comprehend,  would  be 
but  a  sorry  way  of  laying  the 
foundation  of  the  higher  obliga- 
tions which  he  is  being  gradually 
taught  to  recognise.  Obedience 
and  duty,  even  to  a  bad  parent, 
will  be  a  far  safer  training  than 
the  precocious  casuistry  which  is 
always  questioning  how  far  obe- 
dience is  lawful. 

No  sensible  teacher,  indeed, 
would  in  any  case  choose  to  become 
"a  subtle  disputant  on  creeds"  with 
scholars  of  ten  or  twelve  years  old. 


666 


The  Education  Difficulty. 


[May  1870. 


It  must  be  a  miserable  sectarianism 
which  would  pride  itself  upon  such 
proselytes.  It  seems  scarcely  pos- 
sible that  sensible  Nonconformists 
can  really  entertain  a  serious  dread 
of  such  a  result  in  schools  which 
are  under  the  management  of 
Churchmen.  Controversial  teach- 
ing, with  such  disciples,  is  simply 
impossible.  If  they  have  really 
any  dread  of  the  influence 
which  the  training  in  a  Church 
school  may  have  upon  the  child- 
ren in  after  life,  it  must  be  that 
the  simple  and  patient  inculca- 
tion, from  week  to  week,  of  the 
plainest  truths  and  duties  of  the 
Gospel,  the  quiet  and  reverent  tone 
with  which  they  will  hear  such 
subjects  treated,  the  constant  refer- 
ence of  moral  duties  to  Christian 
principle — which  are,  or  ought  to 
be,  the  "  denominational  "  doctrines 
of  a  church  elementary  school — 
will  not  predispose  the  recipients 
of  such  early  teaching  to  become,  in 
after  life,  aggressive  enemies  of  a 
church  establishment.  Such  train- 
ing may  not  make  them  Church- 
men :  if  their  other  associations  lie 
outside  the  pale  of  the  national 
Church,  it  very  seldom  will ;  but  it 
will  save  them  at  least  from  such 
misapprehensions  and  misrepresen- 
tations of  its  principles  and  its  doc- 
trine as  we  so  often  hear.  If  this 
result  seems  to  the  opponents  of  Mr 
Forster's  Bill  a  thing  to  be  dreaded 
and  resisted  at  the  risk  of  crippling 
national  education  altogether,  then 


there  is  no  more  to  say.  If  they 
hold  that  all  Christianity  consists 
in  antagonism  to  the  Church  of 
England,  then  they  will  be  right  in 
resisting  this  Bill  by  every  means 
in  their  power.  It  is  alike  too 
conservative  and  too  liberal,  too 
truly  national,  for  such  men  to  ap- 
prove. 

It  has  been  the  wont  of  Noncon- 
formists hitherto  to  complain  that 
while  they  were  always  willing  to  re- 
cognise in  the  Church  of  England  fel- 
low-workers who  were  carrying  out 
the  same  great  purpose  by  different 
means,  the  Church,  on  the  other 
hand,  persistently  ignored  this 
theory  of  parallel  action.  Noncon- 
formist ministers  have  been  wont  to 
talk  much  about  "  holding  out  the 
right  hand  of  fellowship  to  their 
brethren  of  the  Establishment,"  and 
to  call  on  them  to  unite  as  against  a 
common  enemy.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered henceforth,  whatever  termi- 
nation this  miserable  agitation  may 
have,  that  when  the  question  arose 
of  taking  common  ground  with  the 
Church  against  a  tide  of  practical 
atheism, — when  the  Christian  edu- 
cation of  the  nation  was  hang- 
ing in  the  balance, — a  majority  of 
them  (not  all)  were  willing  to  throw 
their  weight  into  the  scale  in 
favour  of  excluding  from  the  daily 
life  of  the  children  of  the  poor 
all  Christian  teaching  whatever, 
rather  than  see  that  instruction 
given  by  their  "  brethren  "  of  the 
Church. 


Printed  by  William  BlacJcioood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh, 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCLVI. 


JUKE  1870. 


VOL.  CVII. 


EARL'S   DENE. — PART  VIIL 


CHAPTER  TX. 


"  I  THOUGHT  you  were  come 
to  have  a  chat,"  said  Monsieur 
Prosper,  as  Felix  dropped  into  his 
room  on  his  way  to  Portman  Square. 
"  But  what  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. "You  look  like  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory.  Mind,  I  say,  look 
like  it — for  you  are  not  Solomon  in 
any  other  sense,  my  poor  Felix. 
He  was  wise,  and — well,  never 
mind  for  the  present.  But  what 
is  it  ?  Can  you  stay  1  I  have  a 
new  duet  for  piano  and  violin  I 
want  to  show  you.  It's  magni- 
ficently difficult." 

"  Oh,  I  only  just  looked  in  for 
&  minute  on  my  way.  I  have  an 
engagement." 

"Keally?  I  thought  I  always 
knew  everybody's  engagements." 

"It  is  at  your  friend  Miss 
Raymond's." 

"  The  devil !  " 

Felix  could  not  help  colouring. 
•"  And  why  not  1 "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  of  course. 
They'll  pay  you,  all  safe  enough." 

"  Are  you  not  going  ?  " 

"I]  No.  I -should  have  to 
hear  some  of  my  pupils,  and  I  get 

VOL.  CVIT. — NO.  DCLVI. 


enough  of  them  in  the  day  without 
wasting  my  evenings  upon  them  as 
well.  Besides,  I  must  be  at  the 
theatre.  Do  you  know  who's  to  be 
there  ? " 

"  Oh,  Catalani's  to  be  the  star, 
I  believe  ;  and  the  rest  amateurs, 
I  should  fancy." 

"  Aha  !  so  my  new  pupil  is  not 
to  be  there,  then  ?  " 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Felix, 
making  a  vain  effort  to  change  the 
conversation,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  your  new  pupil  1 " 

"My  dear  Felix,  when  I  want 
my  throat  cut  I  will  perform  the 
operation  myself." 

"  Naturally.  But  does  any  one 
want  to  cut  your  throat,  then  ?  " 

"Oh  yes;  half  the  musical  pro- 
fession. But  you  certainly  would, 
if  I  said  that  my  new  pupil — by 
whom  I  suppose  you  mean  Made- 
moiselle Lefort  —  is  not  Catalani 
and  Mara  combined.  And  so  I 
prefer  to  hold  my  tongue." 

"  You  don't  speak  very  warmly 
about  her." 

"  There — did  I  not  say  that  you 
would  cut  my  throat  1  No — I 


668 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  7111. 


[June- 


will  leave  you  to  judge  for  your- 
self. I  don't  suppose  you  don't 
know  that  you  will  hear  her  in 
something  less  than  an  hour." 

"  You  know  how  important  it 
is  that  she  should  do  well  now. 
Miss  Kaymond  was  telling  me — I 
suppose  you  have  heard  about  her 
and  her  cousin — how  she  also 
wants  to  do  something " 

"  A  cousin  too,  is  there  1  Is  there 
no  end  to  these  women  1 " 

"Have  yon  not  heard  the 
story?" 

"  I  hear  so  many  stories — I  dare- 
say I  have';  but  I  never  listen  to 
anything  but  do,  re,  mi.  What  is 
it?" 

"  Of  the  death  of  Angelique's — 
Mademoiselle  Lefort's  uncle " 

"  Oh,  I  remember — at  an  election. 
Yes — this  is  certainly  a  free  country. 
My  faith  \  I  should  think  so.  I 
wonder  I  got  alive  through  the 
streets  myself.  But  the  cousin  ? " 

"  It  is  a  sad  story  indeed.  He 
left  a  daughter,  and  two  young 
children  besides,  who  are  depen- 
dent on  her." 

"  Eh  Uen  !  The  story  is  not  very 
original." 

"  And  how  are  they  to  live  1 " 

"  Sacre  cochon  !  Am  I  a  prophet 
or  a  millionaire,  that  you  ask  me  ? " 

"Miss  Raymond,  I  can  guess 
from  what  she  said,  must  have 
been  very  good  to  them  ;  and  there 
is  a  Monsieur  Lester — I  think  that 
is  the  name " 

"  Ah,  a  Monsieur  1  Is  she 
pretty,  this  cousin  1  And  yet  you 
ask  me  how  she  is  to  live  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  joke 
about  it,  Prosper." 

"  Well,  I  will  not,  then." 

"  But  Miss  Raymond  cannot  sup- 
port them  always.  And  Angelique 
is  not  brought  out  yet " 

"  Ah !  liinc  illce  lacrymce,  as 
Monsieur  Dick  Barton  would  say. 
A  strange  dog,  that  Dick  Barton ! 
And  so  they  are  in  London.  Ma 
foil  It  is  the  worst  place  to  find 
anything  to  do." 

"  But  you  know  everybody — you 
might  know  some  one " 


"  Oh,  I  know  plenty  of  peo- 
ple—  plenty;  and  they  all  want- 
something  to  do  themselves.  I 
want  something  to  do.  But  this 
cousin — is  she  in  the  profession, 
then  ? " 

"  I  believe  not.  But  Miss 
Raymond  said  that  she  might 
teach  children — and  you  might 
know " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know.  She  is  the 
sort  of  person,  you  mean,  who  will 
just  give  me  the  trouble  of  un- 
teaching  everything  when  I  come 
after ;  I  know  the  sort  of  people 
who  *  might  teach  children/  as  you 
say.  Well,  well ;  no  matter  for 
one  more  or  less.  They  are  all  the- 
same,  these  girls,  who  think  they 
can  teach  off-hand  without  having 
learned." 

"  But  you  might  keep  her  in 
mind?" 

"  I  might,  if  I  knew  her  name — 
or  I  might  not,  which  is  more 
likely." 

"  Marie  Lefort.  And" — insinu- 
atingly— "when  shall  I  see  the 
duet?" 

"  Can't  you  now  1  I  want  to- 
have  it  played  at  Lady  Weston's 
on  Thursday.  Would  you  play  in 
it  if  I  can  get  Herr  Schwarmer  to 
take  the  piano  ]  Just  look  at  it." 

"  Oh,  I'll  try  my  best  with  plea- 
sure ;  and  you  will  not  quite  forget 
to  do  anything  if  it  conies  in  your 
way  ?  But  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  off 
now." 

"Well,  if  you  must — give  my 
love  to  Mademoiselle  Angelique. 
Pauvre  garqon  /"  he  added  to  him- 
self, as  Felix  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  ;  "just  like  him — out  of 
work  himself,  and  then  thinking 
only  how  he  can  get  work  for 
somebody  else.  And  his  hanging 
after  that  girl,  of  all  girls.  It's 
plain  enough  to  see  what  she  is.  I 
wish  people  wouldn't  call  and  put 
me  out.  Couldn't  anything  new 
be  done,  I  wonder?  People  are 
getting  tired  of  all  the  old  things. 
If  I  could  only  get  hold  of  a  new 
star!  I  shan't  make  my  fortune 
with  this  Mademoiselle  Angelique, 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


669 


I'm  afraid.  She's  pretty, — very 
pretty,  no  doubt,  much  too  pretty 
to  stick  to  the  boards.  She'll  be  a 
flash  in  the  pan,  even  if  she  isn't 
a  fiasco.  I  wonder  why  in  the 
devil's  name  I  ever  took  her  up ! 
If  the  skies  would  but  drop  me  a 
new  star ! " 

And  so  he  sank  into  a  fit  of  cal- 
culation— not  of  castle-building,  but 
of  real  calculation,  with  pencil  and 
paper,  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  go 
to  the  theatre.  Meanwhile  Felix 
carried  his  violin  -  case,  which  had 
somehow  been  replenished  since 
the  fire — no  doubt  Monsieur  Pros- 
per could  have  told  how — to  the 
house  in  Portman  Square,  of  which 
the  windows  were  now  brilliantly 
lighted.  It  was  not  the  true  season, 
but  the  new  Parliament  was  sitting, 
and  the  town  was  sufficiently  full. 

Miss  Kaymond,  owing  perhaps 
to  the  fact  of  her  having  spent  so 
many  years  of  the  most  impressible 
part  of  her  life  abroad,  was  some- 
thing of  the  conventional  musical 
fanatic;  that  is  to  say,  she  knew 
a  littlfi  music,  believed  herself  to  be 
a  critic,  and  liked  to  play  the  part  of 
an  art -patroness  in  a  small  way  : 
and  as  her  will  was  law  to  the 
relations  who  so  greatly  benefited 
by  her  living  with  them,  she  was 
able  to  indulge  this  as  much  as  she 
pleased,  as  well  as  her  more  real  and 
natural  tastes. 

This  was  intended  to  be  to  some 
extent  a  concert  of  distinction  ;  and 
Miss  Raymond  was  good-naturedly 
vain  of  an  entertainment  at  which 
she  was  going  to  play  the  part  of 
art-patroness  indeed  by  introducing 
to  the  world  as  her  own  special 
protegee  and  discovery,  one  about 
whom  the  whole  town  was  at  once 
to  run  wild.  She  was  not  the  hos- 
tess nominally,  but  still  she  was, 
as  it  were,  the  presiding  genius  of 
the  evening ;  and  she  had  no  reason 
to  complain  of  having  gathered  to- 
gether an  audience  that  was  indis- 
posed to  be  indulgent  to  her  whim. 
The  heiress  of  New  Court  was  some- 
body, even  in  London.  Amongst 
the  rest  Warden,  who  was  now 


keeping  his  first  term  at  the  Middle 
Temple,  was  present,  and  so,  of 
course,  was  Angelique,  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  which,  though  it 
did  not  suit  her  style,  had  the  ef- 
fect of  making  her  look  interesting. 
Marie  could  not  come  to  hear  her 
cousin's  first  triumph ;  it  was  too 
soon  after  her  sorrow. 

The  concert  itself  was  very  much 
like  other  concerts  where  the  per- 
formers are  for  the  most  part  mem- 
bers of  an  undistinguished  clique, 
and  the  audience  is  half  ignorant 
and  altogether  friendly — that  is  to 
say,  it  was  artistically  indifferent, 
but  socially  pleasant;  and  Ange- 
lique was,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
treated  as  though  she  had  been  a 
real  seraph.  It  would  have  been 
just  the  same  had  her  voice  been 
that  of  a  frog  instead  of  a  woman, 
and  had  she  been  incapable  of  sing- 
ing a  single  note  in  tune.  Miss 
Raymond  was  in  ecstasies ;  the 
nominal  prima  donna  condescend- 
ed to  be,  or  to  affect  to  be,  a  little 
out  of  temper;  and  everybody  was 
satisfied,  and  nobody  could  have 
told  why. 

Except  Felix.  He  had  gone  to 
the  party,  in  his  ignorance,  as  so 
many,  under  far  less  adverse  cir- 
cumstances, have  gone  before  him, 
expecting  all  manner  of  gratifica- 
tion from  meeting  once  more  her 
to  whom  he  had  a  right  to  look  for 
what  he  expected ;  he  had  drawn 
a  prophetic  picture,  in  which  her 
eyes  sparkled  when  she  saw  him, 
in  which  he  was  constantly  by  her 
side  talking  of  old  times  and  of 
things  outside  and  above  the  crowd, 
and  in  which  her  triumph  was  alto- 
gether lost  in  his  own.  But,  like 
the  hieroglyphics  of  prophetic  al- 
manacs, his  picture  prognosticated 
anything  but  what  came  to  pass. 
How  could  she,  the  heroine  of  the 
evening,  afford  to  throw  more  than 
just  one  look  of  recognition  to  a 
poor  fiddler  whose  allotted  position 
was  behind  a  cruel  red  cord,  beyond 
which  he  dared  not  trespass?  It 
was  in  times,  be  it  remembered, 
when  in  some  far  greater,  and 


670 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


therefore,  it  might  be  presumed, 
more  generous  nouses  than  this, 
the  queens  of  song  themselves  were 
separated  visibly  from  the  guests, 
as  though  their  presence  was  some- 
thing dangerous.  He  found  that 
he  had  to  content  himself  with  a 
distant  prospect  of  her,  like  that 
of  the  sun  from  the  earth ;  and 
the  prospect  was  by  no  means  de- 
lightful. He  had  to  see  others 
whisper  in  her  ear,  to  see  others 
sit  by  her  side,  to  see  others  lead 
her  to  the  place  where  she  stood  to 
sing  —  and,  worst  of  all,  to  see 
others  make  her  smile  ;  for  she  by 
no  means  seemed  to  receive  the 
attentions  that  were  paid  her  as 
though  her  thoughts  were  as  far 
away  from  her  as  he  was.  He 
was  absurd  enough  to  wonder  that 
absence  should  have  wrought  so 
great  a  change  in  her;  and,  with 
the  irritation  of  his  profession  and 
the  passion  for  equality  of  his 
country,  felt  the  unlucky  rope  in 
front  of  him  grow  and  extend  into 
a  symbol  of  all  manner  of  social 
wrongs,  besides  his  own — as  though 
its  absence  would  have  made  the 
slightest  difference  !  People  have 
often  followed  the  red  flag  itself  on 
grounds  more  absurd  than  those 
afforded  by  a  red  cord.  - 

"  I  am  an  artist,"  he  thought  to 
himself  a  hundred  times  over,  "  and 
above  all  these  people.  Catalani 
herself  is  nothing  more,  after  all. 
It  is  only  in  bourgeois  England, 
then,  that  we  should  be  treated  so 
— that  we  should  be  treated  like 
infected  sheep.  I  will  go  at  once." 
But  he  did  not  go,  of  course ;  for 
jealousy  has  its  own  fascination, 
and  revels  in  its  own  wretchedness. 

But  still  jealousy  without  a  spe- 
cial object  is  to  be  borne,  and  he 
had  yet  to  feel  its  true  sting. 

For  now  it  was  that  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  arrived  late, 
having  paid  his  respects  to  the 
ostensible  hostess,  made  his  way  to 
where  Miss  Raymond  was  sitting 
and  listening  to  Angelique,  who 
was  singing. 

The  lady  of  New  Court  smiled 


brightly  and  gave  him  her  hand, 
but  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips.  He 
sat  down  beside  her  in  silence,  and, 
during  a  pause  in  the  song,  Felix 
could  have  sworn  that  he  saw  a 
glance  of  recognition  pass  between 
the  singer  and  the  new-comer,  who 
was  far  too  good-looking  to  please 
him.  When  it  was  over, — 

"Now  you  may  speak  to  me," 
said  Miss  Raymond.  "What  do 
you  think  of  her?  Is  she  not 
charming?" 

The  other,  recalled  to  earth,  woke 
up  suddenly  to  perform  his  share 
of  the  applause  that  followed.  But 
he  did  not  criticise. 

"  You  are  well  again,  then,  as  I 
see 'you  here?"  asked  Miss  Ray- 
mond. "I  wish  I  could  say  you 
look  so,  though.  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you  again." 

"  Not  so  glad  as  I  am  to  be  seen, 

"I  can  assure  you.     I  got  sick  of 

being  ill ;  or  else  the  doctors  would 

have  had  me  down  at  Earl's  Dene 

this  very  moment." 

"  Are  you  wise,  then " 

"  To  be  here  ?  Of  course  I  am. 
When  one  is  strong  enough  to  rebel 
against  two  doctors  it  is  high  time 
to  use  one's  strength.  So  I  tra- 
velled up  yesterday,  and  heard  from 
Warden  that  you  were  at  home 
this  evening."  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, say  what  else  he  had  heard 
from  Warden — what,  in  fact,  had 
really  brought  him  there.  It  would 
not  have  been  polite  to  Miss  Ray- 
mond. "  But  you  do  not  scold  me 
for  coming  to  you  uninvited  ? " 

"  As  if  I  were  not  only  too  glad 
you  were  able !  Of  course  we 
should  have  asked  you  if  we  had 
known.  So  now  you  are  an  M.P. ! 
But  how  you  frightened  us  all !" 

"Yes,  I  am  actually  an  M.P., 
thanks  to  Warden,  who  ought  to 
be  in  my  place,  by  rights.  Ah,  he 
is  here,  I  see,"  he  said,  nodding 
across  the  room.  "But  I  must 
compliment  the  new  prima  donna." 

And  he  went  at  once  to  the  side 
of  AngSlique,  who  received  him 
with  a  pressure  of  the  hand  just 
not  too  long  to  be  noticed  by  any 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene— Part  VIII. 


671 


i 


one,  and  a  look  from  her  eyes  that 
seemed  to  those  of  Felix  to  be  a 
great  deal  too  long. 

Nor  was  this  the  worst  by  any 
means.  Angelique  had  far  too 
much  tact  to  let  it  be  noticed  by 
the  room  generally,  but  her  old 
lover  could  plainly  see  that  this  un- 
known acquaintance  of  hers  was  in 
reality  filling  the  place  to  which  he 
had  looked  forward  in  vain.  He 
could  see  that  confidential  glances 
and  communications  were  passing 
between  them;  and  whereas  he 
had  been  angry  with  her  hitherto 
for  the  smiles  that  she  had  been 
scattering  around  her,  he  was  angry 
with  her  now  for  not  scattering 
them  any  longer. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was 
fairly  worked  into  that  state  of 
fever  in  which  impulsive  men  lose 
all  mastery  over  themselves,  and  in- 
variably do  the  most  stupid  things 
possible.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that,  as  soon  as  the  concert  was 
over,  he  must  and  would  speak  to 
her — he,  who  was  about  as  likely  to 
prove  her  master  as  he  was  to  fly 
over  the  moon,  or,  for  that  matter, 
rather  less. 

Angelique  was  sleeping  in  the 
house  for  a  night  or  two,  so  that 
the  stairs  and  the  hall  were  not 
likely  to  afford  him  any  opportuni- 
ties. So  he  lingered  long  over 
putting  up  his  instrument,  waited 
till  the  giving  of  "good -nights" 
was  in  full  progress,  and  then  en- 
tered the  company  part  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, full  of  indignation  and 
dignity.  He  watched  the  manner 
in  which  she  parted  with  Lester, 
waited  till  the  latter  had  left  the 
room  with  Warden,  and  then  pre- 
sented himself. 

"Angelique,"  he  said,  "I  am 
come  to  wish  you  good-night." 

Miss  Raymond,  with  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  was  standing  close 

by- 

"  Ah,"  said  Angelique,  suddenly, 
and  with  an  air  of  surprise,  "  Miss 
Raymond,  here  is  Monsieur  Felix — 
you  remember — who  gave  us  some 
lessons  chez  Madame  Mercier." 


Miss  Raymond  held  out  her 
hand.  "  Ah,  Monsieur — I  have  to 
thank  you  for  your  assistance;  I 
hope  it  will  not  be  the  last  time. 
Why  did  you  not  come  and  speak 
to  me  before?" 

But  Felix,  being  angry,  had  not 
forgotten  the  red  cord. 

"  I  did  not  presume,  Made- 
moiselle/' he  said,  pointedly. 

"Do  I  look  so  very  dreadful, 
then  1  And  what  do  you  think  of 
our  new  star — your  own  pupil,  you 
know  ? " 

"  She  has  received  more  valuable 
applause  to-night  than  mine  could 
be,  Mademoiselle."  Then  he  added, 
turning  to  Angelique,  "Could  I 
speak  to  you  a  moment,  before  I 

goi" 

"  About  my  cousins  1  Oh,  cer- 
tainly," she  answered,  coldly,  and 
then  led  the  way  to  a  more  retired 
part  of  the  now  nearly  empty 
room. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

"  And  so  we  meet  again  at  last, 
Angelique  !  I  thought  you  were 
going  away  for  ever."  He  wished 
to  speak  tenderly,  but  did  not 
quite  succeed,  for  the  attempt  was 
too  self-conscious. 

"Yes  —  as  you  say,  we  meet 
again." 

"  And  when  can  I  see  you  1  For 
I  have  certainly  not  seen  you  to- 
night." 

"  Have  you  not  ?  I  was  very 
visible." 

"Yes — in  the  sense  that  every 
one  has  seen  you." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  had  some- 
thing to  complain  of.  What  more 
of  me  could  you  have  seen  1 " 

"  To  complain  of !  I  should 
think  so.  To  have  been  obliged 
to  sit  in  a  corner,  and  to  see  you 
surrounded  by  all  the  blockheads 
in  the  room " 

Now  it  may  be  barely  possible 
to  prove,  after  a  fashion,  that  Mark 
Warden,  in  so  far  as  he,  uncon- 
sciously putting  in  practice  the 
theories  of  Monsieur  Prosper,  did 
not  allow  his  career  in  life  to  be 
spoiled  by  a  woman,  had  some  jus- 


672 


JEarPi  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


tification  for  his  conduct  in  its 
practical  wisdom.  But  it  is  mani- 
festly impossible  to  justify  this  last 
speech  of  Felix.  At  all  events, 
Marie  had  seen  nothing  wrong  in 
the  one,  while  Angelique  could  not 
—  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
accurate  to  say,  would  not — pardon 
the  other ;  and  she  must  be  taken 
to  be  the  best  judge.  She  drew 
herself  up,  and  said, — 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  so  poor 
an  opinion  of  Miss  Raymond's 
friends,  Monsieur  Felix." 

"  Monsieur  F&ix ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon — Monsieur 
Creville.  Thanks  for  correcting 
me.  And  what  could  you  expect  ? 
That  I  should  come  and  sit  by  you 
the  whole  evening  ?" 

"No;  but  I  did  expect— that 
you  would  at  least  have  known  of 
my  being  in  the  room." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  it  well  enough ; 
but  I  do  not  choose  that  you 
should  make  me  appear  conspicu- 
ous." 

"Ange"lique,  you  must  have 
changed  indeed." 

"  I  do  not  know  in  what  way ; 
but  if  I  have,  I  never  heard  that 
a  woman  might  not  change  if  she 
pleases." 

"  ' Bien  fol  qui  s'y  fie!'  Do 
you  mean  this  for  a  quarrel,  Ange- 
lique 1" 

"  Why  will  you  be  so  unreason- 
able 1  No — not  unless  you  force 
it  upon  me.  And  pray  do  not  speak 
quite  so  loud." 

"  Mon  Dieu!  I  force  a  quarrel 
upon  you  !" 

"  So  it  seems.  And  now  I  think 
you  had  better  say  good -night. 


The  room  is  empty.  Good-night, 
Monsieur  Creville,"  she  added  in  a 
louder  tone,  so  that  Miss  Raymond 
might  hear. 

He  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
speak  ;  so  he  bowed  to  Miss  Ray- 
mond and  left  the  room. 

^  Angelique  did  not  look  after 
him,  but  watched  the  exit  of  her 
lover  in  the  pier-glass,  to  which 
she  had  turned  to  see  that  her 
expression  was  sufficiently  com- 
posed. "What  folly!"  she  said 
to  herself  :  "  would  he  have  me 
wait  ten  years  for  the  pleasure 
of  living  in  a  garret  at  the  end  ? 
What  selfish  creatures  men  are ! 
If  he  would  only  but  be  reason- 
able ! "  Then  she  heaved  the 
smallest  of  sighs,  and  went  to  bed 
as  soon  as  Miss  Raymond  would 
allow  her,  where  her  triumph  of 
the  evening  did  not  prevent  her 
very  soon  falling  asleep.  She  had 
done  a  very  good  evening's  work 
in  every  way,  and  had  fairly  earned 
her  repose. 

For  her,  too,  is  any  apology 
needed  1  Surely  not.  Where  is 
the  father  or  mother  who  would 
prefer  that  his  or  her  daughter 
should  keep  troth  with  a  penniless 
fiddler,  when  she  was  wooed  by 
Mr  Lester  of  Earl's  Dene  1  Nor— 
unless  we  are  very  much  mistaken 
— are  there  many  sons  or  daughters 
who  would,  in  this  respect,  prac- 
tically differ  from  their  fathers 
and  mothers.  It  is  by  majorities 
that  the  world,  it  seems,  is  hence- 
forth to  be  governed  ;  and  in  the 
hands  of  the  majority  her  case  may 
be  left  very  safely  indeed. 


CHAPTER  x. 


Marie,  who  was  by  no  means  too 
much  troubled  with  visitors,  was 
very  much  surprised  one  morning 
by  being  told  that  a  rather  oldish 
foreign  gentleman  wanted  to  speak 
to  her.  She  was  not  in  the  most 
convenient  order  to  receive  any 
one,  for  she  was  giving  the  children 


their  dinner  in  the  one  little  room 
that  served  them  for  parlour,  draw- 
ing-room, dining-room,  study,  and 
nursery,  and  that  had  therefore  the 
air  of  being  all  at  once ;  not  to 
speak  of  its  looking  a  little  ^like 
a  dressmaker's  work-room  besides. 
But  the  aspect  of  the  stranger 


d870.] 


Earl's  Dent.— Part  VIII. 


673 


! 


•reassured  her.  He  did  not  look 
like  one  who  took  notice  of  such 
things. 

"Mademoiselle  Marie  Lefort?" 
he  asked,  rather  bluntly. 

She  bowed  nervously,  for  she 
was  not  used  to  speaking  to  stran- 
gers. The  children  neglected  their 
plates  and  sat  staring. 

"You  know  my  name,  perhaps, 
Mademoiselle  ?  Monsieur  Prosper." 

Her  face  brightened.  "  With 
whom  my  cousin  Angelique  is 
studying  ? " 

"  The  same/'  He  looked  at  her 
sharply  in  a  way  that  she  did  not 
like,  and  that  made  her  colour. 
"  And  I  hear/'  continued  her  visi- 
tor, smiling  at  her  confusion,  "that 
you  want  to  do  something." 

"I  do  indeed.'7 

"  Ah !  and  these  little  ones  are 
the  brother  and  sister  of  whom  I 
have  heard.  And  what's  your  name, 
my  man  ? " 

"  Ernest — and  this  is  Fleurette." 

"  Do  you  like  chocolate,  you  and 
Fleurette?"  and  he  produced  a 
snuff-box  half  full  of  bon-bons. 
"Catch — that's  right.  And  what 
can  you  do,  Mademoiselle?  Ah, 
you  paint  a  little,  I  see.  Not 
much  in  my  way,  that.  Do  you 
play  at  all — sing  ?  " 

"  Very  little  indeed,  Monsieur." 

"  Ah,  you  are  not  wise,  Made- 
moiselle. You  should  have  said 
*  Yes,  a  great  deal.'  You  must 
learn  to  play  on  your  own  trum- 
pet a  little.  And  if  you  really 
play  only  a  very  little,  I  am  afraid 
you  will  teach  only  a  very  little 
too." 

"  It  is  my  cousin  who  sings." 

"'Who  will  sing,  perhaps,'  you 
should  have  said.  Well,  well ;  I 
daresay  you  will  do  no  worse  than 
half  your  profession." 

Marie  was  looking  very  mortified 
and  small. 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me 
hear  your  voice,  Mademoiselle  ? " 

He  saw  her  look  of  terror  and 
smiled,  but  sat  down  at  once  be- 
fore the  open  piano — a  parting  pre- 
sent from  Miss  Raymond  to  An- 


gelique. "  Now,  Mademoiselle ;  " 
and  he  struck  a  chord. 

She  had  never  opened  her  lips 
in  song  before  anybody  before,  and 
having  to  do  so  before  this  distin- 
guished musician  fairly  frightened 
her  out  of  her  wits.  A  sound,  how- 
ever, did  come  out ;  and,  though  it 
trembled,  it  was  in  tune. 

"  Now  this,  Mademoiselle ; "  and 
so  he  proceeded  for  a  minute  or 
two.  Then  he  shook  his  head, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  con- 
temptuously. 

"Now  play  me  something,"  he 
said. 

She  was  trembling  all  over  with 
nervousness ;  but  she  dared  not 
disobey. 

"  Play  anything  you  know  best," 
he  said. 

She  sat  down,  and  struck  a  very 
feeble  chord.  He  stopped  her. 

"  Who  "has  taught  you  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"I  have  never  had  any  regular 
lessons.  Sometimes  I  had  a  few 
at  a  school  in  the  town  where  I 
lived " 

"Hm!  well?" 

"  And  Angelique  plays  so  splen- 
didly  " 

"  Never  mind  Angelique.  Well, 
let  me  see  if  you  can  do  anything 
at  all.  Never  mind  me,"  he  said ; 
"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  even 
listen  to  you." 

He  turned  away,  walked  to  the 
window,  and  began  to  amuse  him- 
self by  humming  a  tune  and  look- 
ing into  the  street.  She  began  to 
play,  first  absurdly  and  weakly; 
but  she  gradually  gained  confi- 
dence to  such  an  extent  that  she 
forgot  that  she  was  not  alone. 
Indeed  music  to  her  mind  suggest- 
ed the  idea  of  solitude.  When 
the  piece  was  over,  however,  her 
misery  returned  a  hundredfold. 
He  was  standing  over  her. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  the  truth, 
Mademoiselle.  Your  fingering  is 
ridiculous,  and  you  make  the  most 
wonderful  blunders  besides.  It  is 
plain  that  your  country  teacher 
was  an  ass.  But  fortunately  your 


674 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June- 


other  teacher  was  anything  but  an 
ass." 

"  Angelique  ? " 

"  Bah  !  what  has  Angelique  to  do 
with  it  ? " 

"But  I  have  had  no  other,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  have ;  one  who 
takes  very  few  pupils — very  few 
indeed.  Tell  me — how  did  you 
use  to  spend  your  days  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  used  to  get  up  early,  and 
if  it  was  fine,  and  I  had  time,  I 
used  to  go  out  and  walk  or  sketch 
a  little.  Then  I  used  to  make  the 
breakfast,  and  when  my  poor  father 
went  out  to  his  lessons,  I  used  to 
teach  the  children,  and  mend  the 
clothes,  and  go  out  to  buy  what 
was  wanted  from  the  town.  Then 
we  had  dinner;  and  then  I  did 
whatever  I  had  not  had  time  to  do 
in  the  morning,  or  else  I  amused 
myself." 

"  Ah  !  and  how  did  you  amuse 
yourself  ] " 

"  Generally  with  the  harpsichord. 
I  was  always  alone  in  the  after- 
noon, so  it  did  not  matter  what 
noise  I  made.  And  then  when  my 
father  came  in  I  sat  with  him  and 
finished  mending  the  clothes  till  it 
was  time  to  go  to  bed." 

"My  God,  what  a  life!"  said 
the  energetic  Monseigneur  Prosper, 
who  would  have  gone  mad  had  he 
to  pass  an  hour  without  the  excite- 
ment in  which  he  lived. 

"  I  was  very  happy,  Monsieur." 

"  But  did  you  never  feel  any  dis- 
content ?  Did  you  never  wish  to 
spread  your  wings  and  fly  1"  This 
was  a  wonderfully  poetic  flight  for 
him,  and  he  emphasised  it  by  imi- 
tating the  process  with  his  arms. 

"  Never,  Monsieur.  I  was  quite 
content,  then.  And  as  for  my  wings 
"  she  smiled. 

"  Then  you  played  to  yourself 
almost  daily  ? " 

"  Whenever  I  could.  It  was,  in- 
deed, my  great  pleasure.  I  do  not 
know  why,  I  am  sure,  for  I  play 
very  badly,  I  know,  and  I  never 
was  taught  more  than  what  I  told 
you ;  but  somehow,  whenever  I 


found  myself  alone,  and  with  no- 
thing better  to  do,  I  used  to  sit 
down  and  play  without  thinking 
about  it.  Very  often  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  playing,  or  even 
whether  I  was  playing  at  all." 

"  And  what  did  you  play?" 

"  Oh,  anything  that  came  in  my 
way.  Ah,  Monsieur,  you  cannot 
think  what  I  sometimes  found  in 
that  old  harpsichord  of  ours.  I 
think  I  used  to  find  in  it  every- 
thing in  the  world.  I  am  afraid 
you  must  think  me  very  foolish  ; 
but  when  other  girls  were  reading 
novels,  and  talking  the  nonsense 
that  we  girls  do  talk  among  each 
other,  you  know,  they  never  seemed 
to  get  so  much  as  I  did,  in  my  own 
way.  I  used  to  play  the  same 
thing  over  and  over  again,  and 
always  seemed  to  get  something 
new  and  fresh  out  of  it.  And  some- 
times I  used  to  seem  to  understand 
everything,  and  sometimes  to  feel 
everything  without  understanding 
it,  and  sometimes  to  lose  myself 
altogether,  and  sometimes " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  blush- 
ed at  the  nonsense  she  felt  she  was 
talking.  She  had  never  made  so- 
long  a  speech  about  herself  in  her 
life.  But  Monsieur  Prosper,  for  a 
wonder,  neither  smiled,  nor  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  nor  uttered  a 
sarcasm.  He  only  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  said, — 

"  Could  you  play  anything  at 
sight,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

She  wished  the  floor  to  open  and? 
swallow  her. 

"Ernest,"  said  Monsieur  Pros- 
per, "just  run  down -stairs  and 
bring  up  a  roll  of  music  and  my 
violin-case." 

What  new  torture  was  she  to  un- 
dergo 1 

"  This  is  a  duet,  Mademoiselle,, 
that  I  have  just  been  composing  for 
violin  and  piano.  Would  you  seo 
what  you  can  make  of  your  part?" 

The  notes  seemed  to  swim  before 
her  eyes  ;  but  she  attacked  them 
mechanically. 

"Ah,  slower  than  that,  Made- 
moiselle .  .  .  one,  two,  three,  fourr 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


675- 


i 


one  .  .  .  oh,  forte,  Mademoiselle, 
for  the  sake  of  heaven !  .  .  .  that's 
it  ...  one,  two  .  .  .  faster  .  .  . 
lighter  .  .  .  the  time  there — mark 
the  time,  sacre  nom  de  Dieu  /  .  .  . 
so  ...  oh,  horrible  I  with  grace, 
Mademoiselle,  with  grace  !  .  .  . 
oh,  misericorde,  don't  you  know 
what  legato  means  ]  .  .  .  Not  the 
pedals  there,  I  implore  you — are 
you  mad  ]  .  .  .  Sacre  nom  de 
Dieu  /  .  .  .  Now  then  .  .  .  keep 
on  so  ...  oh,  faster,  faster  .  .  . 
prestissimo  .  .  .  mille  diables  .  .  . 
sacre  nom  .  . .  tonnerre  d'enfer  .  .  . 

cent  cochons  .  .  .  sacr  .r.r.r.re! 
j) 

And  so,  for  a  whole  half -hour, 
which  seemed  to  her  to  be  three 
hundred  years  at  least,  her  ears 
were  filled,  until,  what  with  the 
music  itself,  and  the  shouting  and 
stamping  and  swearing  in  which 
her  tyrant  indulged  when  the  im- 
presario side  of  his  nature  was  lost 
in  that  of  the  composer,  and  what 
with  her  own  nervousness,  she  al- 
most lost  her  senses. 

But  Monsieur  Prosper  showed 
her  no  mercy.  No  sooner  had  she 
struck  the  last  loud  chord  than  he, 
having  worked  himself  into  that 
state  so  well  known  to  and  feared 
by  the  friends  of  all  poets  and 
composers,  in  which  a  man  cannot 
restrain  his  appetite  for  his  own 
works  when  he  has  once  tasted 
them,  began  to  tune  his  violin. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  she  had 
to  go  through  it  all  again  with  him, 
or  that  this  time  the  scolding  she 
received  was  something  terrific. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Mademoiselle  1 "  he  said  at  last,  as 
he  returned  the  violin  to  its  case. 

She  murmured  something. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  you  would  like 
it.  That  is  quite  a  la  Moretti  ; 
and  yet  not  without  originality. 
But  don't  flatter  yourself  that  you 
have  played  it — that  is  quite  an- 
other thing.  But  I  must  be  off," 
he  added,  looking  at  his  watch, 
that  was  suspended  to  a  gold  chain 
as  large  as  a  cable,  "  I  have  to  take 
it  to  Herr  Schw'armer:  I  wonder 


what  he  will  make  of  it.  Bon  jour, 
Mademoiselle ;  au  revoir,  mes  en- 
fans  :"  and  so  he  hurried  off,  leav- 
ing his  victim  prostrate  with  shame 
and  despair. 

"  Miss  Kaymond  has  sent  me  the 
wrong  cousin,  it  seems,"  Monsieur 
Prosper  said  to  himself  as  he  left 
the  house. 

Poor  Marie  !  Her  head  ached  as 
though  it  would  split  :  her  brain 
was  in  a  whirl ;  and  it  is  no  exag- 
geration to  say,  though  the  cause- 
may  seem  slight  enough  to  those 
who  are  not  troubled  with  the 
nervousness  of  diffidence,  that 
death  would  have  been  a  relief  to- 
her.  She  had  not  strength  enough 
left  to  close  the  hateful  piano, 
which  stood  there  an  openly  ac- 
cusing witness  of  her  shame.  Had 
she  but  had  the  moral  courage  to 
refuse  to  disgrace  herself  !  But  it 
was  too  late  now  for  regret ;  she 
could  but  cry  with  vexation. 

But  worse  was  yet  to  come.  An 
hour  or  two  afterwards,  when  she 
had  become  a  little  more  composed, 
a  note  was  brought  to  the  door, 
directed  in  a  strange  hand  to  Made- 
moiselle Marie  Lefort. 

"  5 STREET,  GOLDEN  SQUARE. 

"DEAR  MADEMOISELLE, — A  de- 
spairing fellow  -  creature  implores 
you  to  grant  him  a  favour.  I  am 
engaged  to  conduct  a  concert  at 
Lady  Weston's  in  Park  Lane,, 
and  I  am  going  to  introduce  at  it 
for  the  first  time  my  duet.  M. 
Creville  will  take  the  violin  ;  Herr 
Schwarmer  the  piano.  Takes,  did  I 
say  1 — was  to  take  !  for  the  scoun- 
drel has  sprained  his  thumb — 
would  it  had  been  his  neck  ! 

"I  therefore  fly  to  you,  Made- 
moiselle, in  whose  eyes  I  read  a, 
compassionate  soul.  Play  it  for 
me  ;  and  for  eternity  oblige 

"  Louis  PROSPER. 

"  The  concert  is  not  till  the  10thy 
so  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to 
study  it.  M.  Creville  shall  bring^ 
it  you  to-morrow.  And,  for  the 
love  of  heaven,  mind  about  the 
pedals ! 


676 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


"I  will  take  care  you  shall  be 
satisfied  about  terms.  An  revoir, 
etbon  debut!" 

What !  she  asked  to  play  Mon- 
sieur Prosper's  own  work  in  public 
at  Monsieur  Prosper's  own  request, 
and  in  the  place  of  a  celebrated 
professor!  Surely  there  must  be 
some  mistake.  But  no — the  note 
was  only  too  clear,  and  only  too 
plainly  directed  to  her,  and  to  no 
other.  What  in  the  world  should 
she  do  ? 

Her  first  thought  was  to  refuse  at 
once.  But  then  how  could  she  dare 
offend  this  terrible  Monsieur  Pros- 


per ?  At  last,  after  much  unhappy 
meditation,  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  wait  till  the  morning.  Perhaps 
by  then  her  persecutor  might  have 
thought  better  of  his  extraordinary 
request.  Would  it  might  prove 
so  !  Meanwhile — for  she  was  weary 
of  this  new  exercise  of  thinking 
about  herself — there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  down  and  finish  darn- 
ing Fleurette's  stockings.  When 
this  was  finished,  she  went  and 
looked  at  the  children  and  then 
went  to  bed,  where  the  music  of  the 
duet  came  back  to  her  in  the  most 
terrible  form  of  all.  Queen  Mab 
was  not  kind  to  her  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


And  so  Marie  entered  upon  a 
week  of  wretchedness  \  for  Mon- 
sieur Prosper,  now  that  he  had 
once  obtained  a  hold  upon  her, 
showed  his  promised  gratitude  in 
a  most  ungrateful  fashion.  He  not 
only  made  her  a  slave  to  the  duet, 
but  treated  her  as  his  pupil  without 
the  least  reference  to  what  might  be 
her  own  views  and  wishes,  or  even 
consulting  her  on  the  matter.  Of 
course  she  applied  to  her  husband 
for  advice;  but  he,  to  whom  Art 
was  only  a  word  which  conveyed 
nothing  more  than  tbe  idea  of  a 
womanish  amusement  with  which 
he  had  no  sympathy,  was  unable 
to  understand  her  embarrassment, 
especially  when  he  learned  that  she 
was  to  be  paid  for  her  trouble. 

Besides,  his  own  affairs  were 
absorbing  his  attention  more  and 
more.  He  was  bringing  the  same 
industry  and  perseverance  to  bear 
upon  his  new  study  of  the  common 
law  of  England  by  which  he  had 
already  made  Greek  and  mathema- 
tics pay  so  well.  The  only  differ- 
ence in  his  style  of  study  was  that 
he  found  more  pleasure  in  his  work 
now  than  at  Cambridge,  and  liked  it 
better  for  its  own  sake.  Blackstone 
was  far  more  congenial  to  his  prac- 
tical nature  than  either  Newton  or 
Plato. 


And  so,  on  the  very  evening  on 
which  his  wife  was  undergoing  the 
nervous  tortures  of  her  debut,  he 
sat  in  his  chambers  in  the  Middle 
Temple,  of  which  Inn  he  had  be- 
come a  member,  thinking,  not  about 
her,  but  about  himself.  He  was 
taking  stock  of  his  position,  for 
he  was  practical  even  when  the 
Middle  Temple  port  had  obliged 
him  to  put  off  his  evening  spell  of 
work  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
thought  with  a  purpose  when  an- 
other would  have  dreamed ;  and 
on  comparing  what  he  was  now 
with  what  he  was  even  so  short  a 
time  since  as  when  he  had  been 
Hugh  Lester's  companion  on  the 
Redchester  coach,  he  was  by  no 
means  dissatisfied  with  the  result. 
But  still  there  was  one  hard  fact 
of  which  it  was  impossible  to  get 
rid,  which  went  far  to  spoil  all  his 
self-gratulation.  He  was  by  no 
means  given  to  useless  regret  or  to 
crying  after  spilt  milk,  and  certainly 
not  given  to  calling  himself  a  fool ; 
but  now,  as  he  balanced  his  account 
of  profit  and  loss,  he  could  not  help 
almost  thinking  himself  one. 

"  It  is  a  hard  case  that  a  man 
should  be  punished  for  the  mistakes 
that  he  commits  in  his  boyhood. 
I  shall  now  have  to  go  through 
life  with  a  burden  from  which  I 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIIL 


677 


shall  never  be  free,  when  freedom 
from  every  kind  of  burden  is  abso- 
lutely necessary.  Luckily  she  is 
not  a  woman  who  will  interfere 
with  me  more  than  she  can  help, 
or  perversely  stand  upon  her  rights. 
But  that  will  not  prevent  my  hav- 
ing all  the  disadvantages  of  having 
a  wife  combined  with  those  of  keep- 
ing a  mistress,  without  having  any  of 
the  advantages  of  either.  I  believe 
that  if  I  were  free  and  played  my 
cards  decently  well,  I  might  try  for 
the  New  Court  Stakes,  and  not  be 
last  in  the  betting.  As  it  is,  I  sup- 
pose the  prize  will  fall,  as  usual, 
to  that  ass  Lester,  who  seems  to 
have  nothing  to  do  but  open  his 
mouth,  and  the  good  things  fall 
into  it  of  themselves.  I  don't  sup- 
pose that  he  was  born  richer  than  I; 
and  clearly  not  with  more  brains. 
And  yet,  without  any  trouble  or 
merit  on  his  part,  first  he  becomes 
heir  to  one  of  the  finest  estates  in 
the  country ;  then,  again  without 
trouble  or  merit  of  his  own,  with- 
out even  caring  about  it,  he  drops 
into  a  seat  in  Parliament;  and  then, 
without  having  to  look  for  her, 
there  is  an  embodiment  of  all  the 
virtues  ready  made  to  his  hand. 
And  I,  at  his  age,  have  had  to  fight 
with  fortune  to  wrest  from  her  some 
three  hundred  a-year.  I  have  borne 
the  whole  heat  of  a  contested  elec- 
tion for  the  sake  of  another,  and  I 
am  chained  for  life — well,  to  an- 
other embodiment  of  all  the  virtues. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  she 
were  not  quite  so  immaculate.  Yes, 
it  is  certainly  a  damned  hard  case  ! 
If  I  were  only  free,  I  do  not  see 
why  the  master  of  New  Court 
should  not  be  as  successful  against 
Earl's  Dene  as  for  it ;  and  then — 
Come  in ! " 

This  exclamation  was  caused  not 
by  a  tap  at  the  door  but  by  a  sound 
as  though  the  door  was  being  at- 
tacked by  a  battering-ram.  He 
turned  round  as  he  spoke,  and,  to 
his  horror,  beheld  the  form  of  his 
old  acquaintance,  Dick  Barton. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  latter,  "  I  guessed 
it  was  your  name  I  saw  on  the 


staircase  —  '  Mr  M.  Warden/  as 
bright  as  white  paint  could  make 
it.  Arid  what  are  you  up  to  now  ? 
Laying  siege  to  the  Woolsack? 
Well,  if  tricks  will  win  the  game, 
you'll  do,  I  should  say.  One  ought 
to  keep  sober  in  your  company,  it 
seems,  eh  ? " 

The  sudden  appearance  of  a  big 
and  powerful  man  upon  whom  one 
is  conscious  of  having  played  a 
trick,  is  not  altogether  the  most 
pleasant  thing  that  can  happen. 
Warden  therefore  gave  a  little 
laugh,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Ah,  you  mean  our  wager  ? "  he 
said.  "  But  I  think  it  was  you  that 
got  the  best  of  that,  wasn't  it  1 " 

"I  see,"  the  other  answered, 
rather  contemptuously,  "you  con- 
sider a  contested  election  to  be  like 
charity.  Well,  perhaps  it  is — after 
a  fashion.  '  Sacro  nee  cedat  honori. ' 
But  it  always  struck  me  that  our 
friend  Prescot — who,  by  the  way, 
was  rather  taking  me  up,  and  now, 
of  course,  has  let  me  drop  again 
like  a  hot  potato — managed  to  wing 
the  wrong  bird.  Well,  well ;  let 
bygones  be  bygones.  But  how's 
this?  Do  you  think  dry?  For 
my  part,  I  can't  suppose  that 
'  think '  and  '  drink '  were  made  to 
rhyme  for  nothing,  any  more  than 
'bibere'  and  'scribere.'  Any  way, 
I'm  certain  that  at  this  moment 
Dick  Barton  rhymes  with  anything 
to  drink  short  of  pump-water." 

"I'm  very  sorry.  My  cellar's 
empty,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Oh,  if  that's  all,  a  shilling  or 
two  will  set  that  square.  I'll  fetch 
it.  There's  a  place  round  the  cor- 
ner where  there's  capital  brandy. 
Perhaps  you  know  it  ?  No  ?  Then 
you  shall  in  five  minutes.  I'm 
afraid  I  must  produce  the  coin, 
though." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Barton  —  but 
I'm  afraid  I  have  an  engagement 
in  half  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  I'll  go  when 
she  comes.  So  just  lend  me  half- 
a-crown — or  say  ten  shillings,  if 
you  can  spare  them,  and  I'll  be 
back  in  no  time." 


678 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


"  Oh,  with  pleasure,"  Warden 
answered,  on  the  principle  that 
the  surest  way  to  rid  one's  self  of 
an  acquaintance  is  to  lend  him 
that  precise  sum.  Nor  did  the 
loan  seem  to  have  been  wasted ; 
for  five  minutes  after  five  minutes 
passed,  and  Barton  did  not  return. 
Warden  sat  down  to  read,  and  it 
was  quite  late  when  a  knock  at 
the  door  made  his  heart  sink 
within  him.  It  proved,  how- 
ever, not  to  be  Dick  Barton  this 
time,  but  only  his  friend  Hugh 
Lester. 

"  Why,  Lester,  this  is  a  pleasant 
surprise  !  What  brings  you  into 
this  part  of  the  world  ]  " 

"I  am  just  come  from  Lady 
Weston's,  old  fellow,  and  thought 
I  would  just  smoke  a  cigar  with 
you  on  my  way,  as  I  felt  bored/ ' 

"Well,  I  am  delighted  to  see 
you,  especially  as  I  was  getting 
rather  bored  myself  with  my  own 
company.  Will  you  take  any- 
thing ] " 

"  Have  you  such  a  thing  as  a 
soda-and-brandy  ] " 

"  I  daresay  I  have.  There  — 
now  you  can  help  yourself."  War- 
den could  see  that  his  visitor  had 
something  on  his  mind  of  which 
he  had  come  to  deliver  himself; 
and  besides,  the  Temple  is  not 
exactly  on  the  way  from  Park  Lane 
to  Bruton  Street.  "  What  was  go- 
ing on  this  evening  ] "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  a  sort  of  a  concert — a  great 
bore.  By  the  way,  Miss  Lefort  was 
playing — Marie,  you  know." 

"  And  how  did  she  get  on  1 " 
asked  Warden,  with  some  little  in- 
terest. 

"  Oh,  she  seemed  all  right.  But 
I  know  nothing  about  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"And  did  the  fair  Angelique 
perform  ] " 

"  No ;  but  she  was  there  with 
Miss  Raymond." 

"  And  did  not   Miss   Raymond 
keep  you  from  being  bored  1 " 
'    "  Did  I  say  I  was  bored  ]    The 
fact  is,  Warden,  I  want  your  advice 
about  something." 


"  Really  ]  Well,  I  will  give  you 
the  best  I  can." 

"  I  know  you  will,  old  fellow." 

"And  what  is  it  this  time] 
Love  or  war?" 

"  Why,  you  see,"  Hugh  was  be- 
ginning, when  a  peal  of  thunder 
was  heard  at  the  door. 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  War- 
den. 

"  What  is  it  ] " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  open.  If  I 
don't,  he's  just  the  man  to  break 
in.  I  suppose  he  saw  the  light  in 
the  window." 

"  But  who  is  it  1 " 

"  Do  you  remember  Barton  of 
Tudor  ] " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  though  I  never 
met  him." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you.  I 
am  extremely  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid 
I  must  let  him  in." 

"  I  am  sorry  too,  for  I  really 
wanted  to  see  you." 

And  so  Barton  came  in,  bearing 
a  bottle  in  triumph  under  his  arm. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  Warden,  for 
being  so  long.  Damn  it,  I  can't  be 
drunk,  and  yet  I  see  two  brandy- 
bottles.  Or  have  you  been  sending 
out  and  taking  a  mean  advantage  I 
All  right — the  more  the  merrier. 
We'll  make  a  night  of  it." 

"  Really,  Barton " 

"  Oh,  you  be  damned !  Mayn't 
a  man  make  himself  at  home  in 
another  man's  rooms  ]  Why,  there 
are  two  Wardens !" 

"  Indeed  there  are  not.  This  is 
Mr  Lester,  the  member  for  Dene- 
thorp  ;  and  we  have  business  to 
talk  over.  I  told  you  I  had  an 
engagement." 

"  But  where  the  devil  am  I  to  go, 
then]" 

"Why  not  go  home]" 

"  Warden,  you're  a  milksop. 
Come  —  be  hospitable  for  once. 
The  night  is  young;  and,  what's 
more,  I'm  damned  if  I  go  home ! 
—there." 

"You  see]"  said  Warden  to 
Hugh  in  despair.  "  I  know  this 
fellow,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to 
get  rid  of  him." 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


679 


And  there  was  in  fact  nothing  to 
be  done  but  for  Hugh  to  make  an 
appointment  to  see  Warden  at  his 
chambers  in  the  morning,  to  plead 
that  he  was  bad  company — as,  in 
fact,  he  felt — and  to  go  home,  leav- 
ing Warden  to  the  mercy  of  his  old 
man  of  the  sea. 

He  returned  to  the  Temple  at 
about  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

"Why,  how's  this  1"  he  said, 
on  seeing  the  aspect  of  Warden's 
room ;  "  you  have  been  having  a 
debauch  with  a  vengeance." 

"  It  is  simply  the  most  terrible 
animal  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  War- 
den, smiling  to  cover  his  ill- 
humour  ;  "  here  he  is  still,  you 
see  ;  "  and  he  pointed  to  a  sofa  on 
which  lay  Barton  asleep — not  like 
i  man  who  is  working  off  the  effects 
of  much  brandy,  but  like  a  child 
that  has  taken  nothing  stronger 
than  milk-and-water  in  its  life. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you 
going  to  do  with  him  1 " 

"  God  knows  !  At  Cambridge,  I 
believe,  he  used  to  sleep  four-and- 
twenty  hours  at  a  stretch  when  he 
slept  at  all,  without  waking.  And 
where  could  one  send  him  ?  He 
told  me  last  night  that  he  has 
given  up  living  under  a  roof  alto- 
gether." 

"  Oh,  let  the  poor  devil  sleep 
It  out.  Shall  we  go  out  and  talk 
somewhere  else  1 " 

"  And  leave  no  one  here  but  this 
infernal  beast  1  He  would  smash 
everything  to  pieces  to  look  for 
dquor,  or  bring  more  in  and  get 
drunk  again." 

"  That  is  true.  Well,  he's  sound 
isleep,  and  one  will  know  when  he 
wakes,  I  suppose  ] " 

"  Trust  him  for  letting  us  know 
•;hat." 

"  Well,  then— but  I'm  afraid  I'm 
boring  you." 

"My  dear  fellow!" 

"  It's  all  about  myself,  you  know 
— or  rather  it  isn't.  Would  you 
mind  my  lighting  a  cigar  1 " 

"  A  hundred,  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you.  Well,  then,  you 
hee — I  daresay  you'll  think  me  an 


infernal  ass — but  as  you  know  the 
people,  and  all  that,  you'll  see — 
will  you  take  a  cigar  yourself  1" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"Well,  then,  the  fact  is— I  am 
engaged  to  be  married." 

"  Indeed  !  Then  let  me  be  the 
first  to  congratulate  yourself  and 
the  lady.  Am  I  wrong  in  guessing 
that  it  is  to  Miss  Raymond  1" 

"  No,  it's  not  to  Miss  Raymond, 
and  that's  just  the  difficulty.  You 
see  my  aunt  seems  to  have  set  her 
heart  on  my  marrying  Miss  Ray- 
mond." 

Somehow  Warden  felt  relieved, 
though  of  course  it  could  be  no- 
thing to  him. 

"  Am  I  to  know  who  the  lady 
is  1 "  he  asked. 

"  Mademoiselle  Lefort." 

Warden  naturally  thought  of  the 
election  gossip  about  Lester  and 
Marie.  There  must  have  been 
something  in  it,  then,  after  all. 

"  The  devil  it  is  !"  he  exclaimed, 
but  with  a  meaning  very  different 
from  what  Hugh  supposed. 

"And  why  not  V  asked  the  latter, 
a  little  sharply. 

"  It  is  impossible  you  can  be  en- 
gaged to  her." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  It  is  pos- 
sible, because  I  am." 

"  Does  Miss  Lefort  know  ] " 

"  How  could  I  be  engaged  with- 
out 1 " 

"But  it  is  impossible.  There 
must  be  some  mistake." 

"What  in  the  world  can  you 
mean  1  How  could  I  be  mistaken 
about  such  a  thing  ? " 

"  I  mean  that  it  cannot  be." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  I .  happen  to  know  ; 
but  I  cannot  tell  you  why — I  can 
only  tell  you  that  you  must  most 
certainly  be  mistaken,  though  I 
grant  it  is  strange  that  you  should 
be.  I  know  the  Leforts  well,  and 
I  assure  you,  as  your  friend  and 
theirs,  that  it  is  quite  impossible." 

Of  course  it  was  quite  possible, 
he  thought,  that  Hugh  might  have 
declared  his  passion,  and  that  Marie, 
in  her  innocence  and  stupidity  and 


680 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


shyness,  and  with  the  weight  of  her 
secret  embarrassing  her,  might  not 
have  repulsed  him  in  a  manner  that 
he  had  understood.  How  he  wished 
that  she  had  been  free  not  to  have 
repulsed  him  at  all !  He  would 
have  yielded  her  to  Hugh,  or  to 
any  one  else,  with  the  best  will  in 
the  world.  Hugh,  knowing  what 
he  knew,  could  only  stare  in  blank 
amazement.  If  he  thought  any- 
thing, it  was  that  Warden,  as  his 
friend,  considered  it  a  friendly 
thing  to  save  him  from  a  mesal- 
liance. 

"  Really,  Warden,  I  must  know 
what  you  mean.  Indeed  I  have  a 
right  to  an  explanation  —  if  you 
have  any  to  give." 

As  he  spoke  another  thought  sug- 
gested itself  to  him.  Warden  was 
an  older  acquaintance  of  the  family 
than  he,  and  had  known  Angelique 
from  childhood.  Was  it  not  pos- 
sible that  he  might  be  a  rival  ? 

Warden  saw  the  thought  show  it- 
self in  his  friend's  face ;  and  he  also 
saw  that  he  was  himself  in  a  difficult 
position.  Of  course  he  supposed 
that  he  knew  his  wife  well  enough 
to  assume  that  Hugh  must  neces- 
sarily be  mistaken  in  thinking 
what  he  did  appear  to  think ;  but 
still,  unfortunately,  it  would  never 
do  to  allow  him  to  remain  in  his 
error.  Marie,  in  self-defence,  might 
have  her  secret  wrung  from  her ; 
and  so  he  was  ready  enough  to  tell 
himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to  spare 
her  from  persecution,  and  Hugh 
from  running  his  head  against  so 
hard  a  wall. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  you 
cannot  marry  Miss  Lefort.  I  will 
tell  you  why,  if  you  will  promise 
to  respect  her  secret ;  and  you  will 
then  see  that  you  must  be  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  she  could  have 
promised  to  be  your  wife." 

Hugh  turned  pale. 

"  It  must  not  be  known  on  any 
account.  There  are  good  reasons 
why,  which  I  am  not  bound  to  tell 
you,  seeing  that  they  affect  other 
persons ;  nor  will  you  therefore  ask 
me.  But  I  am  bound  to  save  you 


from  an  unprofitable  pursuit ;  and 
I  will  therefore  rely  upon  your 
honour  not  to  let  what  I  do  say  go 
farther  than  ourselves.  Do  you 
promise  ? " 

Heaven  knows  what  Hugh  ex- 
pected to  hear ;  but  he  nerved  him- 
self as  well  as  he  could  to  hear  his 
doom,  whatever  it  might  be.  Of 
course  he  was  equally  prepared  not 
to  believe  any  story  that  might  re- 
flect upon  Angelique. 

"If  it  is  no  scandal — if  it  is 
nothing  that  my  speaking  may 
remove/'  he  answered. 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  scandal/'  Warden 
answered,  "but  the  contrary.  It 
is^  that  she  is  the  wife  of  another 
man." 

Hugh  started  forward.  "That 
she  is  married?  No — that  I  can- 
not believe." 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  that  I  know 
it — that  it  can  be  proved  ? " 

"  Prove  it,  then." 

"  Did  I  not  say  that  I  could  tell 
you  nothing  that  affects  others  *?  It 
is  enough  for  you  that  I  am  bound 
in  honour  to  say  no  more." 

The  word  "honour"  always  act- 
ed upon  Hugh  Lester  like  a  spell. 
"  But  I  am  not  bound  to  make  no 
inquiries,"  he  answered.  "  I  am 
not  going  to  give  her  up  for  a  word, 
especially  as  if  what  you  say  is  true 
— if  you  are  not  mistaken,  I  mean 
— I  should  have  to  believe  that  it 
is  she  who  has  deceived  me.  I  will 
ask  you  nothing  more ;  but  I  will 
go  straight  to  her." 

"  What !  and  force  her  secret 
from  her  ? " 

"  Yes,  by  God  !  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  some  right  in  it  also." 

Somehow  Warden  had  not  calcu- 
lated upon  this.  Perhaps  he  had 
relied  too  much  upon  the  power  of 
managing  Hugh  which  he  supposed 
himself  to  have  acquired. 

"  Indeed  you  must  do  no  such 
thing." 

"WhaU"    , 

Hugh  spoke  more  in  astonish- 
ment than  in  anger  at  being  thus 
addressed  by  one  to  whom  he  was 
quite  as  much  a  patron  as  a  friend. 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


681 


"  I  mean  that  if  you  do " 

Hugh  somehow  felt  that  the  ad- 
vantage was  with  himself. 

"Well— and  if  I  do?" 

"  I  think  it  very  likely  that  she 
would  deny  it." 

"  And  that  I  should  have  to  de- 
cide between  her  solemn  word  and 
your  word,  which  you  refuse  to 
prove  1  So  that  is  your  reason  for 
saying  that  I  must  not  ?  Very  well 
then,  I  will  not ;  for  I  should  not 
dream  of  doubting  her." 

It  did  not  suit  Warden  to  quar- 
rel with  Hugh,  otherwise  the  last 
speech  gave  him  ample  opportu- 
nity, and,  had  he  been  of  warmer 
blood,  would  have  had  its  effect, 
though,  on  Hugh's  part,  uninten- 
tionally. The  latter  had  merely 
meant  to  say  that  he  would  take 
Angelique's  word  against  that  of  all 
the  world. 

"  Then,"  said  Warden,  not  know- 
ing exactly  what  to  say,  and  speak- 
ing slowly  to  give  himself  time  to 
consider, "  if  you  do  speak  to  Marie 
—to  Miss " 

"To  Marie?" 

"  To  Miss  Lefort,  then.    If " 

"  But  why  did  you  say  Marie  1 " 

"  Are  we  not  speaking  of  her  1 " 

"My  dear  fellow!"  Hugh  ex- 
claimed, his  face  brightening,  "  do 
you  mean  to  say  you  thought  I 
meant  Marie  1 " 

Warden  blushed  scarlet,  for  about 
the  first  time  in  his  life.  "  I  did 
think  so,  certainly." 

"  Good  God  !  how  you  frightened 
me  !  What !  is  Marie  married  1 " 

"  You  will  surely  respect  her  se- 
cret now  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  will  be  like  the  tomb. 
But  what  on  earth  made  you  think 
I  meant  Marie  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  was  stupid.  So 
you  are  engaged  to  Angelique  1 " 
he  added,  in  a  meditative  tone. 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,"  Hugh  was  beginning;  but 
Warden  scarcely  heard  him.  His 
mind  was  flying  off  to  other  things. 

"  I  see,"  he  said  at  last.  "And 
Miss  Clare  objects,  I  suppose — or 
would  object  if  she  knew." 


"  She  objects  very  strongly  in- 
deed." 

"  And  how  can  I  advise  you  ]  " 

"You  see  I  don't  want  Ange- 
lique— Miss  Lefort — to  marry  a  beg- 
gar. And  my  aunt  is  so  set  against 
it,  that " 

"  Then  my  advice  would  be  to  do 
nothing  in  a  hurry.  Has  Miss 
Clare — if  I  may  ask — talked  to  you 
about  this — told  you  anything  about 
what  she  means  to  do  1 " 

"  She  is  so  set  on  my  marrying 
Alice  Raymond — who  I  don't  sup- 
pose would  have  me  if  I  asked  her 
— that  if  I  marry  as  I  must  and 
ought,  Miss  Raymond  will  take  my 
place  altogether;  and  you  know 
my  aunt,  that  she  does  not  speak 
without  meaning  it.  I  don't  care 
about  that,  you  know,  only  for  An- 
gelique ;  and  because  I  like  my 
aunt  too  much,  and  am  too  grateful 
to  her  to  want  to  quarrel  with  her 
if  I  can  help  it.  It's  very  odd  that 
she  can't  see  the  thing  in  the  same 
way  as  I  do." 

"  Well,  certainly,  one  would  think 
that  marriage  is  a  matter  in  which 
a  man  should  judge  for  himself. 
And  if  I  know  Miss  Clare,  she  likes 
you  too  well  for  things  not  to  come 
all  right." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  her  as  I 
do." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  look  here, 
Lester.  You  know  that  Miss  Clare 
is  for  some  reason  or  other  inclined 
to  put  some  confidence  in  me  1 " 

"  Naturally,  after  what  you  have 
done  for  us." 

"  Well  then,  if  I,  a  disinterested 
third  person,  were  to  put  the  thing 
calmly  before  her — I  suppose  you 
have  quite  made  up  your  own  mind 
on  the  matter  3 " 

"Quite." 

"  And  I  congratulate  you  on  your 
choice.  Miss  Lefort's  only  fault  is 
want  of  fortune  ;  and  what  is  that 
to  you  ?  Then  if,  as  I  say,  I  spoke 
quietly  to  Miss  Clare " 

"Would  you  really?" 

"  Of  course  I  would  ;  though  of 
course  I  cannot  tell  what  the  result 
would  be.  By  the  way,  does  Miss 


•6S2 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


Lefort  herself  know  of  Miss  Clare's 
objection  1 " 

"  Why,  no.  There  was  no  need, 
you  see " 

"So  much  the  better.  There 
can  be  no  reason  why  she  should 
feel  that  there  is  any  personal  ob- 
jection to  her  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Clare,  if  it  can  be  avoided." 

"You  are  the  best  fellow  that 
ever  lived,  Warden." 

"  Oh,  nonsense.  I  haven't  done 
anything,  and  most  likely  never 
shall." 

"  And  are  you  likely  to  be  going 
down  to  Denethorp  soon  ?  "  asked 
Hugh,  with  all  the  selfish  impa- 
tience of  a  man  in  love. 

"  I  daresay  I  may  be,  at  Christ- 
inas." 

"Not  before?" 

"  How  can  1 1 " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  not.  Then  you 
think  I'd  better  not  tell  Ange- 
lique  ? " 

"  I  should  say  certainly  not. 
You  really  mean  what  you  say,  of 
course." 

"  Certainly.  I  intend  to  make 
her  my  wife,  whatever  may  happen." 

"  Well,  '  the  course  of  true  love,' 
you  know.  You  may  feel  quite 
safe  that  in  the  end  Miss  Clare 
will  be  only  too  glad  to  change  her 
mind." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  fellow — 
and  I  can't  thank  you  enough.  By 
the  way,  why  don't  you  go  in  for 
Alice  Raymond  yourself — a  girl 
with  no  nonsense  about  her,  and  a 
good  fortune  besides  1 " 

Warden  smiled.  "  What  !  a 
country  doctor's  son  go  in  for  the 
lady  of  New  Court  ?  " 

"  Oh,  why  not  ? "  It  is  wonder- 
ful how  cheap  men  hold  what  they 
do  not  want. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  breaking 
her  heart." 

"  If  I  am,  you  had  better  heal  it." 

"Oh,  this  is  my  wife,"  replied 
Warden,  laying  his  hand  upon  a 
volume  of  *  Coke  upon  Littleton.' 
"  And  now,  just  consider  it  all  right 
— and  don't  make  yourself  unhappy 
by  thinking  about  difficulties." 


"  You  really  think  it  will  come 
all  smooth  1 " 

"  Of  course  I  do — and  of  course 
it  will.  Holloa  !  What's  that  ? 
By  Jove!  I  had  quite  forgotten 
that  guest  of  mine." 

What  he  had  heard  was  the 
creaking  of  the  sofa,  caused  by  the 
return  to  waking  life  of  Dick  Bar- 
ton, who,  after  a  yawn  or  two,  suc- 
ceeded in  twisting  himself  into  a 
position  that  was  very  tolerably 
upright. 

"  The  devil ! "  he  exclaimed,  after 
another  prodigious  stretch.  "I 
say,  have  you  got  anything  to 
drink  1  I'm  confoundedly  thirsty." 

"  Soda-water  1 " 

"  Soda  be  blowed  !  Kunos  crine 
— a  hair  of  the  dog,  man." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  devoured  the 
dog  between  you,  hair  and  all,  be- 
fore you  fell  asleep,"  said  Lester, 
who  had  recovered  something  of 
his  usual  good-humour. 

"And  who  the  devil  are  you? 
Damn  you,  Warden,  you  can't  have 
drunk  the  whole  of  the  three  bot- 
tles to  your  own  cheek." 

"Will  you  have  some  tea  1 " 

"Faugh!" 

"  Well  then,  you  won't  have  any- 
thing at  all,"  said  Warden,  who  had 
begun  to  guess  how  his  enemy  ought 
to  be  treated. 

"  I  call  that  damned  unfriendly 
of  you.  I  shall  go  at  once — and 
damn  me  if  I  ever  come  here 

again.  Warden,  you're  a ,  and 

I  always  thought  so,  and  now  I 
know  it.  By  the  way,"  he  added, 
feeling  in  his  pockets,  "  I'm  cleaned 
out.  Could  either  of  you  fellows 
lend  me  half-a-crown  ?" 

"  And  is  this  the  Dick  Barton  that 
was  to  do  such  wonderful  things  ?" 
asked  Lester,  as  the  door  closed. 
"  How  does  he  live  ? " 

Warden  shrugged  his  shoulders 
contemptuously. 

"  So  much  for  genius  ! "  said  the 
practical  man. 

"  Poor  devil ! "  said  Lester,  "  one 
must  try  and  give  him  a  chance — 
what's  the  good  of  being  in  the 
house  else  ?  "  And  so,  after  a 


1870.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


683 


renewal  of  his  thanks,  he  too  left 
the  room,  leaving  Warden  to  '  Coke 
upon  Littleton.' 


Warden  did  work  at '  Coke  upon 
Littleton  ; '  but  he  also  worked  at 
something  else  besides. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Warden  had  no  particular  incli- 
nation to  spend  his  Christmas  at 
home  :  he  was  not  a  person  of 
domestic  tendencies ;  his  father 
bored  him,  and  he  was  not  fond  of 
the  society  of  his  father's  friends. 
Not  even  did  he  care  to  cultivate 
the  acquaintance  of  Mr  Brown, 
even  though  he  was  an  attorney's 
managing  clerk.  But  still,  much 
to  his  sister's  delight,  he  announced 
at  the  beginning  of  December  that 
he  was  about  to  pay  them  a  short 
visit.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a 
very  ordinary  sort  of  coincidence 
that  Miss  Raymond  was  going  to 
spend  her  Christmas  at  Earl's 
Dene.  Hugh  ought  to  have  spent 
his  there  also  :  but  he  was  a  man 
of  many  engagements,  and  felt 
rather  afraid  of  his  visit  besides, 
for  he  also  felt  instinctively  that 
the  breach  between  himself  and  his 
aunt  had  practically  begun,  and 
that  he  should,  as  it  were,  be  mak- 
ing Earl's  Dene  his  home  under 
false  pretences.  Moreover,  he  knew 
that  his  friend  was  going  down, 
and  fancied  that  it  would  be  better 
for  his  own  cause  if  he  himself 
kept  out  of  the  way  and  left  the 
field  clear  for  the  abler  strategist. 

And  so  Warden  went  down  ac- 
cordingly, listened  to  his  father's 
complaints  of  the  rival  doctors, 
and  of  the  pane  of  glass  through 
which  the  wind  still  blew,  received 
the  admiring  homage  of  his  sister, 
heard  Mr  Brown  retail  the  small 
gossip  of  the  place,  and  dined  upon 
lukewarm  mutton.  But  he  did  not 
let  his  domestic  enjoyments  detain 
him  from  making  an  early  call  at 
Earl's  Dene. 

He  found  Miss  Clare  not  im- 
proved in  health  by  any  means ; 
but  she  gave  him  a  most  cordial 
welcome,  not  only  for  his  own  sake, 
but  because  she  hoped  to  get  news 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVI. 


of  Hugh  in  respect  of  the  matter 
about  which  she  was  most  anxious. 

"You  still  see  something  of 
Hugh  ? "  she  asked,  after  a  word 
or  two  of  greeting. 

"  Oh,  very  often.  I  think  I  may 
consider  that  we  are  friends." 

"I  hope  so.  I  was  in  hopes 
that  he  would  have  spent  Christ- 
mas down  here." 

"You  see  he  has  so  many  en- 
gagements." 

"  Still  I  should  have  thought  he 
might  have  been  able  to  spare  a 
day  or  two.  But  this  is  but  a  dull 
house  for  a  young  man  to  come  to, 
I  know." 

Warden  looked  his  protest. 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  one  visitor, 
though — your  old  acquaintance, 
Miss  Raymond  of  New  Court." 

"Indeed?" 

"She,  too,  has  seen  something 
of  you  in  town,  she  tells  me.  By 
the  way,  as  we  are  talking  about 
Denethorp  people,  what  has  be- 
come of  those  Leforts  since  the 
father  met  with  that  unfortunate 
accident  1 " 

"  Oh,  they  are  in  London,  doing 
what  they  can." 

"Miss  Raymond  tells  me  that 
the  niece  means  to  go  on  the 
stage." 

"  Yes  :  I  believe  that  is  so." 

Of  course  she  was  vainly  trying 
to  get  an  opening  for  finding  out 
whether  and  to  what  extent  Warden 
was  in  her  nephew's  confidence. 
At  last,  true  to  her  despotic  in- 
stincts that  never  allowed  her  to 
procrastinate  or  beat  -about  the 
bush,  she  said, 

"I,  too,  may  consider  you  one 
of  Hugh's  friends]" 

"One  of  his  and  yours,  Miss 
Clare." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  to 
commit  a  breach  of  confidence : 


684 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


besides,  I  know  that  you  would 
not  do  so,  if  I  did.  But  has  he 
ever  mentioned  these  young  women 
to  you  ? " 

"  In  what  way  ? " 

"You  know  there  were  some 
absurd  stories  about  him  here  ? " 

"Oh,  at  the  election.  No  one 
minds  election  reports." 

"  You  see  so  much  depends  upon 
the  marriage  of  one  in  Hugh's 
position." 

"No  doubt." 

"  It  would  never  do  even  to  run 
the  risk  of  Earl's  Dene  falling 
into  the  hands  of  an  actress — of 
a  Papist." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  You  see,  living  as  I  do,  there 
are  so  few  people  I  can  trust — and 
I  suppose  that  as  one  gets  older 
one  gets  more  anxious  and  nervous 
— at  least  I  am  anxious  that  Hugh, 
who  is  as  if  he  were  my  son,  should 
do  rightly  in  everything.  Now 
you,  who  are  his  friend,  and  have 
some  influence,  I  know " 

"I  fear,  Miss  Clare,  you  over- 
rate my  power." 

"  Oh,  no.  Men  listen  often  to 
their  friends  when  they  are  deaf 
to  their  mothers — you  can  talk  to 
him  as  men  talk.  You  understand 
me?" 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  any  in- 
fluence I  may  have  over  Mr  Lester 
shall  be  used  as  you  would  ap- 
prove and  for  his  real  good." 

"  You  promise  1 " 

"Faithfully." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr  Warden.  You 
have  taken  a  weight  off  my  mind. 
You  will,  then — you  of  all  people 
will  know  how — save  him  from 
the  danger  of — you  know  what  I 
mean  1 " 

"  I  promise  to  do  my  best." 

"  You  might  tell  him,  in  case  of 
necessity,  what  I  have  told  him 
also — that  if  he  continues  to  be 
bent  upon  this  impossible  mar- 
riage  " 

"I  would  rather  hear  no  more, 
Miss  Clare." 

"  But  you  had  better.  You  know 
that  I  always  do  what  I  say  j  and 


if  he  is  obstinate,  Alice  Raymond 
shall  be  mistress  of  Earl's  Dene. 
And  you  may  tell  Miss  Lefort  so, 
also.  I  imagine  that  she,  at  least, 
will  not  be  obstinate  when  she  hears 
that." 

That  she  was  perfectly  in  earnest 
was  sufficiently  proved  by  her  for- 
getting her  pride  so  far  as  to  take 
one  of  her  subjects  into  her  private 
confidence  in  order  that  she  might 
work  with  greater  certainty.  But 
it  must,  nevertheless,  have  been  a 
•bitter  pill  for  her  to  swallow. 

"  Surely,  Miss  Clare,  you  cannot 
be  speaking  seriously  1 " 

"  But  I  am,  indeed.  And  after 
all  it  is  not  likely  that  he  should 
really  be  guilty  of  such  madness." 

"  Most  unlikely,  I  should  say." 

"But  still  you  will  remember 
what  I  have  said ;  you  will  watch, 
warn,  save  him,  if  you  can — and 
that  by  any  means  1 " 

"I  will  do  all  I  can." 

"I  felt  sure  that  I  might  rely 
upon  you  ;  otherwise  I  should  not 
have  said  what  I  have  to  you.  Be 
sure  that  we  shall  not  be  ungrate- 
ful." 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  think — is  it 
not  only  my  duty  1 " 

"But  we  have  our  duties,  too, 
and  gratitude  is  among  them,"  she 
said,  in  royal  fashion,  as  she  held 
out  her  hand.  "  And  now  you 
will  stay  to  lunch?  I  see  Miss 
Raymond  coming  back  from  her 
ride." 

Miss  Clare,  as  queen  of  Dene- 
thorp,  of  course  considered  herself 
as  only  giving  orders  to,  and  pro- 
moting to  high  trust  and  confidence, 
one  of  her  subjects  who  had  proved 
his  devotion  to  the  reigning  house 
when  she  gave  Warden  charge  of 
the  crown-prince,  and  not  as  in  any 
way  laying  a  burden  upon  him. 
She  felt  gratitude,  as  she  said ;  but, 
in  her  eyes,  he  was  doing  no  more 
than  his  duty  to  his  liege  lady  in 
undertaking  to  keep  her  heir  from 
forming  an  unsuitable  alliance. 
What  his  own  private  views  might 
be  were  nothing  to  her,  nor  did 
she  even  remember  that  he  might 


as7o.] 


EarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


685 


possibly  have  any.  And  if  he  had, 
what  could  they  matter  even  to 
himself  when  the  interests  of  Earl's 
Dene  were  concerned  ?  Neverthe- 
less the  interview  did  open  out  to 
him  a  new  and  strangely  exciting 
train  of  thought,  of  which  the  bur- 
den was, "  If  it  were  not  for  Marie ! " 
Putting  her  out  of  the  question 
altogether — supposing  there  were 
no  such  person  in  existence — it 
would  of  course  be  open  to  him  to 
try  his  chance  with  Miss  Raymond, 
as  anybody  else  might,  without  any 
reference  to  the  coming  estrange- 
ment between  Miss  Clare  and  her 
nephew.  It  was  true  that  his  birth 
was  not  such  as  to  facilitate  his 
entry  into  a  county  family.  But 
then  would  he  be  the  first  poor 
.gentleman  who  had,  by  marrying 
an  heiress,  founded  a  family  of  his 
own  ?  Ce  que  femme  veut,  Dieu  le 
vent ;  and  fortune  favours  the  bold. 
His  father  and  sister  might  be  pro- 
vided for  elsewhere  ;  and  for  him- 
self, he  felt  that  he  could  hold  his 
own  were  he  to  marry  into  the  ranks 
of  the  peerage  itself.  After  all,  as 
the  son  of  a  professional  man,  as  a 
fellow  of  his  college,  as  a  distin- 
guished member  of  his  university, 
as  a  barrister — a  word  that  then 
meant  far  more  than  it  has  since 
come  to  mean — as,  in  the  future,  a 
member  of  Parliament,  and  heaven 
knows  what  besides,  it  would  soon 
be  forgotten  that  the  professional 
man  whose  son  he  was  was  only 
Doctor  Warden  of  Denethorp,  and 
that  his  mother  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Redchester  druggist.  This  he 
might  have  done  as  a  matter  of 
course  \  but  now  he  felt,  after  his 
interview  with  Miss  Clare,  that, 
were  he  only  free,  he  might  do 
something  very  much  more.  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  remembered 
how  he  felt  when  he  traversed,  in 
Hugh  Lester's  company,  the  stage 
of  road  between  Redchester  and 
Denethorp.  If  Hugh  should  marry 
Angelique,  then  Miss  Raymond 
would  be  a  prize  worth  the  winning 
indeed.  He  knew  as  well  as  any- 
body that  Miss  Clare  invariably 


meant  what  she  said,  and  he  thought 
he  knew  how  to  manage  her,  in  case 
Miss  Raymond  proved  favourable. 
If  it  were  only  not  for  Marie  ! 

But  as,  unfortunately,  it  was  im- 
possible to  put  Marie  out  of  the 
question,  it  was  all  impossible  toge- 
ther. Still  he  was  not  one  to  throw 
away  even  the  odd  ends  of  string, 
the  scraps  of  paper,  and  the  stray 
pins  that  chance  affords.  "  Waste 
not,  want  not  "—everything  may 
come  in  usefully  some  day.  At  all 
events,  there  was  no  use  in  being 
impolite  to  Miss  Raymond ;  and  so, 
to  avoid  Charybdis  he  fell  into 
Scylla — that  is  to  say,  he  made  him- 
self very  polite  to  her  indeed.  Nor 
did  the  young  lady  herself  object, 
for  she  had  a  tendency  to  hero-wor- 
ship, and  since  the  contest  Warden 
had  remained  the  hero  of  the  Tory 
part  of  the  country-side. 

He  enjoyed  his  lunch  very  much, 
nor  did  he  again  remember  his 
wife's  existence  until  he  was  half- 
way home.  And  then,  when  he  did 
call  her  to  mind,  he  was  angry,  not 
with  himself,  but  with  Circum- 
stance, who  had  treated  him  so  un- 
fairly and  so  unkindly.  At  last, 
like  everybody  who  gets  angry  with 
Circumstance,  he  began  to  recollect 
certain  bits  and  scraps  of  consolation 
with  which  men  natter  themselves 
that  they  are  not  suchverypoorcrea- 
tures  after  all,  but,  indeed,  rather 
the  contrary — such  as  *'  Man  is  the 
architect  of  his  own  fortune ; "  "The 
mould  of  a  man's  fortune  is  in  his 
own  hands ; "  "  Vouloir  c'est  pou- 
voir  ;"  "  The  wise  man  makes  more 
opportunities  than  he  finds ; "  "Aut 
inveniam  viam  autfaciam  ;  "  and  a 
hundred  other  similar  specimens  of 
proverbial  nonsense. 

In  a  mind  like  his,  no  practical 
idea  that  is  once  sown  remains 
quite  barren.  He  could  not  enter- 
tain the  thought  that  he  might, 
under  other  circumstances,  have 
become  master  of  Earl's  Dene  with- 
out at  the  same  time  entertaining 
the  wish  that  it  were  still  possible  ; 
and  he  could  not  entertain  the  wish 
without  being  led  to  consider  whe- 


686 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


ther,  after  all,  its  fulfilment  were 
quite  as  impossible  as  it  at  first 
sight  appeared.  "  Is,  in  truth,  any- 
thing impossible  ? "  he  thought ; 
"  Napoleon  denied  the  existence  of 
the  word." 

People  who  quote  the  authority 
of  Napoleon  in  this  matter,  gener- 
ally seem  to  forget  that  their  au- 
thority lived  to  find  himself  mis- 
taken. 

"  So  you've  been  up  at  Madam's, 
have  you?"  asked  Mark's  father, 
as  they  sat  over  the  fire  after  dinner. 
"  Quite  right.  The  old  lady's  been 
uncommon  civil  since  the  election. 
Game,  you  know,  and  all  that.  We 
may  cut  out  that  ass  Smith  yet,  my 
boy.  Miss  Eaymond's  up  there 
too,  isn't  she  ?  Ah,  a  fine  match 
that'll  be  for  Master  Hugh." 

"Ah,"  winked  Mr  Brown,  "we 
know  something  about  that,  Mr 
Mark;  don't  we ?" 

"Dowel" 

"I  expect  Miss  Alice  was  nigh 
losing  our  member.  We  know 
when.  I  wonder  what's  become 
of  Miss  Mary  now,  up  in  town?" 
Here  he  gave  another  wink.  "  And 
I  wonder  whether  our  member 
knows1?  For  my  part,  though,  I 
always  thought  'twas  the  other  one 
had  most  style." 

Mark  felt  a  strong  desire  to  kick 
him.  After  all,  Marie  was  his 
wife,  much  as  he  might  wish  that 
she  were  not. 

"  You  seem  to  know  much  more 
about  it  than  either  I  or  Mr  Lester," 
he  answered,  with  a  coldness  that 
made  Mr  Brown  stare. 

"I  wonder  when  the  wedding 
will  be,  and  if  it'll  be  at  Dene- 
thorp  ! "  exclaimed  Lorry.  "  I 
think  Miss  Raymond  so  pretty, 
Mark;  don't  you?" 

"  I  know  some  one  prettier,"  said 
Mr  Brown,  with  a  leer  at  Lorry,  for 
which  her  brother  would  have  gladly 


kicked  him  again,  especially  as  he 
saw  that  she  only  blushed. 

"By  the  way,  Brown,"  asked 
the  surgeon,  "  that's  a  bad  case  up 
Gorsley  way.  Have  you  anything 
to  do  with  it?" 

"  We,  Mr  Warden  1  We  don't 
do  criminal  business.  But  what's 
the  rights  of  it?" 

"  Why,  hanging's  about  the  rights 
of  it,  I  reckon.  Man  and  wife,  you 
know — tired  of  her,  and  keeping 
company  with  another  woman.  She 
won't  have  him  till  the  wife's  dead. 
So  what  does  he  do,  when  his  wife'* 
asleep  in  bed,  but  just  quietly  go  to 
work  with  his  fingers  and  thumbs, 
you  know,  till  what  d'ye-call  was 
induced,  and  she  went  off  the  hooks. 
I  made  the  post  mortem  with  what's 
his  name  of  Gorsley — brain  con- 
gested, lungs  gorged,  tongue  pro- 
truding half  an  inch,  no  end  of 
ecchymosis  just  where  it  ought  to 
be,  you  know — larynx,  and  conjunc- 
tivce,  and  all  that " 

"And  how  did  he  kill  her?" 
asked  Mr  Brown. 

"  Why,  aren't  the  appearances  as 
clear  as  daylight?  Throttled  her, 
of  course,  and  no  mistake  about  it." 

"  La,  how  horrid  ! "  exclaimed 
Lorry. 

"  H'm ! "  said  Mr  Brown  ;  "marry 
in  haste,  and  repent  at  leisure. 
Well,  what  I  always  say  is,  as  a 
man  makes  his  bed,  so  he  must  lie." 

Why  should  Mark  Warden,  the 
scholar  and  the  gentleman,  have 
felt  a  half-guilty  sensation  at  the 
narration  of  this  brutal  and  vulgar 
crime  ?  But  he  did  feel  it :  nor 
was  Mr  Brown's  not  very  original 
remark  without  its  sting.  After 
the  quotations  from  historians  and 
philosophers  in  which  he  had  been 
indulging,  the  homely  platitude  of 
the  lawyer's  clerk  was  a  terrible 
piece  of  bathos ;  but  it  was  not 
ineffective. 


CHAPTEK   XIV. 


Night  brings   counsel.      "Well, 
I  suppose  I  must  yield  to  fate," 


was  Warden's  first  thought  when 
he  awoke  the  next  morning.    "  But 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


687 


still "  he  added  ;  which  meant 

that  he  had  at  all  events  made  up 
iiis  mind  that  his  friend  should 
marry  Angelique  Lefort.  He  could 
not  see  his  way  to  the  end  of  the 
game  ;  but  still  that  was  no  reason 
•why  he  should  not  play  such  good 
cards  as  he  held  in  his  hand. 
Something  might  come  of  them, 
and  nothing  could  come  of  his 
keeping  his  word  to  Miss  Clare. 
Indeed,  he  had,  after  all,  promised 
nothing  definitely. 

He  did  not  return  to  London  at 
once,  but  was  a  good  deal  about 
Earl's  Dene — making  love,  any  one 
would  almost  have  said  who  did 
not  know  the  circumstances.  To  a 
certain  extent  he  was  not  altogether 
responsible  for  the  length  to  which 
he  went  in  cultivating  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Miss  Raymond  \  for  the 
flirtation  naturally  gratified  the 
vanity  from  which  marriage  does 
not  exempt  a  man,  and  he  thought 
he  could  trust  himself  not  to  go 
too  far.  He  also  made  himself 
•extremely  useful  to  Miss  Clare 
herself,  and,  in  spite  of  his  dis- 
like for  Mr  Brown  and  his  fellows, 
strove,  not  unsuccessfully,  to  make 
himself  popular  among  them  also  ; 
at  all  events,  to  make  them  look  up 
to  him,  which,  with  his  views,  was 
more  to  the  purpose  than  making 
himself  popular.  Meanwhile,  it 
was  characteristic  of  him  that, 
while  dreaming  of  shadows,  he 
never  for  a  moment  loosened  his 
hold  upon  the  substance,  for  he 
never  passed  a  day  without  read- 
ing law  for  a  certain  number  of 
hours. 

At  last,  however,  the  day  came 
when  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
return,  and  of  course  he  called  at 
Earl's  Dene  to  say  good-bye.  His 
last  words  to  Miss  Clare  consisted 
<of  a  renewal  of  his  promise  to  do 
what  he  could  to  prevent  her 
nephew's  marriage.  To  Miss  Ray- 
mond he  bade  a  simple  "good-bye" 
— spoken,  however,  in  a  tone  that 
meant  much,  and  that  made  her 
think.  Nor  were  her  thoughts  un- 
kindly. She  was  not  likely  to  fall 


in  love  consciously  without  being 
asked  to  do  so  ;  but  she  had  got  as 
far  as  thinking  it  by  no  means  un- 
likely that  she  might  be  asked. 
Besides  this,  she  could  not  help 
seeing,  with  a  woman's  instinct  in 
such  matters,  that  Warden  was 
strong  enough  to  be  her  master ; 
and  when  a  woman  sees  that,  she 
is  half  won  already.  It  need  not 
be  said  that  her  first  unreasonable 
and  unconscious  prejudice  against 
him  had  taken  flight  ages  ago. 

As  soon  as  he  found  himself  once 
more  in  London,  it  was,  no  doubt, 
his  duty  to  pay  his  wife  a  visit ; 
but  he,  thinking  no  doubt  that  that 
would  keep,  and  that  other  things 
would  not,  first  called  at  the  cham- 
bers of  the  pleader  with  whom  he 
was  reading,  and  then  went  to 
Hugh's  lodgings  in  Bruton  Street. 

"  Warden !  what  an  age  you've 
been  gone  !  and  what  news,  old 
fellow  ?  Will  you  have  some  break- 
fast ?  When  did  you  come  back  ? 
Did  you  see  my  aunt  1  Did  you 
say  anything  to  her  ?  Did " 

"  I  saw  Miss  Clare,"  answered 
Warden,  gravely,  in  a  tone  which 
made  Hugh's  countenance  fall. 

"Well?" 

"  She  says — well,  the  long  and 
short  of  it  is,  that  if  I  were  you  I 
would  just  give  the  whole  thing 
up." 

"  Then  there  goes  Earl's  Dene— 
that's  all." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to 
say " 

"  I  do,  though.  I'm  sorry,  of 
course,  for  her  sake,  you  know ;  but 
she  must  make  up  her  mind  to 
marry  a  poor  man  instead  of  a  rich 
one  :  and  so  that's  over." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  just 
think "  ' 

"Angelique  has  more  claim  on  me 
now  than  my  aunt,  after  all.  And 
my  aunt  herself  wouldn't  want  me 
to  be  such  a  cur  as  to  sell  my  love 
and  my  faith  for  all  the  land  in  the 
world." 

"  Your  wife  ought  to  be  a  proud 
woman,  Lester." 

"  Rubbish  !    And  so  there's  an 


JEarl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June* 


end  of  it.  1/11  write  to  my  aunt  at 
once." 

Warden  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "  I  have  been  but  a 
bad  ambassador,  I  fear,"  he  said ; 
«  but " 

"And  I  have  not  thanked  you 
for  troubling  you  about  my  affairs. 
I  only  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to 
thanking  you  as  I  should  like  to." 

"  Not  a  word  about  thanks,  pray ! 
But,  I  was  going  to  say,  I  should 
advise  you  not  to  write  just  now." 

"  But  surely " 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say. 
But  had  you  not  better  wait  until 
you  have  seen  Miss  Lefort  herself?" 

"  You  speak  as  though  you 
doubted  her." 

"  Not  the  least.     But " 

"  But  what,  then  1 " 

"  Why,  the  result  would  be  this  : 
Miss  Clare  would  probably  not  an- 
swer you.  But  she  would  leave  no 
stone  unturned  to  prevent  this 
marriage.  She  would  take  care  to 
let  Miss  Lefort  know  that  by  mar- 
rying you  she  was  ruining  you 
for  life.  And  if  Miss  Lefort  is  as 
generous  as  I  have  no  doubt  she  is, 
she  would  refuse  to  marry  you, — 
not  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  yours. 
No ;  see  her  first — this  very  day, 
if  you  like — and  get  her  promise  ; 
and  then  write  to  Miss  Clare  as 
soon  as  you  please." 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right.  Then 
I  will  go  to  Angelique  at  once." 

Warden  considered.  It  was  more 
than  probable  that  Angelique,  when 
she  learned  from  her  lover  how 
matters  stood,  would  throw  him 
over,  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  her 
own.  It  was  not  from  any  special 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  An- 
gelique that  the  thought  arose,  but 
rather  from  a  knowledge  of  what 
he  himself  would  have  done  had 
he  been  in  the  same  situation.  In- 
deed, would  not  any  man  or  wo- 
man of  sense  have  done  so  ?  So  he 
had  to  a  slight  extent  to  draw  upon 
his  imagination. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  doubt 
if  you  can  see  her  to-day." 

"Why  not]" 


"  I  have  been  at  the  house,  and 
she  will  not  be  in  till  evening." 

"  And  in  the  evening  she  will  b& 
at  the  theatre.  It  is  damned  un- 
lucky." 

"  At  the  theatre  ? " 

"  Yes  ;— don't  you  know  ?  She- 
is  going  to  come  out  for  the  first 
time." 

"  The  devil  she  is  !  I  hope  Miss- 
Clare  won't  know  that,  at  all  events. 
She  will  object  ten  times  more  ifi" 
she  hears  that  your  wife  has  ap- 
peared on  the  stage." 

"  Then  it  will  be  all  the  more  for 
me  not  to  let  Angelique  suffer  for 
so  unjust  a  prejudice,"  said  Hugh,, 
loftily.  "  I  will  see  her  this  evening, 
anyhow, — at  the  theatre  itself,  for 
that  matter.  But  don't  go,  old  fel- 
low. How  the  deuce  is  one  to  get 
through  the  day  till  then  1 " 

"I  would  stay  with  pleasure, 
only  I  have  an  engagement  that 
I  must  keep.  Shall  I  look  you  up- 
to-night,  after  the  play  is  over  1 " 

"  Do ; — and  if  I'm  not  in,  wait 
for  me." 

Warden  at  once  caught  the  first 
coach  that  was  passing. 

"  To  Berners  Street !  "  he  said  ;. 
and  then  settled  himself  down  to 
think;  an  art  that  he  had  of  late 
been  cultivating  rather  too  assidu- 
ously in  some  directions,  and  ne- 
glecting too  much  in  others. 

Fortunately,  he  was  not  obliged 
to  lose  any  time,  for  Marie  was 
out  and  Angelique  at  home.  She 
was  reading  a  manuscript,  and  the 
room  looked  more  like  a  milliner's- 
workshop  than  ever.  She  rose  as 
he  entered,  and  smiled  graciously. 

"Ah,  Mr  Warden,"  she  said, 
"  you  have  come  just  in  time." 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  To-night  I  make  my  debut;  and 
I  shall  expect  you  to  come  and  hiss- 
me." 

"I  will  come,  of  course;  but- 
otherwise  I  do  not  intend  to  be 
alone  in  a  crowd.  What  is  the 
part  ?  and  where  3 " 

"  Here  is  the  bill." 

"  But  I  don't  see  your  name  ? " 

"  But  you  see  that  of  Miss  March- 


1870.] 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


689 


mont, — we  are  the  same.  I  play 
Donna  Inez." 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  seen  a  friend 
of  ours,  who  will  also  come,  and 
not  hiss  you,  I  should  say." 

"  And  who  is  that,  pray  ] — Miss 
Kaymond  ] " 

"  Scarcely,  seeing  that  she  is  in 

shire.  Shall  you  be  angry  if  I 

tell  you  a  secret  1 " 

She  looked  at  him  quickly  and 
sharply. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  you 
want  to  tell  me  one  ] " 

"  Exactly  so." 

"And  that  you  have  come  on 
purpose  to  tell  it  ] " 

"  That  is  so,  also/' 

She  looked  a  little  anxious.  "  You 
had  better  tell  it  then,  and  run  the 
risk  of  my  being  angry.  I  adore 
secrets." 

"It  is  this,  then.  I  have  just 
come  from  Denethorp." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Not  quite.  When  there,  I  did 
myself  the  honour  of  calling  at 
Earl's  Dene/'  She  watched  his 
face,  and  saw  that  he  was  smiling 
in  a  way  that  half  alarmed,  half  re- 
assured her — as,  in  fact,  he  intend- 
ed. He  went  on.  "  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  know  that  the  great 
Madam  Clare  has  some  belief  in  my 
wisdom  1 " 

"  You  are  very  mysterious." 

"Well,  it  seems  that  you  have 
made  a  conquest." 

She  tossed  her  head.  "  It  is  very 
possible,"  she  answered. 

"  So  possible  that  it  must  be 
so.  But,  I  fear,  not  of  the  great 
lady." 

"  And  why  do  you  say  all  this  to 
me]" 

"To  fulfil  a  promise.  'To  tell 
you  that  she  will  never  consent  to 
her  nephew's  marriage." 

"  Indeed  !  I  am  very  much  ob- 
liged to  her.  And,  in  return  for 
your  secret,  I  will  give  you  a  piece 
of  advice." 

"  What  is  that  ]" 

"  Not  to  meddle  with  what  does 
not  concern  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     Mr  Lester 


is  my  friend ;  and  what  concerns 
him,  concerns  me  also." 

"  Then  speak  to  him,  if  you  think 
I  am  not  fit  to  marry  him.  I 
think  it  scarcely  usual  among  gen- 
tlemen to  do  as  you  seem  to  be 
doing.  You  can  know  nothing 
about  the  matter.  Are  you  in  his 
confidence  as  well  as  in  Miss 
Clare's]" 

"  I  am  :  and  I  have  spoken  to 
him  also." 

"  And  he  sent  you  here  ] "  She 
began  to  be  terribly  afraid  that  her 
game  was  lost — that  Hugh  had 
yielded,  and  had  been  ashamed  to 
tell  her  so  in  person.  Like  Mark 
Warden,  she  was  apt  to  judge  of 
what  other  people  would  do  by 
what  she  would  have  done  in  their 
place ;  and  she,  too,  was  a  person 
of  sense. 

"  No— not  at  all." 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  ] " 

"  To  appeal  to  your  generosity 
on  behalf  of  my  friend." 

"Ah, — I  begin  to  understand. 
You  mean  that  Miss  Clare  will  dis- 
inherit him  ] " 

"  I  fear  so.  Indeed,  I  am  sure 
of  it,  if ."  He  paused. 

"If  what]"  _ 

"  If  he  remains  true  to  you ;  if 
he  marries  you  ;  and — if  she  knows 
it."  He  spoke  the  last  words  with 
a  marked  and  special  emphasis, 
which  she  could  not  fail  to  perceive. 

He  saw  that  she  understood  as 
much  of  his  thought  as  he  wished 
her  to  understand.  But  she  looked 
inquiringly,  nevertheless. 

"  You  know  how  straightforward 
he  is,"  he  replied  to  her  look. 

"That  is  true.  And  I,  too, 
should  be  the  last  to  advise  decep- 
tion. You  are  right.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  ruin  him." 

She  spoke  so  seriously  that  he 
stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  as- 
tonishment. Then  he  smiled. 

"  You  will  refuse  to  marry  him, 
then]" 

She  turned  away  her  face. 

"  If  it  must  be  so,"  she  said  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  And  about  this  evening  ] "   He 


690 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
waste  words  of  sympathy. 

"  Let  him  come  to  the  theatre." 
"  Of  course  you  will  not  tell  him 
that  I  have  told  you  this  ?  I  have 
been  acting  solely  for  his  interest : 
and  I  should  not  like  him  to  quar- 
rel with  me  for  having  acted  as  his 
friend." 

"  Of  course  not.  And  now  I  dare- 
say you  will  not  mind  leaving  me 


to  myself.  '  If  she  knows  it  /'"  she 
added  to  herself,  with  a  smile. 
"  Well,  I  think  I  am  able  to  keep 
a  secret  from  Madam  Clare." 

"  Well,  I  have  kept  my  promise," 
thought  Warden  to  himself.  "  If 
Hugh  Lester  will  make  a  fool  of 
himself,  that  is  not  my  fault." 

And  to  a  certain  extent  he  real- 
ly persuaded  himself  that  it  was 
not. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


So  far  as  the  world  at  large 
was  concerned,  this  was  the  his- 
tory of  that  evening,  according  to 
the  dramatic  critic  of  the  '  Trum- 
pet ':— 

"  Last  night  was  produced  at  this 
house,  for  the  first  time,  a  new 
musical  drama  entitled  '  Faith's 

Reward/  written  by  Mr  ,  the 

music  being  composed  by  M.  Pros- 
per. The  plot  is  briefly  this,"  <fcc. 
"  The  music  is  excellent,"  <fec. 
"Miss  Marchmont,  the  debutante, 
however,  must  be  pronounced  a 
failure.  She  is  remarkably  pretty, 
and  that  is  always  something  ;  but, 
unfortunately,  in  her  case,  that  is 
all.  It  often  happens  that  a  first 
appearance  calls  for  indulgence ; 
but  when  the  debutante,  far  from 
showing  any  symptom  of  nervous- 
ness, gives,  by  her  carelessness  of 
demeanour  and  apparent  indiffer- 
ence to  what  she  is  about,  the  im- 
pression that  she  thinks  herself  too 
good  for  her  audience,  for  her  fel- 
low-actors, and  for  her  part,  while 
her  whole  style  of  singing  and  act- 
ing proves  that  she  is  very  much 
mistaken,  she  deserves  the  reverse  of 
indulgence.  We  are  afraid,  how- 
ever, that  an  actress  so  careless  of 
applause  will  be  equally  careless  of 
censure  ;  and  if  that  is  the  case,  it 
will  be  unnecessary  for  us  to  give 
ourselves  the  trouble  of  breaking  a 
fly  upon  the  wheel.  We  should 
say  that  a  few  years'  diligent  prac- 
tice of  her  profession  in  the  pro- 
vinces would  be  extremely  bene- 
ficial to  her,  as  to  many  others  we 


could  name  whose  strength  is  not 
equal  to  their  courage." 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  the 
preoccupation  of  the  debutante  in 
question  was  very  excusable  indeed. 
She  was  not  like  Warden,  who 
could  grasp  at  shadows  without 
dropping  substances ;  nor  could  she 

throw  herself  into  Mr 's  comedy 

while  she  was  at  the  same  time 
playing  the  principal  part  in  her 
own. 

Don  Perez. — "  I  go,  then,  proud 
girl ;  but  if  I  read  woman's  soul 
aright,  thou  wilt  yet  be  the  bride 
of  Don  Perez." 

Donna  Inez.  — "  Never !  Is  it  thus 
thou  readest  woman's  soul  1  Think- 
est  thou  that  all  Golconda's  trea- 
sure would  buy  the  heart  of  Inez  1 
Rather  will  I  wander  in  poverty 
with  my  Ferdinand  than  dwell  in 
halls  of  dazzling  light  with  thee. 

"  If  weeping  lips  and  smiling  eyes 

Within  a  mossy  dell, 
Yet  through  the  roaring  of  the  skies, 
Oh  bid  me  not  farewell ! — 

"  Go — and  amid  thy  vassal  thralls 

Awake  the  wonder  wild  ; 
But  Inez  scorns  thy  dazzling  halls, 
The  free,  the  gipsy  child  !  "— 

(Exit.) 

"  Ah,  Mr  Lester,  how  you  startled 
me  !  I  scarcely  thought  you  would 
be  here.  I  am  afraid  you  will  not 
be  very  well  amused." 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  minute  or 
two  presently  1  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you." 


1870.] 


fiarVs  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


691 


"  Not  quite  so  loud,  please.  They 
will  hear  you  in  the  house." 

"  When  can  I  speak  to  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  now  if  you  like  ;  only  we 
had  better  get  out  of  the  way.  Now, 
Hugh,  what  is  it  ?  You  look  very 
grave.  It  is  nothing  serious  ?" 

"  Indeed  it  is,  Angelique.  Have 
you  to  go  on  again  soon  1 " 

"Not  for  fifteen  minutes,  at 
least." 

"I  fear  I  have  done  wrongly, 
Angelique,  in  not  having  told  you 
before,  that  in  marrying  me  you 
run  the  risk  of  marrying  a  very 
poor  man  indeed.  You  were 
right  when  you  thought  that  my 
aunt  would  object  to  my  mar- 
riage." 

"  You  come  then — to  say  good- 
bye 1  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  release 
you."  And  she  sighed  pro- 
foundly. 

"  Angelique  !     Can  you " 

"Good-bye  then."  She  held 
out  her  hand,  turned  away  her 
head,  and  sighed  more  profoundly 
still. 

"  Do  you  then  not  love  me  ?  " 

She  threw  him  for  answer  one 
of  those  glances  through  the  eye- 
lids in  which  she  excelled. 

"  Then  do  not/'  he  replied,  "  let 
me  hear  another  word  of  my  being 
released,  unless  you  fear  poverty." 

"  Hugh  ! » 

"Do  you  think  I  come  to  ask 
you  to  release  me,  Angelique  ?  Did 
you  think  me  so  base — so  cow- 
ardly 1  Did  you  think  that  I  would 
sell  you  for  Earl's  Dene  1 " 

"  Ah,  if  it  could  be  !  But  no— I 
cannot  consent  to  be  the  cause  of 
your  ruin." 

"Angelique — I  shall  begin  to 
think  that  you  never  really  loved 
me." 

"  How  can  you  speak  so  cruelly  1 

You  know  that  I  have — that  I " 

"  do,"  she  added,  in  a  look. 

"Angelique,  if  you  do  not  love 
me,  it  is  I  that  release  you.  Tell 

me  so,  and But  if  you  do 

love  me,  there  is  only  one  way  in 
which  you  can  prove  your  love.  I 
will  accept  no  other." 


"If  I  thought  I  could  really 
make  you  happy  —  could  really 
compensate  you  for  what  you 
lose " 

"  Could  I  be  happy  without  you  1 " 

"  I  do  not  deserve  so  great  a  sa- 
crifice." 

"  It  is  no  sacrifice.  Do  you  think 
I  care  a  straw  for  what  I  lose  when 
I  think  of  what  I  shall  gain  1  I 
swear  by  God  that  I  will  not  have 
Earl's  Dene  without  you.  In  any 
case  I  will  refuse  it." 

"  And  is  all  the  sacrifice — I  must 
call  it  so — to  be  on  your  side  ?" 

"Do  you  not  sacrifice  yourself 
sufficiently  by  giving  yourself  to 
me?" 

"  Ah,  Hugh  !  you  are  too  noble. 
No,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
struggle  against  you — against  my- 
self— any  longer.  I  will  then  be 
everything  to  you  ;  my  life  shall  be 
spent  in  trying  to  give  you  no 
cause  for  regret." 

"  Dearest ! "  Had  she  not  checked 
him,  he,  forgetting  as  he  did  where 
they  were,  would  have  taken  her  in 
his  arms  at  once. 

"But — I  must  impose  a  condi- 
tion." 

"  What  condition  V 

*•  After  all,  I  feel  that  I  am  act- 
ing selfishly.  Whatever  you  may 
say,  I  cannot  but  know  that  I  am 
indulging  my  own  heart  to  your 
loss.  For  my  own  sake  let  me,  too, 
make  a  sacrifice.  I  will  be  your 
wife — Heaven  knows  how  gladly  ! 
But  I  will  not,  I  ought  not,  unless 
you  promise  me  this." 

"What  is  iU" 

"  A  reconciliation  with  one  who 
loves  you  as  Miss  Clare  must  love 
you  is  always  possible.  I  will  not 
let  you  throw  away  the  chance  of 
it.  I  declare  to  you  that  my  whole 
life  would  be  spent  in  misery  if  I 
thought  I  had  not  done  all  for  you 
that  you  will  let  me  do.  I  would 
have  refused  you  now  if  I  could 
have  done  so ;  but  I  could  not. 
But  I  will  make  another  effort  to 
refuse  you  unless  you  promise  that 
Miss  Clare  shall  not  know  of  our 
engagement  until  we  are  married." 


692 


Earl's  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


Hugh,  looked  grave,  and  almost 
frowned. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  wish  this,  An- 
gelique.  My  aunt  has  a  right  to 
know.  Besides,  to  conceal  it  would 
look  as  though  I  wished  to  keep 
Earl's  Dene  by  deceit — by  a  sort  of 
fraud." 

"  Of  course  she  must  not  think 
that.  But  I  am  so  afraid — until 
we  cannot  be  parted  what  might 
not  happen  to  part  us  ?  If  Miss 
Clare  is  so  resolved,  what  might 
she  not  do  or  say " 

"  My  aunt  would  never  do  any- 
thing underhand." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  so  many 
things  might  happen.  You  pro- 
mise then  1  Then  now  I  am  quite 
happy." 

"  But,  dearest- "  ^ 

"  Ah,  there  is  Monsieur  Prosper 
coming  to  speak  to  me.  But  don't 
go.  Monsieur  Prosper,  this  is  Mr 
Lester,  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  charmed.  But 
I  would  speak  with  you,  Made- 
moiselle. It  is  great  pity  so  charm- 
ing a  young  lady  should  never  have 
been  in  love." 

Lester  stared  at  so  extraordin- 
ary a  mode  of  address.  Angelique 
looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  never 
have  been  ?"  she  asked  Monsieur 
Prosper.  "  Is  it  because  I  have 
never  been  in  love  with  you  1 " 

"Because  you  sing  just  as  if  you 
had  no  heart,  Mademoiselle.  That 
is  why.  Excuse  me,  Monsieur:" 
and  he  passed  on  to  resume  his  post 
at  the  conductor's  desk.  Lester 
smiled  in  his  turn  :  he  felt  that  he 
knew  better. 

"You  know,  dearest,"  he  said, 
when  Monsieur  Prosper  had  left 
them,  "  that  I  can  refuse  you  no- 
thing. But  if  I  yield  to  you  in  this, 
there  must  be  no  delay  in  our  mar- 
riage." 

She  looked  at  him  affectionately, 
and  suffered  him  to  hold  her  hand 
for  a  moment ;  but  not  for  so  long 
a  moment  that  the  caress  could  be 
observed  by  any  curious  eyes. 

"We  will  not  talk  of  that  to- 


night, Hugh.  I  must  consult  with 
Marie,  you  know.  Oh  dear — I 
wish  I  had  not  got  to  go  on  again." 

"  And  you  will  not  repent  joining 
yourself  to  one  who  will  have  no 
wealth  but  your  love  ?" 

"How  often  am  I  to  say  no? 
You  are  not  like  Monsieur  Prosper, 
are  you,  and  think  that  I  have  no 
heart?" 

"  I  think  so,  indeed  ! " 

And  he  would  no  doubt  have 
said  something  very  much  to  the 
purpose  when  "  Miss  Marchmont ! " 
was  called,  and  she  had  to  leave  the 
drama  in  which  she  was  acting  so 
well  for  that  in  which,  according  to 
the  'Trumpet/  she  was  acting  so 
indifferently. 

Her  lover  was  of  course  in  ecs- 
tasies. He  had  never  doubted  her 
for  a  moment;  but  his  triumph  was 
none  the  less  to  hear  from  herself 
that  she  was  willing  to  share  his 
fortune  whatever  it  might  be.  How 
he  was  to  support  her  he  did  not 
know;  but  his  exultation  was  too 
great  to  be  disturbed  by  a  thought 
which  the  life  that  he  had  hitherto 
led  entirely  prevented  his  being 
able  to  bring  home  to  himself.  A 
man  who  has  never  known  what  it 
is  to  want  for  anything,  has  great 
faith  in  the  bounty  of  Fortune.  To 
couple  his  own  name  with  that  of 
want,  is  as  practically  impossible 
as  to  seriously  and  really  couple  it 
with  that  of  death.  However  it 
may  be  in  metaphysics,  no  one  can, 
in  the  actual  world  of  fact,  imagine 
what  he  has  never  known.  Now 
Hugh  had  never  in  his  life  known 
what  it  was  to  want  a  hundred 
pounds  without  being  able  to  get 
it;  so  that,  a  fortiori,  to  realise  the 
probable  want  of  a  dinner  for  two, 
was  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
Rich  in  love  and  strength,  utterly 
ignorant  of  what  poverty  means, 
he  even  looked  forward  to  all  the 
pleasures  of  necessary  toil,  and  for- 
got to  consider  the  wearing  pains 
and  bitter  disappointments  that  ac- 
company it  with  no  less  certainty. 
And  surely,  so  it  seemed  to  him, 
the  strength  and  energy  that  had 


1870.] 


Earl1  s  Dene.— Part  VIII. 


693 


sufficed  to  make  him  the  best  man 

of  his  inches  in  all shire,  and 

in  Cambridge  to  boot,  would  suffice 
to  clear  a  path  through  the  world 
that  should  be  just  broad  enough 
for  himself  and  for  one  other. 
There  was  time  enough  yet  to  de- 
termine the  precise  manner  in 
which  he  should  exert  it,  and,  at 
least  for  the  present  evening,  suf- 
ficient unto  the  day  was  the  evil 
thereof.  Of  course,  Angelique  had 
no  need  to  indulge  in  gloomy  anti- 
cipations. She  would  indeed  be 
but  a  bungler  if  Miss  Clare  did  not 
die  in  ignorance  not  only  of  the 
engagement,  but  of  the  marriage 
also.  She  knew  her  own  power 
over  her  lover;  and  as  he  was 
honest  and  unsuspicious,  she  was 
not  afraid  of  losing  it.  Besides,  is 
it  not  the  duty  of  a  good  wife  to 
guard  her  husband's  interests  when 
he  is  inclined  to  destroy  them1? 
This  part  of  her  duty,  at  all  events, 
she  was  resolved  to  fulfil  to  the 
letter. 

The  result  of  her  resolution  was, 
that  not  very  long  after  the  debut 
of  Miss  Marchmont  the  following 
paragraph  appeared  in  the  '  Trum- 
pet :'— 

"Mr  H.  Lester,  M.P.  for  Dene- 
thorp,  has  accepted  the  steward- 
ship of  the  Chiltern  Hundreds.  Mr 
M.  Warden  of  Denethorp  has  issued 
an  address,  in  which  he  professes 
himself  a  supporter  of  the  Govern- 
ment, and  will,  in  case  of  a  contest, 
be  influentially  supported.  It  is 
not  improbable  that  Mr  Prescot, 
who  unsuccessfully  contested  the 
borough  at  the  last  general  election, 
will  appear  once  more  in  the  field." 

Poor  Angelique  !  She  seemed 
to  have  turned  out  but  a  female 


Alnaschar  after  all.  The  future 
Mrs  Lester  of  Earl's  Dene,  Lady 
Lester  of  Earl's  Dene,  Countess 
of  Denethorp,  and  heaven  knows 
what  besides,  woke  up  to  find  her- 
self Mrs  Lester  of  nowhere,  the 
wife  of  a  disinherited  man  who 
had  not  even  a  profession  to  fall 
back  upon.  Added  to  this,  she 
had  the  mortification  of  seeing  that 
she  had  been  duped  most  cruelly. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Warden's  ad- 
vice, for  Warden's  suggestions,  she 
would  still  have  been  safe;  and 
who  but  he  could  have  betrayed 
her  secret  to  Miss  Clare?  The 
question,  "Cui  bono?"  was  only 
too  applicable  in  its  proper  sense. 
It  was  certainly  not  herself,  and  it 
was  as  certainly  not  her  husband, 
for  the  letter  which  he  had  writ- 
ten to  his  aunt  upon  his  marriage 
she  had  taken  care  should  not  leave 
London  ;  so  that,  as  it  turned  out, 
she  had  herself  made  matters  worse 
by  causing  Miss  Clare  to  think  that 
her  nephew  had  endeavoured  to  de- 
ceive her. 

Hugh  was  infinitely  distressed, 
not  by  the  loss  of  Earl's  Dene,  but 
by  this  final  proof  that  she  who 
had  been  a  mother  to  him  all  his 
life  had  withdrawn  herself  from 
him  for  ever ;  for  if  she  had  loved 
him  as  a  mother,  he  felt  towards 
her  as  a  son,  and  his  distress  was 
embittered  by  her  complete  silence. 
It  needed  all  his  happiness  in  the 
possession  of  Angelique,  and  all  his 
consciousness  of  having  done  what 
was  right  and  honourable,  to  recon- 
cile him  to  this  great  loss.  As 
to  Warden,  now  that  the  field 
was  clear,  he  was  more  than  ever 
haunted  by  the  thought,  "If  it 
were  not  for  Marie  !  " 


694 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


MERCER  S  JOURNAL  OF  WATERLOO. 


GENERAL  CAVALIE  MERCER,  who 
died  a  short  time  ago  at  the  age  of 
eighty-five,  was,  in  1815,  a  smart 
young  captain  of  horse -artillery. 
Having  been  employed  in  South 
America  in  the  time  of  the  Penin- 
sular War,  he  saw  no  European 
service  till  the  year  of  Waterloo. 
Early  in  March,  the  news,  which 
presently  agitated  all  the  world, 
that  Napoleon  had  escaped  from 
Elba,  reached  Colchester,  where 
Mercer  was  stationed,  and  an  order 
for  him  to  prepare  for  immediate 
foreign  service  followed.  In  April 
his  troop  embarked  at  Harwich  for 
Ostend,  to  join  Wellington's  army 
in  Belgium.  The  English  field- 
artillery  was  then,  as  it  is  now, 
more  splendid  and  complete  in 
men,  horses,  and  material  than  any 
other  in  Europe;  and  "G  Troop" 
was  held,  by  more  than  its  Captain, 
to  be  the  very  cream  of  the  cream. 
His  pride  in  its  appearance  was 
very  suddenly  damped  by  one  of 
those  exigencies  of  war  which  fool- 
ish officials,  dressed  in  a  little  brief 
authority,  may  easily  exaggerate 
into  misfortunes  when  they  bring 
the  misdirected  force  of  their  nar- 
row faculties  fully  to  bear  on  them. 
No  special  provision  had  been  made 
for  conveying  the  troops  from  the 
ships  to  the  shore.  The  English 
naval  officer  of  the  port  who  boarded 
the  transports  solved  the  difficulty, 
however,  in  a  very  simple  manner. 
The  Duke's  orders  were,  he  said, 
positive  that  no  delay  was  to  take 
place  in  landing  the  troops  and 
sending  the  ships  back.  He  there- 
fore directed  his  sailors  to  throw 
horses,  saddlery,  and  harness  into 
the  sea.  The  ammunition  would 
certainly  have  followed  but  for 
Mercer's  earnest  remonstrance. 
Luckily  the  subsiding  tide  allowed 


the  gunners,  stripped  for  the  pur- 
pose, to  go  overboard  and  bring  the 
floating  matter  to  land.  The  scene 
resembled  a  shipwreck  much  more 
than  a  disembarkation,  and  the 
men  of  G  Troop  would  have  been 
proper  objects  for  the  charity  of  a 
Sailor's  Home.  But  the  paternal 
care  which  had  placed  them  on 
shore  now  suddenly  deserted  them. 
Ostend  was  a  fortress,  with  an  Eng- 
lish garrison  and  commandant ;  but 
nobody  of  the  Quartermaster-Gene- 
ral's or  any  other  department  came 
with  orders  or  consolation  of  any 
kind.  The  troop  remained  drawn 
up  on  the  beach  amidst  heaps  of 
wet  harness,  in  a  tremendous  thun- 
derstorm, till  night  came  on ;  and 
the  rising  tide  threatening  to  wash 
them  all  into  the  sea,  they  borrowed 
lanterns  from  the  ships,  and  amid 
such  a  scene  as  occurs  sometimes 
on  a  lee-shore,  on  which  wrecks  are 
going  to  pieces,  the  officers  and  men 
succeeded  in  saving  themselves  and 
their  charge.  By  the  advice  of  a 
chance  acquaintance  whom  he  met 
on  the  quay,  Captain  Mercer  now 
started  with  his  half-drowned  troop, 
without  a  guide,  to  seek  the  shelter 
of  some  sheds,  situated  beyond  a 
town  which  he  had  never  before 
heard  of;  and  he  succeeded  in 
reaching  them  about  three  in  the 
morning,  without  other  mishap  than 
the  loss  of  some  horses  (afterwards 
recovered),  which  had,  not  injudi- 
ciously, made  off  into  the  country. 
It  is  evident  that  nothing  which 
occurred  in  the  Crimea  or  the  Bos- 
phorus  could  excel  this  proceeding 
in  its  contempt.of  foresight,  arrange- 
ment, and  common-sense;  and  the 
sagacious  reader  may  perhaps  infer, 
seeing  how  it  took  place  after  long 
years  of  war,  and  in  a  district  con- 
trolled by  a  great  commander,  that 


Journal  of  the  "Waterloo  Campaign.  Kept  throughout  the  Campaign  of 
1815.  By  the  late  General  CavaliS  Mercer,  commanding  the  9th  Brigade  Royal 
Artillery.  2  vols.  "Wm.  Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh  and  London.  1870. 


1870.] 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


695 


when  such  blunders  are  not  heard 
of,  it  is  not  so  much  because  they 
are  not  committed,  as  because  they 
are  not  found  out.  If  a  special  cor- 
respondent had  been  present  in  Bel- 
gium at  that  time,  the  world  would 
have  read  a  glowing  account  of  the 
mismanagement,  though,  to  be  sure, 
the  Duke  might  possibly  have  hang- 
ed him.  The  fact  is,  that  the  only 
way  to  guard  against  such  mishaps 
is  to  fill  all  responsible  posts  with 
fit  men,  and  then  to  allow  them 
reasonable  discretionary  power. 
Rigid  orders,  in  such  cases,  are  suit- 
able only  for  fools,  and  fools  are 
very  apt  to  misapply  them. 

After  this  rude  baptism  by  water, 
G  Troop,  however,  led  for  some  time 
a  very  pleasant  life  of  it  amid  the 
fertile  fields  and  kindly  people  of 
Belgium.  It  was  literally  in  clover, 
the  whole  land  blushing  with  the 
succulent  herbage,  which  soon  re- 
stored the  horses  to  bloom  and 
beauty.  In  those  days,  Mercer  says, 
it  was  an  established  theory  among 
mounted  officers  that  the  more  flesh 
horses  could  be  made  to  carry,  the 
more  they  had  to  lose,  and  conse- 
quently (such  was  the  logic)  the 
better  would  they  bear  privation. 
It  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether 
soldiers  of  the  Banting  type  are  best 
fitted  for  campaigning ;  at  any  rate, 
recruiting  has  not  hitherto  been 
conducted  on  that  basis  ;  and  what 
is  sauce  for  the  rider  may  be  sauce 
for  the  steed  in  this  particular. 
Nevertheless,  the  practice  of  bring- 
ing troop-horses  as  nearly  as  possible 
to  the  condition  of  prize  oxen  was 
general,  amongst  cavalry  and  artil- 
lery, and  received  the  sanction  of 
the  highest  authority ;  for  we  are 
told  that  had  any  officer  allowed 
his  horses  to  appear  thinner  than 
those  of  his  neighbours, "  the  quick 
eye  of  the  Duke  would  have  seen 
the  difference,  asked  no  questions, 
attended  to  no  justification,  but  con- 
demned the  unfortunate  victim  of 
scruples  as  unworthy  of  the  com- 
mand he  held,  and  perhaps  sent 
him  from  the  army."  The  conse- 
quence was,  that,  for  fear  of  the 


Duke's  censure,  plundering  of  the 
farmers'  fields,  which  he  had  strictly 
forbidden,  was  a  general  practice. 
Nothing  throughout  the  campaign 
seems  to  have  impressed  our  diarist 
more  profoundly  than  the  exacting 
character  of  the  Commander-in- 
Chief,  and  his  resolution  to  accept 
no  excuses,  reasonable  or  not,  espe- 
cially in  the  case  of  the  Artillery,, 
against  which  arm  he  entertained  a 
violent  and  irrational  prejudice,  as 
Mercer  afterwards  experienced  to  his 
cost.  The  following  little  incident, 
which  occurred  to  a  brother  officer, 
illustrates  this  weakness  : — 

"  Captain  Whinyates  having  joined  the 
army  with  the  rocket  troop,  the  Duke, 
who  looked  upon  rockets  as  nonsense, 
ordered  that  they  should  be  put  into 
store,  and  the  troop  supplied  with  guns 
instead.  Colonel  Sir  G.  Wood,  instigated 
by  "Whinyates,  called  on  the  Duke  to  ask 
permission  to  leave  him  his  rockets  as  well 
as  guns.  A  refusal.  Sir  George,  how- 
ever, seeing  the  Duke  was  in  a  particular 
good  humour,  ventured  to  say,  '  It  will 
break  poor  Whinyates's  heart  to  lose  his 
rockets.'  '  D — n  his  heart,  sir  ;  let  my 
order  be  obeyed,'  was  the  answer  thun- 
dered in  his  ear  by  the  Duke,  as  he 
turned  on  the  worthy  Sir  George." 

Whinyates's  heart,  however,  sur- 
vived both  the  threatened  loss  of 
his  rockets  and  the  other  more 
serious  visitation  invoked  by  his 
illustrious  commander ;  for  a  dozen 
years  ago  he  was  a  general  officer 
and  commandant  of  the  garrison  of 
Woolwich. 

From  Ghent,  Mercer's  troop  was 
moved  to  a  village  near  Dender- 
monde,  where  the  men  and  horses 
were  quartered  in  small  detach- 
ments on  the  farmers,  who  received 
them  not  only  with  toleration,  but 
hearty  welcome;  and  the  Captain 
was  billeted  on  a  Juge  of  the  dis- 
trict, whose  business  taking  him 
constantly  to  the  neighbouring 
town,  left  the  guest  to  the  care  of 
the  lady  of  the  house,  who  appears 
to  have  performed  her  duties  ad- 
mirably, and  with  such  thorough 
goodwill,  that  when  a  sudden  order 
came,  early  in  the  morning,  for  the 
troop  to  march,  she  testified  great 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


emotion,  even  to  the  shedding  of 
tears.  Although  habited  just  as 
she  had  jumped  out  of  bed,  the 
costume  could  scarcely  have  been 
unbecoming ;  for,  according  to 
her  guest,  she  was  "  a  fine  and 
handsome  woman,  perhaps  turned 
of  thirty,  and  possessing  a  degree 
of  embonpoint  which,  whilst  it  added 
dignity  to  her  air,  detracted  no- 
thing from  the  grace  of  her  per- 
son ; "  and  the  parting  embrace 
(consecrated  by  the  presence  of  the 
Juge,  an  old  gentleman  of  about 
sixty,  with  one  eye,  who  appeared, 
half  dressed,  on  the  scene),  must 
have  inspired  in  the  recipient  some 
of  the  regret  at  his  departure  which 
was  so  agreeably  expressed  by  the 
lady.  In  other  respects,  also,  his 
quarters  had  been  admirable.  He 
was  lodged  in  two  pleasant  airy 
rooms,  commanding  a  delightful 
view  from  their  numerous  win- 
dows. 

"Three  of  these  in  the  front  command- 
ed a  pleasant  view  over  the  well-wooded 
and  beautifully-cultivated  countiy  be- 
yond the  great  Brussels  road,  which  ran 
beneath  them — the  fields  more  resem- 
bling extensive  gardens  than  anything 
else.  As  this  part  of  the  house  project- 
ed beyond  the  porte  cochere,  a  window  in 
the  side  afforded  a  peep  up  the  road, 
terminated  by  the  town  of  Dender- 
monde,  which  hence  appeared  embosom- 
ed in  trees.  Two  fine  acacias  in  front 
of  the  gateway  overshadowed  this  with 
their  delicate  pensile  foliage,  and  screen- 
ed it  from  tlie  hot  rays  of  the  afternoon 
sun.  The  remaining  two  windows  in 
the  back  looked  into  a  delicious  and  care- 
fully-kept garden,  divided  as  usual  "by 
those  verdant  hornbeam  walls  into  dif- 
ferent departments." 

His  host  he  suspected  of  be- 
ing a  Napoleonist,  and  the  same 
sentiments  were  attributed  by  the 
Juge  to  the  farmers  and  peasantry 
of  the  district ;  yet  their  reception 
of  the  Emperor's  enemies  had  been 
more  than  cordial.  The  fact  is, 
that,  like  rustic  populations  in 
general,  they  troubled  themselves 
very  little  about  politics,  caring 
neither  for  Capulet  nor  Montagu, 
so  that  they  were  left  to  till  their 


fields  and  gather  the    produce  in 
peace. 

The  point  to  which  G  Troop  was 
now  moved,  was  an  old  chateau 
near  the  banks  of  the  Dender,  along 
the  course  of  which  the  cavalry  and 
horse-artillery  of  the  British  army 
were  cantoned,  for  the  sake  of  the 
provisions  and  forage  so  plenteously 
afforded  by  the  rich  Pays  de  Waes, 
and  which  were  rendered  easily 
available  by  the  navigable  river. 
These  advantages,  however,  were 
not  unattended  by  a  serious  draw- 
back. The  cavalry  was  thus  col- 
lected on  the  extreme  right  of  the 
cordon  of  troops  which  guarded  the 
approaches  to  Brussels,  and  at  a 
most  inconvenient  distance  from 
many  possible  points  of  action  ;  a 
blot  which  was  hit  by  the  enemy 
on  the  16th  June,  when  the  field  of 
Quatre  Bras  was  held  by  Welling- 
ton against  odds,  while  no  English 
sabre  struck  a  blow  on  it.  This 
chateau,  belonging  to  the  Van  Vol- 
den  family,  had  been  uninhabited, 
except  by  an  old  gardener  and  his 
daughter,  for  many  years  ;  and  its 
aspect  at  first  sight  was  not  invit- 
ing, strongly  contrasted  as  it  was 
with  the  many  comforts  afforded 
by  the  mansion  of  Madame  la  Juge. 
Ancient  tapestry  and  old  portraits 
hung  on  the  walls,  and  the  vast 
spaces  of  the  floors  were  almost  un- 
broken by  furniture.  In  such  a 
chamber  was  the  Captain  now  in- 
stalled, his  occupancy  presently  im- 
parting to  it  a  not  inconsiderable 
air  of  comfort.  The  view  on  the 
one  side  extended  over  the  garden 
and  woods ;  on  the  other,  over  a 
lawn,  surrounded  by  double  rows 
of  jioble  beeches,  orchards,  and  hop- 
gardens. Under  the  windows  was 
a  moat,  containing  fish  (which  was 
good)  and  frogs  (which  was  bad);  for 
the  croaking  of  that  teeming  popu- 
lation was  so  annoying  as  to  cause 
the  new  lodgers  seriously  to  under- 
take, in  spite  of  the  opposition  of 
the  gardener,  the  task  of  draining 
off  the  water ; — an  enterprise  which . 
though  occasioning  great  loss  to 
the  enemy,  resulted  in  the  develop- 


1870.] 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


697 


ment  of  a  stench  so  terrible,  ex- 
haled by  the  mud  at  the  bottom,  as 
to  leave  the  victors  little  cause  to  re- 
joice.  The  requisition  for  supplies, 
issued  by  the  Captain  on  the  neigh- 
bouring population,  produced  those 
remonstrances  which  old  campaign- 
ors  are  familiar  with,  especially  in 
districts  where  the  people  are  ac- 
customed to  the  exigencies  of  armies. 
A  deputation  of  the  principal  in- 
habitants came  to  assure  him  that, 
though  the  arrival  of  the  brave 
English  had  diffused  throughout 
the  commune  the  most  lively  joy, 
yet  the  place  was  quite  incapable 
of  supporting  them,  whereas  the 
surrounding  villages  abounded  in 
food.  The  Captain,  however,  was 
sufficiently  an  old  soldier  to  disre- 
gard this  representation.;  and  the 
intimation  that,  if  the  supplies 
were  not  presently  forthcoming,  he 
should  help  himself,  was  attended 
with  the  happiest  results.  About 
his  own  breakfasts  the  diarist  ex- 
presses himself  in  rapturous  terms : 
the  land  flowed  with  milk,  and 
possibly  with  honey — eggs  and  but- 
ter were  beyond  praise ;  and  smok- 
ing the  cigar  of  peace  after  these 
comforting  meals,  under  the  trees 
of  the  great  avenue,  he  might  al- 
most have  forgotten  that  he  was 
anywhere  except  in  specially  good 
country  quarters,  and  have  even,  in 
time,  got  to  imagine  himself  the 
lawful  lord  of  the  chateau  where 
he  exercised  so  undisputed  a  sway. 
All  round  him  were  captains  of 
other  troops,  whose  lines  had  doubt- 
less fallen  in  equally  pleasant 
places.  Hew  Ross,  who  died  a 
field  -  marshal  last  year;  Gardiner, 
afterwards  Governor  of  Gibraltar ; 
and  Norman  Ramsay  (whose  Chris- 
tian name  Mercer  appears  to  have 
been  ignorant  of),  the  hero  of  Na- 
pier's glowing  episode  at  Fuentes 
d'Onor,  and  treated  by  the  Duke 
with  shameful  injustice  in  the  Pen- 
insula,— were  not  far  off ;  with  other 
good  soldiers  whose  names  have 
been  less  carefully  preserved  by 
time  and  fate.  At  this  time  Mer- 
cer had  occasion  to  observe  an  in- 


cident which  confirms  Talleyrand's 
mot  about  the  Bourbons,  who  had, 
he  said,  in  their  exile,  "  learnt  no- 
thing and  forgotten  nothing."  The 
Captain  had  found  a  piece  of  ground 
suitable  for  drill  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Dender  : — 

"  Thither,  then,  we  repaired  occa- 
sionally to  practise  ourselves,  and  pre- 
vent our  people  forgetting  entirely 
their  drills.  Thither  "also  came  occa- 
sionally his  Highness  of  Berri  with  his 
newly-formed  corps  of  cavalry  to  learn 
theirs.  We  frequently  met,  and  as  the 
ground  was  too  confined  to  admit  of 
both  corps  working  at  the  same  time, 
the  last  comers  were  obliged  to  dis- 
mount and  wait  until  the  others  had 
done,  for  we  continued  our  operations 
when  first  on  the  ground,  regardless  of 
the  impatience  of  the  royal  drill- 
master,  who,  though  he  never  said 
anything  to  us,  did  not  fail  to  betray, 
by  a  thousand  little  pettish  actions,  the 
annoyance  he  felt  at  our  want  of  due 
respect.  One  day  that  they  had  got  in 
possession  and  we  were  obliged  to  wait, 
I  had  a  good  opportunity  of  seeing  this 
curious  corps  and  its  savage  leader. 
The  former  presented  a  most  grotesque 
appearance — cuirassiers,  hussars,  gre- 
nadiers a  cheval,  and  chasseurs,  dra- 
goons and  lancers,  officers  and  privates, 
with  a  few  of  the  new  garde  de  corps, 
were  indiscriminately  mingled  in  the 
ranks.  One  file  were  colonels,  the  next 
privates,  and  so  on,  and  all  wearing 
their  proper  uniforms  and  mounted  on 
their  proper  horses,  so  that  these  were 
of  all  sizes  and  colours.  There  might 
have  been  about  two  hundred  men, 
divided  into  two  or  three  squadrons, 
the  commanders  of  which  were  generals. 
The  Prince,  as  I  have  said,  was  drill- 
master.  A  more  intemperate,  brutal, 
and  (in  his  situation)  impolitic  one,  can 
scarcely  be  conceived.  The  slightest 
fault  (frequently  occasioned  by  his 
own  blunders)  was  visited  by  showers 
of  low-life  abuse — using  on  all  occasions 
the  most  odious  language.  One  un- 
fortunate squadron  officer  (a  general !) 
offended  him,  and  was  immediately 
charged  with  such  violence  that  I  ex- 
pected a  catastrophe.  Reining  up  his 
horse,  however,  close  to  the  unhappy 
man,  his  vociferation  and  villanous 
abuse  were  those  of  a  perfect  madman  ; 
shaking  his  sabre  at  him,  and  even  at 
one  time  thrusting  the  pommel  of  it 
into  his  face,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
pushing  it  against  his  nose  !  Such  a 
scene  !  Yet  all  the  others  sat  mute  as 


698 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


mice,  and  witnessed  all  this  humiliation 
of  their  comrade,  and  the  degradation 
of  him  ^f  or  whom  they  had  forsaken 
Napoleon." 

A  very    singular    character    re- 
sided in    the    neighbourhood — an 
old  nobleman  of  the  race  of  the 
Visconti  of  Milan,  who,  by  right 
of  his  mother,  inherited  the  Belgian 
chateau  and   estate  of  Gaesbeke. 
He    had    served    as    an  Austrian 
hussar  against  the  great  Frederick  ; 
and   after  travelling,   when  peace 
came,  over  most   of  Europe,  had 
taken  such  a  fancy  to  the  manners 
of  the  Turks,  that,  on  returning  to 
reside  on  his  Netherlands  property, 
he  preserved  the  Oriental  costume, 
and,  says  Mercer,  "  in  every  other 
way  conformed  to  their  customs." 
When  some  troops  had  been  bil- 
leted on  the  Marquis  d'Acornati 
(that  was  his  name)  without  con- 
sulting him,  he  had  placed  himself 
in  a  state  of  siege,  and  armed  his 
domestics  to  resist;   but   on  the 
commander    of    the    detachment, 
who  had  learnt  something  of  his 
peculiarities,    addressing    him    in 
such  terms  as  Don  Quixote  might 
have  used  in  parleying,,  with   an 
imaginary  constable  of  a  castle,  he 
received  and  entertained  the  visi- 
tors with    the    greatest    courtesy. 
This  old  gentleman  was  enormously 
rich,   possessing  great    estates    in 
other    countries,    and    many   fine 
houses  in  Brussels ;  but  he  lived 
in   the  most   desolate  and:  cheer- 
less fashion  in  his  decaying  cha- 
teau,   sleeping   in    a    hole    which 
<{one  might  have  imagined  to  be 
the  abode  of  some  poor  devil  whom 
charity  had  admitted  to  occupy  a 
nook  in  the  deserted  mansion,"  and 
subsisting  on  vegetables  and  water. 
There  was  nothing  miserly,  how- 
ever, in  these  frugalities,  for  his 
charities  and  gifts  to  his  relations 
were  magnificent,  and  he  gave  a 
splendid  fete  in   Brussels  to  the 
principal    officers   of    the    British 
army.     With  the   country  people 
he  passed  for  a  magician. 

At  the  end  of  May  there  was  a 
grand  cavalry  review  in  the  mea- 


dows on  the  banks  of  the  Dender. 
Six  thousand  British  horse  were 
there  drawn  up,  with  eight  bat- 
teries of  field-artillery,  to  await  the 
arrival  of  the  Allied  Field-Marshals, 
Wellington  and  Blucher.  But  first 
the  Due  de  Berri  gave  them  an- 
other taste  of  his  quality  : — 

"  The  whole  line  was  in  the  midst  of 
this  business,  many  of  the  men  even 
with  jackets  off,  when  suddenly  a  forest 
of  plumes  and  a  galaxy  of  brilliant  uni- 
forms came  galloping  down  the  slope 
from  Schendelbeke  towards  the  tem- 
porary   bridge.      'The    Duke!'    'the 
Duke  ! '  '  the  Duke's  coming  ! '  ran  along 
the  lines,  and  for  a  moment  caused  con- 
siderable bustle  amongst  the  people ; 
but  almost  immediately  this  was  dis- 
covered to  be  a  mistake,  and  the  brush- 
ing and  cleaning    recommenced  with 
more  devotion  than  ever;  whilst  the 
cavalcade,  after  slowly  descending  to 
the    bridge    and    debouching    on    the 
meadows,  started  at  full  gallop  toward 
the  saluting-point  already  marked  out — 
the  Due  de  Berri,  whom  we  now  recog- 
nised, keeping  several  yards  ahead,  no 
doubt  that  he  might  clearly  be  seen. 
At  this  point  he  reined  up  and  looked 
haughtily  and  impatiently  about  him ; 
and  as  we  were  now  pretty  intimate 
with  his  manner,  it  was  easy  to  see, 
even  from  our  distant  position,  that  he 
was  in  a  passion.     The  brushing,  how- 
ever, suffered  no  interruption,  and  no 
notice  was  taken  of  his  presence.     One 
of  his  suite  was  now  called  up  and  de- 
spatched to  the  front.     What  further 
took  place  I  know  not,  but  certes  !  the 
messenger  no  sooner  returned  than  his 
Highness  was  off  like  a  comet,  his  tail 
streaming  after  him  all  the  way  up  the 
slope,  unable  to  keep  pace  with  him,  for 
he  rode  like  a  madman,  whilst  a  general 
titter  pervaded  our  lines  as  the  report 
flew  from  one  to  the  other  that  Moun- 
seer  was  off  in  a  huff  because  we  did 
not  give  him  a  general  salute.     Many 
were  the  coarse  jokes  at  his  expense  ; 
and  I  was  amused  at  one  of  my  drivers, 
who,   holding  up  the  collar  from  his 
horse's  chest  with  one   hand,   whilst 
with  the  other  he  brushed  away  un- 
der it,  exclaimed,  laughing  aloud,   'I 
wouldn't  be  one  of  them  'ere  French 
fellows  at  drill  upon  the  common  to- 
morrow for  a  penny;    if  they're  not 

properly  bullyragged,   I'm  d '     It 

turned  out  afterwards  that  he  had  sent 
his  aide-de-camp  to  claim  the  reception 
due  to  a  prince  of  the  blood-royal ;  but 
Lord  Uxbridge  excused  himself  by  say- 


1870.] 


Mercer  s  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


699 


ing  he  had  no  instructions    on    that 
•head,"  &c.  &c. 

When  the  Marshals,  in  the  course 
of  their  inspection,  arrived  at  G 
Troop,  it  was  favoured  with  their 
special  commendation  : — 

"My  vanity  on  that  occasion  was 
•most  fully  gratified,  for  on  arriving 
where  we  stood,  the  Duke  not  only 
called  old  Blucher's  attention  to  'the 
beautiful  battery,'  but,  instead  of  pro- 
ceeding straight  through  the  ranks,  as 
they  had  done  everywhere  else,  each 
subdivision — nay,  each  individual  horse 
— was  closely  scrutinised,  Blucher  re- 
peating continually  that  he  had  never 
-seen  anything  so  superb  in  his  life,  and 
•concluded  by  exclaiming,  '  Mein  Gott, 
<dere  is  not  von  orse  in  dies  batterie  wich 
is  not  yoot  for  Veldt  Marshal.''  and 
Wellington  agreed  with  him.  It  cer- 
tainly was  a  splendid  collection  of 
horses.  However,  except  asking  Sir 
George  Wood  whose  troop  it  was,  his 
Grace  never  even  bestowed  a  regard  on 
me  as  I  followed  from  subdivision  to 
subdivision." 

It  had  been  known  for  some 
time  that  the  Duke  had  made 
choice  of  two  positions,  in  one  or 
other  of  which,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances, to  meet  an  attack  on 
Brussels ;  that  of  Waterloo,  and 
that  of  Hal,  both  covering  the 
junction  of  important  roads  from 
the  French  frontier  upon  the  Bel- 
gian capital.  Mercer  tells  us  that 
Wellington,  attended  only  by  an 
orderly  dragoon,  frequently  visit- 
ed these  positions,  studying  them 
deeply,  and  no  doubt  arranging  in 
his  mind  the  line  of  battle  at 
Waterloo  as  he  afterwards  drew  it 
oip.  About  the  end  of  May,  how- 
ever, an  idea  prevailed  that  the 
army  would  advance  about  the 
20th  June  into  French  territory — 
and  Mercer,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  intelligent  young  officers, 
•drew  out  a  plan  of  campaign,  in 
which  three  battles  and  sixteen 
marches  were  to  conduct  them  to 
-Paris.  Nor  was  this  notion  of  an 
offensive  campaign  confined  to  un- 
. enlightened  speculators,  for  we  know 
that  the  Duke  himself  was  actually 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVI. 


sketching  one  for  an  Imperial  ally 
at  the  very  moment  when  Na- 
poleon's army  was  crossing  the 
Sambre  to  attack  him.  But,  at 
any  rate,  the  orders  for  preparation 
which  had  been  received  foreboded 
immediate  activity ;  and  Mercer, 
sauntering  in  his  great  avenue  in 
the  evening  of  the  15th  June,  while 
the  other  officers  had  "  gone  to  the 
ball  at  Brussels,"  meditated  on  his 
approaching  departure  from  this 
tranquil  spot.  The  "ball"  thus 
briefly  alluded  to  was  the  most 
celebrated  of  all  balls — that  given 
by  the  Duchess  of  Richmond — and 
is  doubly  secure  of  immortality  by 
its  place  in  history  and  in  *  Childe 
Harold.' 

On  the  16th  June,  Mercer  was 
roused  from  bed  by  an  order  (un- 
dated and  informal,  and  doing  very 
little  credit  to  the  administration 
of  the  Staff)  to  march  forthwith 
to  Enghien.  He  is  the  most  can- 
did of  diarists,  never  extenuating 
his  own  faults,  and  he  now  con- 
fesses one  which  caused  him  great 
anxiety  and  embarrassment,  and 
which  may  be  useful  as  a  warning. 
Mr  Coates,  a  commissary,  had  been 
attached  to  the  troop  for  the  pur- 
pose of  providing  it  with  rations 
and  forage,  and  had  collected  a 
sufficient  number  of  country  wag- 
gons and  drivers  ready  for  a  move. 
But  Mercer's  good- nature,  inces- 
santly wrought  on  by  the  farmers, 
who  wanted  their  waggons  for  their 
own  purposes,  permitted  these  ve- 
hicles to  return  to  their  respective 
farms  on  receiving  a  solemn  pro- 
mise from  '  the  authorities  of  the 
commune  that  they  should  be  forth- 
coming when  wanted.  As  was  to 
be  expected,  the  exigency  found 
him  waggonless.  His  commissary 
was  sent  off  in  all  haste  to  get  the 
indispensable  baggage  and  provi- 
sion train  together.  Mercer  marched 
without  it,  and  he  saw  no  more  of 
it  till  the  morning  after  the  great 
battle. 

Arrived  at  Enghien,  he  found 
himself  without  orders  and  in  the 
SB 


700 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


midst  of  cavalry  columns,  all  con- 
centrating from  their  various  can- 
tonments on  the  point  of  assembly. 
Applying  to  General  Vandeleur, 
commander  of  a  light  brigade  of 
cavalry,  for  instructions,  he  got 
from  that  chieftain  very  little  com- 
fort or  light  in  his  difficulty. 
"  Whether  naturally  a  savage,  or 
that  he  feared  committing  himself,'7 
says  Mercer,  "  I  know  not ;  but 
Sir  Ormsby  cut  my  queries  short 
with  an  asperity  totally  uncalled 
f o-r.  fr  I  know  nothing  about  you, 
sir!  I  know  nothing  at  all  about 
you!7  'But  you  will  perhaps 
have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  where 
you  are  going  yourself  1 '  'I  know 
nothing  at  all  about  it,  sir  !  I  told 
you  already  I  know  nothing  at  all 
about  you  f ' "  This  kind  of  bear- 
ing, expressing  in  the  most  dis- 
courteous manner  the  determina- 
tion, above  all  things,  to  share  the 
responsibilities  of  nobody  else,  was 
but  too  much  in  vogue  in  Welling- 
ton's army,  and  is  scarcely  yet  quite 
extinct  in  the  service.  Following 
a  right  instinct,  Mercer  continued 
to  press  forward  through  Braine-le- 
Comte,  and  while  halting  to  water 
his  horses  at  a  pool,  was  directed 
by  Sir  Hussey  Vivian,  the  com- 
mander of  the  other  light  brigade, 
an  intelligent  as  well  as  dashing 
soldier,  to  follow  his  hussars  with 
all  speed  towards  the  firing,  which 
was  now  heard  from  the  field  of 
Quatre  Bras.  Passing  through 
Nivelles,  where  the  scared  popula- 
tion lined  the  heights  to  watch  the 
smoke  of  the  conflict,  and  meeting 
numerous  wounded  Netherlander 
who  had  quitted  the  action  in  the 
care  of  many  unwounded  comrades, 
and  who  spread  consternation  as 
they  went,  Mercer  at  nightfall,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  battle,  reached 
Quatre  Bras.  The  troop  traversed 
the  field,  the  tired  horses  stumbling 
over  corpses  as  they  moved,  and 
crossed  the  highroad,  whilst  over 
it  flew  the  last  shot  and  shells  from 
Key's  artillery.  Watering  his  horses 
at  the  well  of  the  farm,  and  feeding 


them  from  a  patch  of  green  wheat 
left  standing  amid  the  wreck  of  the 
crops,  which  had  been  trampled 
down  in  the  battle,  Mercer  bi- 
vouacked there. 

The  Captain,  like  his  superiors,, 
was  ignorant  that  a  great  battle 
had  taken  place  a  few  miles  on 
their  left,  and  fancied,  as  others 
did,  that  a  movement  in  advance 
would  take  place  against  Ney,  who, 
though  repulsed  yesterday,  was  still 
in  their  front.  The  orders  for  re- 
treat that  presently  arrived  were 
probably  at  first  unaccountable  ; 
indeed  Mercer  makes  no  allusion  to 
Ligny  in  his  Journal,  and  may  pos- 
sibly have  remained  ignorant  that 
such  a  battle  had  been  fought  till 
after  this  part  of  the  diary  was 
completed.  To  his  troop  was  as- 
signed the  duty,  in  conjunction 
with  the  light  cavalry,  of  covering 
the  withdrawal  of  the  army  from 
Quatre  Bras,  an  operation  involv- 
ing much  more  risk  than  they  knew 
of.  For  Wellington  had  never  in- 
tended to  fight  on  the  ground  where 
they  stood — there  was  no  position, 
there ;  his  intention  had  been  to 
move  beyond  Quatre  Bras  to  the 
aid  of  Blucher  at  Ligny,  until 
Ney's  onset  forced  him  to  think  of 
defending  himself.  And  now,  with 
his  forces  still  scattered,  he  was- 
exposed  to  the  attack  of  Ney  in 
front,  while  Napoleon  might  fall 
upon  his  flank  with  the  army  which 
had  beaten  the  Prussians.  Behind 
him,  on  the  highroad  to  Waterloo,, 
was  the  bridge  and  narrow  winding 
street  of  Genappe.  Anybody  can 
see  how  full  of  peril  was  such  a 
position ;  but  it  was  exactly  in  such 
cases  that  Wellington's  general- 
ship shone.  Regiment  after  regi- 
ment was  withdrawn  from  the 
centre  and  marched  for  Waterloo, 
while  those  on  the  flanks  kept  clos- 
ing in  and  maintaining  the  narrow- 
ing front,  till  at  length,  the  skir- 
mishers who  had  veiled  the  opera- 
tion being  called  in,  nothing  but 
the  rearguard  of  cavalry  and  artil- 
lery was  left  on  the  field.  During, 


1870.] 


Mercer's-  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


701 


any  part  of  this  movement,  a  se- 
rious attack  by  the  enemy  must 
have  produced  disastrous  confusion. 
Luckily  it  was  already  completed 
when  Napoleon,  who  had  remained 
in  a  state  of  extraordinary  inaction 
at  Ligny,  arrived,  and  seeing  his 
prey  escaping,  and  irritated  at 
Ney's  delay,  himself  (as  Gourgaud 
states)  led  the  pursuit.  Mercer 
saw  the  French  army  descend  from 
its  position,  and,  as  it  disappeared 
in  the  hollow,  he  beheld  a  sight 
which  he  never  forgot,  nor  would 
ever  have  forgotten  had  he  lived  to 
the  age  of  Methuselah,  for  he  saw 
the  Emperor  ride  on  to  the  ridge 
in  front  of  him,  followed  by  some 
horsemen,  their  figures,  darkened 
by  a  thundercloud  which  overhung 
them  and  the  British  rearguard, 
standing  out  in  strong  relief  from 
a  background  illuminated  by  sun- 
shine. Things  were  growing  criti- 
cal ;  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  One 
discharge  from  Mercer's  guns,  and 
they  vanished,  just  as  the  French 
chasseurs  dashed  over  the  crest 
they  had  stood  on ;  and  then,  pelted 
by  a  deluge  of  rain,  which  the  firing 
appeared  to  have  brought  down, 
and  amidst  deafening  peals  of  thun- 
der and  incessant  lightning,  the 
cavalry  and  artillery — those  who 
retreated  on  the  one  side,  and  those 
who  pursued  on  the  other — gal- 
loped towards  Waterloo.  There 
was  a  stand  and  skirmish  at  Gen- 
appe,  where  the  defile,  which  might 
have  been  so  disastrous,  now  stood 
them  in  good  stead  by  checking 
the  pursuit.  Halting  there,  beyond 
the  town,  G  Troop  silenced  the  fire 
of  a  French  battery ;  and  the  Eng- 
lish rearguard,  resuming  the  move- 
ment, reached  the  ground  of  the 
next  day's  battle.  Mercer,  march- 
ing quite  across  the  position,  bivou- 
acked in  an  orchard  by  the  high- 
road, not  far  from  the  farm  of  Mont 
St  Jean. 

The  engagement  had  been  already 
in  progress  for  some  time  next 
morning  before  he  was  aware  of  its 
serious  character,  when  at  length  an 


order  came,  and  he  was  despatched 
to  the  right  of  the  second  line. 
Nothing  can  be  clearer  than  his 
account  of  his  share  in  the  battle, 
and,  so  far  as  it  goes,  its  accuracy 
is  confirmed  by  the  most  authentic 
narratives.  The  front  of  his  guns 
being  thrown  back  almost  at  a 
right  angle,  the  ridge  on  which  the 
right  of  our  front  line  was  posted, 
above  Hougoumont,  was  on  his  left 
hand ;  and  in  his  front,  across  a 
deep  ravine,  were  the  light  cavalry 
and  guns  which  formed  the  extreme 
left  of  the  French.  For  some  time 
he  remained  here,  fired  on  by  the 
light  French  batteries,  which  did 
but  little  mischief,  and  occasionally 
exchanging  shots  with  them,  while 
on  his  left  he  frequently  saw  the 
enemy's  cavalry  crowning  the  ridge, 
riding  among  the  solitary  batteries 
there,  and  even  descending  into 
the  hollow  towards  him.  But  so 
far,  of  the  general  aspect  or  course 
of  the  action  he  had  no  knowledge, 
for  from  his  position  he  could  see 
nothing  of  the  ground  which  had 
hitherto  been  the  scene  of  the  great 
attacks.  Very  differently,  however, 
did  the  day  close  for  him.  About 
three  in  the  afternoon,  Sir  Augus- 
tus Frazer,  commander  of  the  Horse- 
artillery,  rode  up,  ordered  him  to 
limber  up  to  his  left,  and,  his 
horses'  heads  thus  pointing  in  the 
required  direction,  led  them  at  a 
gallop  to  the  point  where  they  were 
needed,  the  troop  flying  over  the 
ground  as  compactly  as  if  at  a  re- 
view. "  That's  the  way  I  like  to 
see  horse-artillery  move,"  said  the 
Duke,  as  he  noticed  their  advance. 
Most  impressively  does  Mercer  de- 
scribe their  approach  to  the  scene 
of  the  main  battle.  The  air  grew 
suffocatingly  hot ;  they  were  envel- 
oped in  thick  smoke ;  and  amidst 
all  the  thunder  of  guns  and  rattle 
of  musketry  a  mysterious  humming 
noise  was  heard  around,  like  that 
which  beetles  make  of  a  summer's 
evening,  being  probably  caused 
either  by  the  fragments  of  shells  in 
air,  or  by  the  jangle  of  the  accoutre- 


702 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


ments  of  the  great  bodies  of  cavalry 
in  motion  on  this  part  of  the  field. 
The  expected  onset  of  one  of  these 
was  the  cause  of  Mercer's  summons 
to  the  front  line.  In  the  space  be- 
tween Hougoumont  and  the  Charle- 
roi  road  a  great  mass  of  French 
heavy  cavalry,  horse-grenadiers  and 
cuirassiers,  had  been  formed ;  and 
scarcely  had  the  leading  gun  of  the 
battery  been  placed  in  action  be- 
hind a  low  bank  along  which  ran 
a  narrow  road,  when  the  leading 
squadrons  were  seen  coming  on 
through  the  smoke.  On  each  side 
was  a  square  of  Brunswickers,  fall- 
ing fast,  and  unsteady  from  the 
cannonade,  which,  concentrated  on 
this  part  of  the  field  in  order  to 
clear  the  way  for  the  advance  of 
the  cavalry,  was  of  such  appalling 
intensity  as  has  seldom  been  equal- 
led even  in  the  greatest  and  hardest- 
fought  battles.  "  So  thick,"  says 
Mercer,  "  was  the  hail  of  balls  and 
bullets,  that  it  seemed  dangerous 
to  extend  the  arm  lest  it  should  be 
torn  off."  His  first  round  of  case- 
shot  brought  down  several  of  the 
enemy;  the  rest  of  the  guns,  as 
they  came  up,  poured  in  their  fire 
with  terrible  effect ;  the  cavalry 
still  came  on,  though  checked  from 
a  gallop  to  a  walk ;  the  guns,  rapid- 
ly served,  fired  into  them  at  close 
quarters,  and,  as  so  often  happens 
in  cavalry  charges,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  advancing  squad- 
rons seemed  within  a  stride  of  vic- 
tory, they  wheeled  outwards  and 
galloped  to  the  rear.  But  the  re- 
treat of  so  dense  a  column  of  horse 
is  not  easy  of  accomplishment ; 
jammed  together  by  the  opposite 
influences  of  advance  and  flight, 
they  became  a  stationary,  agitated, 
struggling  mob,  into  which  Mercer's 
guns  poured  a  steady  fire.  It  was 
then  that  some  despairing  of  re- 
treat, and  others  carried  away  by 
their  ungovernable  wounded  horses, 
dashed  through  the  battery  and  be- 
tween the  squares,  to  be  shot  down 
by  the  second  line.  At  length  the 
baffled  column  withdrew  down  the 


hill,  leaving  in  front  of  the  battery 
a  rampart  of  men  and  horses.  Not 
for  long,  however; — their  caps 
were  still  seen  stationary  below 
the  slope  as  they  re-formed  for  at- 
tack, and  their  skirmishers,  riding 
up  within  forty  yards,  fired  their 
carbines  into  the  battery;  while 
Mercer,  on  the  road  which  lay  be- 
tween them  and  his  guns,  slowly 
patrolled  to  and  fro  to  steady  his 
men.  When  the  column  had  re- 
formed, it  came  on  again  at  a  slow 
resolute  trot,  led  by  an  officer  who, 
as  Mercer  was  afterwards  told, 
was  Ney  himself.  The  battery, 
loaded  this  time  with  case  rammed 
home  on  the  round  shot,  at  the  first 
discharge  mowed  down  nearly  the 
whole  front  rank,  while  the  solid 
projectiles  penetrated  throughout 
the  depth  of  the  column.  The  same 
scene  of  hesitation,  struggle,  and 
slaughter  was  renewed — till  again 
the  assailants  melted  away  down 
the  slope;  and,  as  in  the  first  inter- 
val between  the  charges,  the  French 
artillery  covered  the  retreat  with  a 
tremendous  fire  upon  the  squares 
and  batteries.  Another  advance  of 
the  discomfited  cavalry,  but  far  less 
resolute  and  menacing  than  the 
others,  was  repulsed  as  before ; 
and  as  they  disappeared,  the  Duke 
rode  close  by  the  right  of  Mercer's 
battery,  followed  by  a  long  line  of 
infantry— probably  Adam's  brigade 
— the  right  of  which  was,  at  that 
stage  of  the  battle,  thrown  forward 
till  it  rested  on  Hougoumont,  form- 
ing an  enclosing  angle  with  the 
general  line. 

Hitherto  G  Troop,  though  thus 
hotly  engaged,  had  fared  no  worse 
than  its  neighbours — better  indeed 
than  most  of  them,  being  in  great 
degree  covered  from  the  enemy's 
missiles  by  the  low  embankment 
over  which  it  fired.  But  just  as 
a  lull  in  the  fight  and  lifting  of 
the  smoke  afforded  to  Mercer  the 
only  extended  glimpse  of  the  field 
which  he  had  obtained,  showing 
him  the  dark  masses  of  the  enemy 
— some  stationary  on  the  opposing 


1870.] 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


703 


ridge,  some  descending  into  the 
valley  towards  them — his  attention 
was  rudely  diverted  by  a  heavy 
raking  fire  of  artillery,  searching 
his  battery  at  very  close  quarters 
from  left  to  right.  The  guns  thus 
bearing  on  him  appear  to  have  been 
posted  on  the  nearest  extremity  of 
the  rising  ground,  midway  between 
the  two  armies,  which  had  been 
occupied  by  French  batteries  at  dif- 
ferent periods  of  the  action,  and 
which  the  capture  of  La  Haye 
Sainte  would  now  have  rendered 
a  secure  position  for  the  enemy. 
Bringing  part  of  his  troop  to  bear 
on  these  terrible  assailants,  Mer- 
cer was  responding  to  their  fire 
when  an  officer  in  the  Brunswick 
uniform  galloped  up  to  him  in 
great  agitation,  representing  in 
broken  English  that  he  was  firing 
on  Prussians.  Mercer  therefore 
ceased  to  fire — but  the  hostile  shot 
continued  to  pour  in,  and  he  again 
retaliated  till  his  troop  became  a 
total  wreck  incapable  of  further 
action,  and  was  only  saved  from 
annihilation  by  a  Belgian  battery, 
which,  enfilading  the  enfiladers, 
drove  them  off.  Out  of  his  two 
hundred  fine  horses  a  hundred  and 
forty  lay  dead  or  dying  ;  out  of  his 
six  strong  gun-detachments  only 
the  numbers  barely  necessary  to 
work  three  pieces  were  left,  and 
they  utterly  exhausted.  Blucher 
would  have  altogether  failed  to  re- 
cognise "  the  beautiful  battery  "  in 
the  bloody  heaps  of  dead  and  the 
few  survivors  which  now  repre- 
sented it.  Strange  to  say,  its  Cap- 
tain leaves  us  in  some  doubt  as 
to  whether  it  was  a  Prussian  or  a 
French  battery  which  had  so  mal- 
treated his  troop,  though,  as  his  men 
bivouacked  where  they  stood,  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  have  as- 
certained this  next  morning.  We 
think,  however,  that  there  can  be 
no  doubt  they  were  French.  The 
Prussians  had  not  at  that  time 
(about  four  o'clock)  developed  their 
attack,  the  direction  of  which  was 
not  across  our  front,  but  in  exten- 


sion of  our  left  towards  Papelotte 
andFrischermont;  and  the  presence 
of  one  of  their  batteries  so  close  to 
the  Charleroi  road  at  that  period  of 
the  day  is  inconsistent  with  the 
well-known  facts  of  the  battle,  es- 
pecially the  capture  and  occupation 
of  La  Haye  Sainte  by  the  enemy, 
which  was  effected  when  those 
charges  of  the  cuirassiers,  described 
by  Mercer,  were  executed. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  pawn  G 
Troop  played  no  mean  part  on  the 
chessboard  in  this  great  game.  Its 
swift  orderly  advance  in  the  very 
nick  of  time,  and  the  spirit  and 
skill  which  enabled  it  to  pour  in  so 
rapid  and  destructive  a  fire,  saved 
the  two  Brunswick  battalions  from 
giving  way,  and  this  was  well  known 
then  and  afterwards.  Its  effective 
action  was  visible  to  all  in  the 
heaps  of  dead  cavalry  lying  in  its 
front.  The  cost  at  which  it  had 
maintained  its  ground  was  terribly 
apparent  in  its  own  condition.  Sir 
Augustus  Frazer,  the  commander 
of  the  Horse-artillery,  told  Mercer 
a  few  days  afterwards  at  Nivelles, 
that  in  riding  over  the  ground  "  he 
could  plainly  distinguish  the  posi- 
tion of  G  Troop,  from  the  opposite 
height,  by  the  dark  mass  which, 
even  from  that  distance,  formed  a 
remarkable  feature  in  the  field." 
It  may  be  thought  that  praise  and 
promotion  for  the  troop  and  its 
commander  were  less  a  favour  than 
a  right.  Yet  not  only  was  their 
conduct  left  unnoticed  in  despatch- 
es, and  the  brevet  majority  he  had 
so  well  earned  withheld  from  their 
Captain,  but  he  was  actually  de- 
prived afterwards  of  a  troop  of 
horse  -  artillery  given  him  at  the 
recommendation  of  his  chief,  Sir 
George  Wood,  that  which  he  com- 
manded in  the  campaign  having 
properly  another  first-captain  who 
was  otherwise  employed,  and  whose 
place  Mercer  filled.  Truly,  care  for 
the  interests  of  the  men  who  helped 
to  win  his  battles  was  not  the 
Duke's  strong  point,  and  those 
might  even  be  considered  happy 


704 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


[June 


who  did  not  incur  his  hostility.  Nor- 
man Kamsay,  rescued  for  ever  from 
the  cold  shadow  of  his  great  com- 
mander's displeasure,  in  despite  of 
which  he  was  destined  to  a  niche 
in  history,  was  lying  on  the  same 
field  with  a  grapeshot  through  his 
heart. 

The  merit  of  this  diary,  besides 
the  pleasant  candour  and  pictur- 
esque style  which  distinguish  it, 
is,  that  it  illustrates  those  byways 
of  war  which  the  historians  of  cam- 
paigns are  compelled  to  overlook, 
but  which,  nevertheless,  are  often 
signalised  by  occurrences  that  have 
an  important  influence  on  the  re- 
sult. For  the  general  reader  the 
interest  of  such  narratives  is  much 
greater  than  that  of  general  exposi- 
tions, or  scientific  accounts,  of  the 
course  of  campaigns  and  battles. 
The  plans  and  difficulties  and  suc- 
cesses of  the  chief  of  an  army  be- 
long to  a  sphere  of  thought  and 
action  where  few,  unless  prepared 
by  long  study  of  such  subjects,  can 
enter;  but  everybody  can  sympa- 
thise with  the  cares  of  the  subordi- 
nate officer  or  the  soldier.  The  re- 
cognition of  this  truth,  and  of  the 
wide  field  which  was  thus  opeited 
to  the  military  novelist,  has  led 
to  the  extensive  popularity  of  the 
works  of  MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian, 
who  have  painted  to  the  life  the 
hopes  and  fears  of  the  French  con- 
script, and  the  feelings  of  the  French 
soldier,  throughout  those  wars  over 
which  such  a  blinding  haze  was  for 
half  a  century  cast  by  the  splendour 
of  Napoleon's  career.  Strangely 
enough,  in  one  of  those  novels,  the 
details  of  which  are  evidently  ac- 
quired from  eyewitnesses,  the  con- 
script who  is  the  hero  confirms,  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  field,  Mer- 
cer's account  of  his  share  in  the  battle. 
"  Through  the  smoke  I  saw  the  Eng- 
lish gunners  abandon  their  pieces, 
all  but  six  guns  sheltered  under  the 
road,  and  almost  immediately  our 
cuirassiers  were  upon  the  squares, 
whose  fire  was  drawn  in  zigzags. 
Now,  I  thought,  those  gunners  will 


be  cut  to  pieces;  but  no,  the  devils 
kept  firing  with  grape,  which  mowed 
them  down  like  grass."  And  not 
only  to  the  general  reader  are  such 
narratives  interesting,  but  they  often 
throw  side-lights,  which,  for  the 
military  student,  help  to  illumine 
what  would  else  be  obscure  and 
unaccountable.  However  well  ac- 
quainted with  this,  one  of  the  best 
known  and  most  profusely  illustrat- 
ed of  campaigns,  the  reader  may  be, 
lie  will  scarcely  fail  to  obtain  a  still 
closer  appreciation  both  of  its  lead- 
ing events  and  its  particular  cir- 
cumstances by  a  perusal  of  Mer- 
cer's diary.  Accustomed  as  we  have 
been  in  later  times  to  the  sharp 
criticisms  which  military  blunders 
evoke,  it  is  clear  enough  that,  sub- 
jected to  a  similar  scrutiny,  the 
campaign  of  1815  would  have  af- 
forded material  for  comments  no 
less  severe.  The  service  of  the  Staff 
appears  to  have  been  particularly 
ill  regulated.  It  is  well  known  that 
Wellington  remained  ignorant  of  Na- 
poleon's advance  into  Belgium  for  an 
incredibly  long  time ;  and  there  are 
numerous  proofs  in  this  Journal 
of  inconceivable  neglect  or  equally 
inconceivable  incompetency  in  the 
transmission  of  instructions  on  oc- 
casions of  vital  importance.  Luckily 
for  us,  the  Staff-duties  were  equally 
ill  performed  in  Napoleon's  army, 
as  was  exemplified  by  many  inci- 
dents, notably  by  the  total  failure 
of  communication  between  Grou- 
chy's  wing  and  the  main  body. 
The  system  of  preserving  all  the 
links  in  the  chain  of  responsibility, 
and  leaving  each  particular  set  of 
duties,  from  the  highest  to  the  low- 
est, to  be  executed  by  the  proper 
official,  seems  to  have  been  but 
imperfectly  understood  by  us ; 
and  we  find  Lord  Anglesea,  the 
commander  of  the  British  cavalry, 
exposing  himself  to  imminent  risk 
of  capture,  by  personally  direct- 
ing the  movements  of  two  of 
Mercer's  guns  during  the  retreat 
from  Quatre  Bras,  The  character 
of  Wellington  is  seen  in  much  less 


1870.] 


Mercer's  Journal  of  Waterloo. 


705 


favourable  light  in  the  familiar  as- 
pect than  in  the  historical  view. 
While  obviously  deficient  in  the 
elements  of  popularity  which  Na- 
poleon could  display  so  effectively, 
he  could  be  no  less  capricious,  harsh, 
and  even  unjust,  to  his  subordin- 
ates, than  his  great  antagonist.  His 
prejudice  against  the  Artillery,  both 
absurd  and  impolitic,  continued  to 
manifest  itself  not  only  throughout 
the  war,  but  throughout  his  life, 
and  probably  had  considerable 
share  in  perpetuating  the  disquali- 
fications of  officers  of  this  scientific 
branch  for  employment  on  the  ge- 
neral Staff",  which  distinguish  our 
army,  by  no  means  honourably, 
amid  the  military  systems  of  Eu- 
rope. The  school  of  Wellington 
was  formed  at  a  time  when  intelli- 
gence was  not  deemed  of  much  im- 
portance in  either  officer  or  soldier, 
when  the  old  Prussian  system  was 
still  paramount,  and  when  machine- 


like  movements  and  machine-like 
obedience  were  held  to  be  the  chief 
requisites  for  troops.  That  school 
still  has  its  representatives,  who 
decry,  not  unnaturally,  science 
which  they  do  not  possess,  and 
progress  which  they  cannot  under- 
stand, and  whose  opinions,  un- 
luckily, are  in  some  cases  clothed 
with  greater  authority  than  they 
deserve.  Mercer  was  no  mere  sa- 
breur,  capable  of  nothing  but  mili- 
tary duty,  and  that  only  in  a  narrow- 
minded  way,  but  a  refined  gentle- 
man and  intelligent  officer,  such  as 
a  member  of  a  highly  -  educated 
corps  should  be.  Amid  all  the  dis- 
tractions of  the  campaign,  he  had 
an  eye  for  men  and  manners  and 
scenery,  and  his  very  interesting 
diary  bears  all  the  marks  of  being 
the  produce  of  a  mind  perfectly 
honest  and  unprejudiced,  as  well  as 
cultivated  and  observant. 


70S 


Our  Ironclad  Sliips. 


[June- 


OUK     IRONCLAD     SHIPS. 


WE  can  give  no  better  title  to 
this  paper  than  that  of  the  book  we 
propose  to  take  under  consideration 
— Mr  Reed's  late  work  on  our  ar- 
moured fleet. *  To  this  gentleman's 
facile  pen  the  country  is  indebted 
for  a  very  clear  exposition  of  the 
state  of  our  ironclad  navy,  the  value 
of  which  is  all  the  greater  from  its 
issuing  forth  out  of  the  portals  of 
the  Admiralty  enriched  from  the 
many  sources  of  official  knowledge 
and  experience  which  are  inacces- 
sible to  the  outside  world.  Whether 
it  is  altogether  prudent  to  publish 
so  fully  the  details  of  construction 
and  equipment  of  our  ships  may  be 
questioned.  The  public  are  un- 
doubtedly the  gainers ;  but  so  are 
our  neighbours  across'the  Channel, 
and  our  cousins  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic.  However,  we  may 
leave  that  question  to  the  authori- 
ties, and  accept  Mr  Reed's  book  as 
a  welcome  provision  for  the  wants 
of  the  public  in  their  information 
on  this  subject. 

The  metamorphosis  which  our 
ironclad  fleet  has  undergone  in  the 
last  ten  years  is  as  complete  as  it 
has  been  rapid.  The  68-pounders 
of  the  earlier  ships  have  given  place 
to  the  600-pounders  of  the  present 
day ;  the  original  4^-inch  armour- 
plating  has  increased  to  a  foot  of 
solid  iron  on  the  sides  of  vessels 
now  building;  the  graceful  form 
and  tapering  spars  of  the  Warrior 
and  her  congeners  have  been  suc- 
ceeded by  ugly  ram-bows,  hideous 
sterns,  and  stunted  masts  ;  while, 
in  the  method  of  construction,  the 
change  has  been  equally  great. 

To  a  Conservative  Board  of  Ad- 
miralty belongs  the  credit  of  the 
commencement  of  our  sea -going 
ironclad  fleet — we  do  not  now  speak 
of  floating  batteries ;  and  it  was  un- 
der Sir  John  Pakington's  admini- 


stration of  the  navy  in  1859  that  the  • 
Warrior,  the   pioneer   of  the  new 
type  of  fighting  ships,  was  designed- 
and  commenced.     Before  the  close 
of  the  year  three  other  vessels — the 
Black  Prince,  Defence,  and  Resist- 
ance— were    laid   down,   the    con- 
struction of  these  ships  being  called' 
for  in  haste  in  order  to  regain  our 
position  with  respect  to  France,  who 
had  taken  the  lead  of  us  in  this 
new  description  of  vessel,  as  she  had 
done  previously  in  respect  of  the 
floating  batteries.   Before  this  time,, 
in  the  construction  of  wooden  shipsr 
the  proportion  of  length  to  breadth 
had  been  gradually  increasing,  for 
the  sake  of  combining  a  high  rate 
of  speed  with  capacity  for  stowage, 
until  in  the  Mersey  and  Orlando 
frigates  a  length  of  300  feet  had. 
been  attained,  or  a  proportion  to 
breadth  of  5.8  to  1.     When  the  ne- 
cessity for  building  ironclad  vessels 
arose,  the  constructors  of  the  navy 
were  called  upon  to  design  ships 
which  should  carry  a  certain  thick- 
ness of  armour,  steam  at  a  high 
rate    of    speed,   and    stow  a  fair 
amount  of   coal.      Following  the 
same  general  principles  which  had 
governed  the  construction  of  our 
fast  wooden   frigates  and  line-of- 
battle  ships — the  finest  of  their  re- 
spective  classes  in  the  world— it 
was  found  necessary  to  give  enor- 
mous length  to  the  new  ships,  in 
order  to  fulfil    these   conditions ; . 
and    therefore    the    Warrior    and 
Black  Prince  were   no   less   than 
380  feet  long,  or  in  the  proportion 
of  length  to  breadth  of  6.5  to  1. 
Even  with  these  great  dimensions, . 
the  ships  were  only  partially  pro- 
tected  by   armour,  the  bow   and 
stern    being   wholly  undefended ; 
but    the    promised    speed    of    14 
knots  was  fully  attained,  and  the 
ships,  as  far  as   they  went,  were 


*  Our  Ironclad  Ships  ;  their  Qualities,   Performances,  and  Cost. 
Reed,  C.B.,  Chief  Constructor  of  the  Navy.     Murray. 


By  E.  J. 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


707 


completely  successful.  The  Defence 
and  Resistance  were  of  consider- 
ably smaller  dimensions,  being  100 
feet  shorter,  and  their  speed  was 
rather  under  12  knots.  The  system 
of  undefended  extremities  being 
very  objectionable,  leaving,  as  it  did, 
some  of  the  vital  parts  of  the  ship, 
including  the  rudder  and  steer- 
ing gear,  completely  exposed,  the 
next  step  was  to  build  vessels 
wholly  armoured;  and  as  the  high- 
est rate  of  speed  was  still  desired, 
the  new  designs  required  a  yet 
greater  length,  so  the  three  ships  of 
the  Minotaur  class  were  400  feet 
long,  the  proportion  to  breadth 
being  6.7  to  1.  These  vessels  were 
plated  throughout  their  entire 
length  with  armour  an  inch  thicker 
than  the  Warrior's,  but  with  only 
half  the  thickness  of  wood  back- 
ing, and  they  equalled  the  Warrior 
in  speed.  Meanwhile  two  other 
short  vessels,  the  Hector  and  Val- 
iant, also  partially  plated,  had  been 
built ;  they  were  the  same  length 
as  the  Defence  and  Resistance,  but 
with  rather  more  beam.  The  above 
ships  were  all  built  of  iron,  and 
by  contract,  as  no  appliances  had 
hitherto  existed  in  the  dockyards 
for  iron  shipbuilding.  But  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  that 
purpose  having  been  made  in  Chat- 
ham Yard,  the  Achilles  was  laid 
down  there  in  1861,  being  of  the 
same  dimensions  as  the  Warrior, 
but  having  a  belt  of  armour  round 
the  bow  and  stern  at  the  water-line 
in  addition  to  the  protected  part 
amidships. 

The  conversion  of  some  of  our 
line-of-battle  ships  into  ironclads 
having  been  determined  on — at  the 
instance,  it  is  said,  of  Lord  Pal- 
merston — this  work  was  begun  in 
the  same  year,  and  the  Caledonia 
class  was  the  result.  They  were 
plated  fore  and  aft,  some  with  4|- 
inch  and  others  with  6-inch  armour, 
and  they  realised  a  speed  of  about 
13  knots;  the  proportion  of  length 
to  breadth  being  4.7  to  1,  or  less 
than  any  of  the  ships  built  as  iron- 
clads up  to  that  time.  This  class 


of  vessels,  of  which  seven  have 
been  converted,  are  very  similar  to 
the  French  ships  of  the  Gloire 
class,  and  they  have  answered 
well. 

Some  time  before  this,  Captain 
Cowper  Coles's  plans  for  cupola  or 
shield  ships,  as  they  were  then- 
called,  had  been  submitted  to  the 
Admiralty ;  but  while  the  great 
merit  of  this  invention  had  been 
generally  acknowledged  by  seamen, 
and  scientific  men,  the  Admiralty 
hesitated  to  give  it  a  trial,  though 
strongly  urged  to  do  so.  A  detailed 
account  of  this  ingenious  plan,  with, 
drawings,  appeared  in  this  Maga- 
zine for  December  1860;  and  the 
civil  war  in  America  breaking  out 
in  the  following  year,  the  idea  was 
caught  up  by  Ericsson,  and  the 
Monitor  class  of  vessels  was  the 
result.  The  value  of  the  invention 
being  then  made  manifest,  the  Ad- 
miralty, yielding  to  pressure  from  a 
high  quarter,  at  last  consented  to 
give  Captain  Coles's  plans  a  trial; 
and  in  1862  the  Prince  Albert  wa& 
ordered  to  be  built  of  iron  on  his 
system,  and  the  Royal  Sovereign 
three-decker  was  cut  down  to  be 
converted  into  a  turret-ship.  Mean- 
time Mr  E.  J.  Reed  had  been  writ- 
ing in  the  press,  proposing  plans 
for  ironclad  ships  of  small  dimen- 
sions, and  he  soon  succeeded  in 
prevailing  upon  the  Admiralty  to 
adopt  his  propositions.  Three  cor- 
vettes, which  were  on  the  stocks  in 
various  stages  of  progress,  were 
handed  over  to  him  to  be  converted 
into  ironclads  upon  his  plans.  They 
were  the  Research,  the  Favourite,, 
and  the  Enterprise ;  and  soon  after- 
wards the  Zealous,  a  two-decker, 
was  also  ordered  for  conversion  in 
a  similar  manner. 

Such  was  the  state  of  our  iron- 
clad navy  when,  in  1863,  Mr  Reed, 
then  an  untried  shipbuilder — for 
none  of  the  above  vessels  had  been 
launched — and  known  only  by  his 
writings  in  the  press,  was  appointed 
Chief  Constructor  of  the  Navy 
over  the  heads  of  the  experienced 
men  who  had  designed  our  splendid 


708 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


unarmoured  fleet,  and  also  the  noble 
ships  of  the  Warrior  and  Minotaur 
classes  of  ironclads.  This  appoint- 
ment gave  rise  to  a  general  burst 
of  indignation,  both  in  Parliament 
and  elsewhere.  It  was  considered 
that  a  dangerous  precedent  had 
been  established,  and  that  great  in- 
justice had  been  committed.  No 
one  disputed  Mr  Heed's  talents,  but 
his  want  of  experience  in  the  prac- 
tical work  of  his  profession  was  a 
matter  of  common  notoriety ;  while 
the  general  feeling  of  mistrust  was 
greatly  heightened  by  the  very  de- 
cided attitude  of  hostility  to  which 
he  had  committed  himself  against 
Captain  Coles' s  plans,  and  by  the 
difficulty  which  that  officer  encoun- 
tered in  his  endeavours  to  get  them 
fairly  carried  out.  But  this  is  all 
now  a  matter  of  history,  and  we 
have  no  desire  to  revert  to  the 
subject  beyond  what  is  necessary 
for  the  purpose  of  this  sketch  of 
the  history  of  our  ironclad  fleet. 
And  before  going  any  farther  we 
must  do  Mr  Reed,  and  the  Board  of 
Admiralty  who  appointed  him,  the 
justice  to  say,  that,  judging  now 
by  the  results  of  his  seven  years' 
work,  he  has  justified  their  selec- 
tion of  him  for  that  important 
post,  and  that  to  his  skill  and 
ability  the  country  is  largely  in- 
debted for  the  most  powerful  ar- 
moured fleet  afloat.  The  practical 
experience  wanting  to  Mr  Reed  at 
the  outset  of  his  official  career  he 
has  since  thoroughly  gained;  and 
though  some  failures  attended  his 
earlier  designs,  they  were  almost 
unavoidable  at  the  commencement 
of  an  entirely  new  system  of  ship- 
building. 

The  principal  changes  that  have 
taken  place  in  the  construction  of 
broadside  ironclads  since  the  War- 
rior was  built  may  be  best  described 
in  Mr  Reed's  own  words  : — 

"  The"  Warrior  was  armoured  at  the 
middle  only;  both  bow  and  stern,  and 
consequently  the  rudder  -  head  and 
steering  -  gear  were  exposed  to  shot 
within  thin  iron  sides  ;  in  later  ships, 
in  all  which  have  been  recently  de- 


signed, this  central  or  '  box  '  battery 
has  been  associated  with  a  continuous 
belt  of  armour  extending  from  stem  to 
stern,  and  protecting  the  region  of  the 
water-line  and  the  steeriug-gear,  the 
counter  of  the  ship  being  carried  down 
below  the  water  in  order  to  further 
screen  the  rudder-head.  This  last  im- 
provement, like  many  others,  is  wholly 
due  to  the  Controller  of  the  Navy,  Sir 
Spencer  Robinson. 

"  The  Warrior's  armour  was  of  uni- 
form thickness  over  the  whole  of  the 
protected  broadside.  In  recent  ships, 
over  the  most  vital  parts,  such  as  the 
region  of  the  water-line  and  in  wake 
of  the  fighting  -  decks,  the  armour 
is  thicker  than  on  the  less  important 
parts ;  and  in  some  ships  increased  pro- 
tection has  been  given  to  the  region  of 
the  water-line  by  additional  teak  back- 
ing and  iron  bulkheads  fitted  inside. 

*'  The  Warrior  possessed  only  broad- 
side-fire from  her  battery-guns ;  all  the 
later  vessels  have  had  their  broadside- 
fire  supplemented  by  bow -fire  and 
stern-fire  of  greater  or  less  extent. 

"  The  Warrior  had  only  a  main-deck 
battery  armour-plated;  recent  ships 
have  had  a  protected  upper-deck  bat- 
tery given  to  them. 

"  The  Warrior  was  designed  to  carry 
a  considerable  number  of  guns  in  an 
outspread  battery ;  later  ships  have  been 
built  to  carry  a  concentrated  battery  of 
very  much  heavier  guns. 

"The  Warrior  and  Minotaur  classes 
were  made  extremely  long,  with  a  view 
to  speed ;  recent  ships  have  been  made 
very  much  shorter  in  proportion. 

' '  The  Warrior  was  designed  with  V- 
formed  transverse  sections  for  a  great 
length  at  the  bow ;  later  ships  have  been 
formed  with  sections  of  a  U-shape." 

A  reference  to  the  table  on  the 
next  page  will  show  the  thickness 
of  armour  and  backing  carried  by 
our  ironclad  ships,  as  well  as  other 
particulars  respecting  them.  By 
this  it  will  be  seen  that  we  have 
arrived  at  9  inches  of  armour  on 
the  sides  of  broadside  ships,  and 
12  inches  on  the  monitor  vessels, 
while  the  turrets  of  the  latter  will 
have  14  inches  of  armour-plating 
on  them.  And  Mr  Reed  tells  us 
that  "the  Admiralty  have  long 
been  in  possession  of  a  design  for  a 
turret-ship  with  sides  plated  with 
15-inch  armour,  .and  turrets  with 
18-inch  armour."  Also,  that  he  has 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


709 


THE  IRONCLADS  OF  THE  BRITISH  NAVY. 


\jf  . 

| 

1  • 

Thickness  of 

NAME.             .tJfS 

1 

IBS 

0  rf 

,-               "               s 

Armour,  1  Backing, 

If 

H   £w£ 

fcd 

inches,     inches. 

Iron-built  Broadside-  Ships. 

\\  arrior, 

3806109 

1250     32 

4£         18 

)• 

Black  Prince,    . 

380  6109 

1250 

28 

4£         18 

Achilles,.     .     . 

380!6121 

1250 

26 

4; 

18 

Defence,  .     .     . 
Rosistance,  .     . 

2803720 
280  3710 

600 
600 

16 
16 

4i 

18 
18 

.  Only  partially  armoured. 

Hector,   .     .     . 

280 

4089 

800 

18 

4j         18 

Valiant,  .     .     . 

280 

4063 

800 

18 

4i         18 

/ 

Minotaur,     .     . 

400  6621 

1350 

26 

5A          9 

A^incourt,    .     . 

400  6621 

1350 

28 

5|          9 

N  irthumberland, 

400  6621 

1350 

28 

5A          9 

*Bellerophon,     . 

300 

4270 

1000 

15 

6          10 

•       ^   fl    o'rt    ^'o 

*  Penelope,     .    . 

260  3096 

600 

11 

5  to  6       10 

2^3^'S  °  13 

*Hercules,     .     . 

325  5234 

1200 

14 

6  to  9   10  to  12 

W    0    0    SJO  ^ 

*Sultan,     .    .     . 

82515226 

1200 

12 

6  to  9   10  to  12 

Building.     ^  ®^,^5  ® 

*Ir  vincible,    .     . 

280 

3774 

800 

14 

6  to  8       10 

*Aidacious,  .     . 

280 

3774 

800 

14 

6  to  8  !    10 

0  ""^  2  ft  ^  ^ 

*Irr>n  Duke,  .     . 

280 

3774 

800 

14 

6to8       10 

S       J'rt  §   G 

*Vuiguard,    .     . 

280 

3774 

800 

14 

6  to  8       10 

<D  *   G5  °  JS  ^  "* 

*S~viftsure,    .     . 

280  3893 

800 

14 

6  to  8       10 

Building.      ®  o  -g  "*  c  "^  m 

*  Triumph,     .     . 

2803893 

800 

14 

6  to  8 

10 

Building.  J  E-i^Urt'^  S^ 

Wood-luilt  Broadside-  Skips. 

Caledonia,   .    .      27341251000  j  24 

41 

Ooean,     .     .     . 

273  40471000     24 

42 

Prince  Consort, 

27340451000     24 

4! 

Royal  Oak,  .     . 
Royal  Alfred,    . 

273:4056!  800  j  24 
273|4068!  800     18 

62 

(Converted  line-of-battle  ships. 

Zualous,  .    .     .       2523716:  800     20 

4A 

Repulse,  .     .     .       252|3749l  800  '  12 

6" 

*Lord  Clyde, 
*Lord  Warden,  . 

28040671000     24 
280!4080!lOOO     18 

4A 

4  3 

>  1^-inch  inner  skin-plating. 

Wood-built  Comettes. 

Research,     .     .       1951253   200 

4 

4A 

Favourite,    .     . 

225!  2094  400 

10 

4! 

>  Converted  vessels. 

Enterprise,  . 

180  993(  160 

4 

4^ 

J 

*P;.illas,     .     .     . 

2252372!  600       6 

42 

Iro)i-luilt  Tnrret-Vessels. 

Prince  Albert,  . 

240'2537  500 

4 

41 

18 

S'  :orpion,      .     . 
Wivern,  .     .     . 

224 

224 

1833 
1899 

350 
350 

4 
4 

a 

9 
9 

(  The  '  '  Birkenhead  rams  "  purchased 
(     by  Government. 

*Monarch,     .     . 

330 

5102 

1100 

7 

6  to  7 

12 

f  Mr  Reed's  sea-going         N  ®  a  o  "^ 
(     turret-ship.                      1^3^^ 

C  iptain,  .     .     . 

320 

4272 

900 

6 

6  to  8 

12 

Captain  Coles's  do.                 K  §  g  & 

*B  otspur, 

235 

2637 

600 

2 

8  to  11 

12 

)  Monitor          [,«  ^>1M  ^.S 

*Rupert,   .     .     .       250 

3159 

700 

3 

9  to  12 

12 

Building,  j    rams.             \  |  g  2T.8  § 

*Glatton,  ...      245 

2709 

600 

2 

10  to  12 

18 

Building.  |  JJast^rSce  [  "  *  "^     i 

^Devastation,     . 

285 

4406 

800 

4 

10  to  12 

18 

Building,  'j  Monitors  for  j  o  **  c5  g  o 

*Thunderer,  .     . 

2854406   800 

4 

10  to  12 

18 

Building.  [>     distant  ser-  J  g  1  ^  « 

»Firyf.     .     .     . 

150001000 

4 

Ordered.  )     vice.            J  &  ^  'p^rg 

Wood-luilt  Twret-  Vessel. 

Eoyal  Sovereign,     2403765  800  |    5 

5^                 i    Converted  three-decker. 

fron-luilt  Gunloats. 

*\  iper,     .    .     .     '160 

737   160 

2 

4i         10 

*Yixen,     ...     ^  160 

754 

160       2 

4j     i    10 

*\Vaterwitch,     .       162 

111 

160  !    2 

4|         10 

Hydraulic  propeller. 

*  Built  or  building  from  Mr  Reed's  designs. 

NOTE. — The  turret- vessels  have  thicker  armour  on  their  turrets. 

The  above  vessels  are  arranged  in  their  several  classes  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the 
order  in  which  they  were  built  or  converted. 


710 


Our  Ironclad  Shijis. 


[June 


"  prepared  outline  designs,  not  on 
extravagant  dimensions,  to  carry 
20-inch  armour  both  on  broadsides 
and  on  turrets."  In  order  to  give 
some  idea  of  what  strength  of  re- 
sistance to  shot  the  above  thick- 
nesses of  armour  indicate,  we  may 
mention  here  that  the  Armour  Plate 
Committee  have 'formed  the  con- 
clusion that  the  resisting  power  of 
iron  plates  varies  approximately  as 
the  square  of  the  thickness  ;  and 
upon  this  assumption,  if  we  take 
the  resisting  power  of  the  Warrior's 
armour  at  20,  that  of  the  Hercules 
would  be  81,  the  Hotspur,  ram- ves- 
sel, 121,  the  sides  of  the  Devasta- 
tion, monitor,  recently  laid  down 
at  Portsmouth,  144,  and  her  turrets 
196.  But  it  must  be  observed  that 
these  figures  do  not  adequately  ex- 
press the  difference  between  the 
older  and  the  later  ironclads,  since 
all  the  vessels  lately  built  have  an 
inner  skin  of  iron-plating  in  addi- 
tion, behind  the  wooden  backing  of 
the  armour-plate,  varying  from  1  j 
to  1^  inch  in  thickness  ;  while  the 
"  bracket-frame"  system  of  construc- 
tion adopted  by  Mr  Reed  still  fur- 
ther strengthens  the  side  of  the 
vessel. 

But  with  the  thickness  of  armour 
has  increased  the  power  of  artillery. 
The  battle  of  the  guns  and  armour- 
plates  has  been  obstinately  contest- 
ed on  both  sides,  and  is  still  raging 
with  violence.  The  Warrior's  ori- 
ginal armament  consisted  of  4|-ton 
smooth-bore  68-pounders,  with  a 
charge  of  16  lb.,  which  were  the 
heaviest  guns  carried  in  our  navy 
up  to  that  time.  We  have  advanced 
from  that  to  6|-ton,  9-ton,  and  12- 
ton  guns;  and  the  Hercules  actually 
carries  18-ton  rifled  guns  in  her 
broadside  -  ports,  throwing  400-lb. 
shot  with  60-lb.  charges ;  while  the 
Monarch  and  Captain  are  armed 
with  25-ton  600-pounders  in  their 
turrets,  and  the  new  monitor 
vessels  are  to  have  30-ton  guns 
throwing  600-lb.  projectiles  with  a 
charge  of  100  lb.  of  powder.  But 
even  this  is  not  all ;  for  while  Mr 
Reed  gives  us  a  hint  of  the  possible 


advance  to  20  inches  of  armour, 
from  Woolwich  arsenal  we  hear 
rumours  of  50-ton  1000-pounders 
to  be  forthcoming  by-and-by  ;  and 
it  is  said  that  the  Russians  even 
now  are  in  possession  of  such  a 
gun.  It  is  necessary  to  point  out 
here  that  the  number  of  guns  in 
the  accompanying  table  is  not  a  sure 
indication  of  the  fighting  powers  of 
the  different  ships,  for  the  later 
vessels  carry  much  heavier  guns, 
though  fewer  of  them,  than  the 
earlier  ships.  For  instance,  the  28 
guns  of  the  Agincourt  represent 
four  12-ton  250  -  pounders,  and 
twenty-four  6^-ton  115-pounders  ; 
while  the  14  guns  of  the  Hercules 
include  eight  18- ton  400-pounders, 
two  12-ton  guns,  and  four  6^-ton 
chase-guns.  Now,  seeing  that  the 
twenty-four  lighter  guns  of  the 
Agincourt's  armament  would  be 
quite  harmless  when  opposed  to 
armour  that  the  heavier  guns  would 
succeed  in  penetrating,  the  great 
superiority  of  the  offensive  power 
of  the  Hercules,  with  only  half  the 
number  of  guns,  is  manifest. 

Before  going  further  into  our 
subject,  it  may  be  well  to  compare 
the  French  and  American  ironclads 
with  our  own,  in  order  to  see  how 
we  stand  relatively  to  other  coun- 
tries. The  First  Lord  of  the  Ad- 
miralty, in  his  speech  introducing 
the  navy  estimates,  informed  the 
House  of  Commons  that  France  has 
33  sea-going  broadside-ships,  and 
2  turret-vessels  built  or  building, 
besides  5  small  rams — : total,  40  ; 
not  including  floating  batteries. 
Our  fleet,  it  will  be  seen  from  the 
table,  consists  of  29  heavy  broad- 
side-ships, 12  turret-vessels,  4  cor- 
vettes, and  3  gunboats — total,  48 ; 
also  not  including  floating  bat- 
teries. So  that  in  numbers  we  are 
not  far  superior,  but  in  the  strength 
and  power  of  the  ships  we  are  much 
more  so.  Mr  Reed  tells  us — and 
his  sources  of  information  are  un- 
exceptionable —  that  the  French 
broadside  -  ships  of  a  class  corre- 
sponding to  our  Invincible  carry 
armour  of  7-.  8  inches  at  the  water- 


J  870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


711 


line,  decreasing  to  6.2  inches  and 
4  inches  on  other  parts  ;  and  that 
their  rams  of  the  Belier  class 
have  8. 2 -inch  and  7-inch  armour, 
4t  the  strongest  carried  by  any  French 
vessel  yet  built."  Most  of  the  French 
ships  are  built  of  wood,  and  have 
10  inner  skin  of  iron-plating,  which 
we  have  now  universally  adopted, 
since  experiment  has  shown  that  it 
;idds  greatly  to  the  strength  of  the 
side,  as  well  as  to  protection  against 
splinters.  In  the  matter  of  arma- 
ment, the  French  ships  carry  guns 
of  7^  tons,  13|  tons,  and  21|  tons; 
3orresponding  very  nearly  to  our 
6^-ton,  12-ton,  and  18-ton  guns. 
But  the  French  guns  are  breech- 
loaders, with  all  the  defects  of  that 
system,  which  we  have  found  neces- 
sary to  abandon  entirely  for  heavy 
ordnance ;  and  there  seems  good 
reason  to  suppose  that  our  muzzle- 
loading  rifled  guns  are  far  superior 
to  the  weapons  of  our  neighbours, 
although  from  their  reticence  on 
these  matters  our  information  is 
but  limited. 

The  backward  condition  of  the 
iron  manufacture  of  the  United 
States  places  the  American  navy 
at  a  great  disadvantage  with  re- 
spect to  ironclads.  Nearly  all 
their  vessels  are  plated  with  lami- 
nated armour,  which  is  far  inferior 
to  solid  iron  of  a  similar  thickness. 
In  experiments  on  this  point,  the 
Armour  Plate  Committee  reported 
that  "  laminated  armour  is  con- 
siderably weaker  than  solid  ar- 
mour;" also,  that  "a  4-inch  solid 
plate  would  have  effectually  stop- 
ped all  the  projectiles,  whereas 
they  easily  penetrated  6  inches 
of  laminated  plates."  A  few  of 
their  ships  have  solid  armour,  but 
none  exceeding  5^  inches  thick. 
The  drawings  in  Mr  Reed's  book, 
representing  sections  of  the  sides 
of  various  types  of  ironclads,  ex- 
hibit at  a  glance  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  solid  slabs  of  iron  on  the 
sides  of  our  ships  and  the  built-up 
laminated  armour  of  the  American 
monitors ;  and  the  inferiority  of 
the  structural  arrangements  of  the 


latter  are  also  strikingly  evident. 
As  regards  guns,  the  Americans 
are  as  far  behind  us  and  the  French 
as  in  armour- plating.  They  have 
clung  with  tenacity  to  the  old  sys- 
tem of  cast-iron  smooth-bore  ord- 
nance ;  which,  however,  they  con- 
struct of  immense  size,  throwing 
enormous  but  weak  projectiles  at  a 
low  velocity.  The  effect  of  this  sys- 
tem is,  that  the  huge  cast-iron  shot 
have  but  little  penetrating. power, 
though  the  concussion  of  one  of 
them  weighing  nearly  half  a  ton  is 
very  great ;  and  it  may  be  a  ques- 
tion whether  greater  damage  might 
not  be  inflicted  upon  the  frame  of 
an  ironclad  by  heavy  thumping 
blows  from  such  projectiles  than 
from  a  smaller  shot  of  greater 
penetrating  power.  But  as  regards 
range,  and  capability  of  using  shells 
with  heavy  bursting  charges,  the 
American  guns  are  very  inferior ; 
and  general  opinion — including  the 
United  States  Ordnance  Commit- 
tee themselves — is  strongly  against 
their  system.  But  we  have  better 
authority  than  even  Mr  Reed  for 
the  inferiority  of  the  American 
navy  in  respect  of  ironclad  ships 
and  guns.  The  report  of  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy,  published  in  our 
newspapers  a  few  months  ago,  was 
a  most  humiliating  confession  of 
weakness  and  deficiency.  With 
but  few  exceptions  the  American 
ironclads  are  vessels  which  were 
constructed  to  meet  the  exigencies 
of  their  civil  war,  run  up  in  haste, 
weakly  built,  and  still  more  weakly 
armoured.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  the  Confederate  ports  were 
closely  blockaded,  that  they  had 
not  a  ship  at  sea,  nor  the  means  of 
building  a  sea-going  ironclad ;  and 
that  therefore  the  only  fighting 
possible  was  in  their  harbours, 
creeks,  and  rivers.  Seaworthiness 
was  consequently  not  a  very  essen- 
tial qualification  for  the  monitors 
of  the  Federal  navy,  and  so  they 
were  planned  accordingly.  No 
doubt  these  vessels  are  still  useful 
for  harbour  defence,  but  we  may 
be  quite  certain  that  the  fighting 


712 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


powers  of  the  greater  part  of  them 
will  never  be  tested  at  sea.  The 
sea -going  ironclad  fleet  of  the 
United  States  has  yet  to  be  built. 

The  question  of  wood  or  iron  for 
the  construction  of  armoured  ships 
has  now  passed  the  stage  of  argu- 
ment and  discussion.  Iron  has  so 
many  important  advantages  over 
wood  for  that  purpose,  that  in  this 
country  the  latter  has  been  entirely 
given  up  for  ironclad  shipbuild- 
ing. Of  the  fourteen  wood-built 
ironclads  in  our  navy,  only  three 
— the  Pallas,  Lord  Clyde,  and  Lord 
Warden — were  originally  laid  down 
as  such  ;  the  others  being  convert- 
ed while  on  the  stocks  in  process 
of  construction  as  unarmoured  ves- 
sels. And  these  three,  Mr  Reed 
tells  us,  were  built  solely  in  order 
to  utilise  the  store  of  timber  lying 
in  the  dockyards.  It  is  therefore 
unnecessary  to  go  into  the  various 
arguments  for  and  against  the  two 
systems,  more  especially  as  this  has 
been  done  previously  in  these  col- 
umns; it  is  sufficient  to  indicate  the 
two  points  in  which  the  superiority 
of  iron  chiefly  consists.  In  the 
first  place,  an  iron-built  ship  ad- 
mits of  much  greater  strength,  com- 
bined with  a  less  corresponding 
weight,  than  a  wooden  hull  of  the 
same  capacity;  therefore  the  weight 
saved  in  this  respect  may  be  appli- 
ed to  a  greater  thickness  of  armour, 
heavier  guns,  more  powerful  machi- 
nery, or  in  any  way  desirable.  Or, 
as  Mr  Reed  puts  it,  if  the  two  ships 
carry  the  same  weights,  the  size  of 
the  iron-built  ship  might  be  reduc- 
ed by  just  that  number  of  tons. 
Next,  building  with  iron  admits  of 
the  hull  being  divided  into  water- 
tight compartments,  and  of  being 
constructed  upon  the  cellular  prin- 
ciple, by  which  the  bottom  of  the 
vessel  is  doubled  throughout — a 
skin  within  a  skin — the  intervening 
space  being  crossed  by  numerous 
longitudinal  and  transverse  girders, 
which  give  support  to  both  the  iron 
skins,  and  also  strengthen  the 
structure  as  a  whole.  This  system 
of  building,  which  was  only  par- 


tially adopted  in  the  earliest  ships, 
has  been  fully  developed  in  the 
later  vessels  :  it  affords  very  much 
greater  security  against  the  attack 
of  a  ram,  a  shot  striking  below  the 
armour,  or  the  effects  of  running 
upon  a  rock.  We  may  add  that 
iron-built  vessels  are  more  durable, 
and  are  easier  of  repair.  The 
strongest  objection  to  them  at  pre- 
sent is  the  extreme  liability  of  the 
bottom  to  fouling,  from  the  growth 
of  weed,  rendering  frequent  dock- 
ing necessary ;  but  it  is  impossible 
to  doubt  that  in  this  scientific  age 
some  efficacious  method  will  be  dis- 
covered to  prevent  such  a  serious 
defect;  and  in  fact  some  of  the 
later  anti  -  fouling  compositions 
have  succeeded  very  well.  Further 
experiments  for  the  protection  of  the 
iron  bottom  from  fouling  are  about 
to  be  tried  in  some  of  the  ships  of 
the  Invincible  class ;  the  Swiftsure 
and  Triumph  are  to  have  a  thin 
wooden  planking  over  their  bottom, 
with  the  ordinary  copper  sheathing 
over  that;  and  the  Audacious  is, 
we  believe,  sheathed  with  zinc  di- 
rectly over  the  iron. 

In  contrasting  the  more  recent 
with  the  earlier  ironclads,  one  of 
Mr  Reed's  strong  points  is  the  im- 
proved structural  arrangements  of 
his  ships,  which,  combined  with 
an  altered  form  of  body,  has  re- 
sulted in  greatly  decreasing  the 
actual  weight  of  the  hull  in  com- 
parison with  the  amount  of  weight 
carried  by  it,  while  at  the  same 
time  increasing  its  strength.  This 
result,  which  would  almost  seem 
paradoxical,  has  been  attained  by 
the  introduction  of  the  "bracket- 
frame"  system  of  building — to  ex- 
plain which  would  involve  much 
technicality — and  by  the  adoption 
of  the  U-form  for  the  transverse  sec- 
tions of  the  bow,  instead  of  that  of  a 
V-shape,  as  mentioned  above.  One 
of  the  tables,  with  which  the  book 
before  us  is  so  well  supplied,  shows 
that  the  hull  of  the  Black  Prince,, 
sister  ship  to  the  Warrior,  weighs 
4969  tons ;  and  the  total  of  weights 
carried  by  it  (including  armour, 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


713 


armament,  machinery,  coals,  and 
equipment)  is  4281  tons.  In  the 
Defence,  another  of  the  earliest 
ships,  the  hull  weighs  3500  tons; 
weights  carried,  2492  tons.  The 
Bellerophon,  one  of  Mr  Reed's  first 
vessels,  has  a  weight  of  hull  of  3652 
tons,  to  3798  tons  of  weight  carried ; 
the  Monarch  turret-ship  has  a  hull 
of  3674  tons,  and  carries  4632  tons ; 
and  the  Audacious  has  2675  tons' 
weight  of  hull,  to  3224  tons  carried. 
But  we  must  let  Mr  Reed  sing  the 
praises  of  his  own  ships  here  : — 

"Another  very  striking  instance  of 
the  progress  made  since  iron  hulls  came 
into  vogue  for  iron  clad  ships  is  afforded 
Ly  the  comparison  of  the  Defence  with 
the  Audacious.  The  total  weight  of 
these  ships  and  their  lading  is  very 
i  early  the  same — the  Defence  weighing 
f>992  tons,  and  the  Audacious  5899  tons, 
when  fully  equipped.  In  the  Defence, 
however,  the  hull  exceeds  the  weights 
carried  by  1000  tons ;  while  in  the  Au- 
dacious the  hull  is  less  than  the  weights 
carried  by  550  tons.  The  difference  in 
favour  of  the  carrying  power  of  the 
Audacious  amounts  to  730  tons,  al- 
though she  is  specially  strengthened 
fund  constructed  on  the  bracket-frame 
system,  while  the  Defence  is  built  after 
the  Warrior  pattern.  Perhaps  the  real 
magnitude  of  this  saving  will  be  better 
appreciated  if  I  state  that  if  the  De- 
fence had  been  built  on  the  system  of 
the  Audacious,  and  the  armoured  sur- 
face had  remained  the  same,  while  in 
j;ll  other  particulars  the  ship  had  been 
completed  as  she  now  stands,  the  saving 
i  u  weight  of  hull  would  have  been  suffi- 
c  ient  to  have  more  than  doubled  the 
thickness  of  armour  throughout.  As 
it  is,  we  find  the  Audacious  carrying 
8-inch  and  6-inch  armour  instead  of  the 
4.^ -inch  armour  of  the  Defence,  having 
:*  total  weight  of  armour  and  backing 

<  xceeding  that  carried  by  the  Defence 
by  210  tons,  and  carrying  besides  520 
t  ons  greater  weight  of  armament,  machi- 
nery, coals,  and  equipment.     All  these 
advantages  have  been  gained  in  this 

<  ase,  be  it  remem  bered,  in  a  ship  of  com- 
paratively small    size,   the    Audacious 
being  of  2847  tons  less  tonnage  than 
the  Minotaur." 

This  result  is  certainly  most  cre- 
ditable to  Mr  Reed,  and  he  may  be 
pardoned  the  exultation  he  exhibits 
regarding  it. 

But  there  is  another  and  even 


more  important  advantage  of  the 
more  recently  built  ships,  in  their 
moderate  length.  The  extreme 
length  of  the  Warrior  and  Minotaur 
classes  renders  them  very  unhandy 
ships  for  manoeuvring  purposes,  and 
is  inconvenient  in  other  respects. 
One  of  the  most  important  requi- 
sites for  a  fighting  ship  is  handi- 
ness  j  and  the  value  of  quick-turn- 
ing vessels  will  be  clearly  exhibited 
in  the  next  general  action  at  sea, 
whenever  it  may  take  place.  In 
the  days  of  sailing-vessels,  there 
was  not  room  for  so  much  differ- 
ence between  ships  in  this  respect 
as  at  present,  and  the  conditions  of 
wind  and  weather  imposed  absolute 
limits  upon  the  choice  of  positions 
that  hostile  ships  could  take  up 
with  respect  to  each  other,  as  well 
as  upon  the  manoeuvres  which  they 
could  execute.  But  now  that  a  ship 
under  steam  can,  in  any  weather  in 
which  it  is  possible  to  fight  her  guns, 
take  up  any  position  she  chooses, 
and  change  that  position  in  any 
way  she  pleases,  independently  of 
the  direction  of  the  wind ;  and  see- 
ing that  every  ship  has  some  weak 
point — some  one  direction  in  which 
she  can  bring  the  fewest  guns  to 
bear,  or  exposes  some  ill-protected 
part  of  her  hull,  and  which  the 
enemy  would  probably  select  for 
his  point  of  attack, — it  follows  that, 
with  equal-  offensive  and  defensive 
powers,  the  more  handy  ship  would 
have  a  great  advantage  over  her  an- 
tagonist. The  superiority  of  short 
vessels  in  this  respect  has  been  so- 
fully  acknowledged  on  all  sides,  and 
is  in  fact  so  self-evident,  that  we 
need  not  enlarge  upon  this  point. 
The  Admiralty  have  thoroughly  re- 
cognised the  principle,  and  no  ship 
laid  down  since  the  Minotaur  class 
has  exceeded  330  feet  in  length,  or 
70  feet  shorter  than  those  vessels  ; 
while  the  greater  part  of  Mr  Reed's 
ships  do  not  exceed  280  feet  long, 
or  100  feet  shorter  than  the  War- 
rior. 

"  The  actual  introduction  of  this  im- 
provement," says  Mr  Reed,  "is  due 
much  more  to  Sir  Spencer  Robinson, 


714 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


the  Controller  of  the  Navy,  than  to  any 
other  person  ;  and  the  foresight  and 
persistency  with  which  he  carried  this 
change  through  will  never  be  more  f  idly 
appreciated  than  in  the  hour  of  action, 
should  that  unhappily  arrive." 

In  truth,  it  is  to  this  talented  and 
accomplished  officer  that  the  coun- 
try is  mainly  indebted  for  the  many 
improvements  in  our  ships  during 
the  last  few  years,  and  it  is  credit- 
able to  Mr  Reed  that  he  is  ready  to 
acknowledge  the  advantage  which 
he  has  derived  from  serving  under 
so  able  a  chief. 

It  may  naturally  be  concluded 
that  the  decreased  length  of  our 
ships  has  lessened  their  expense ; 
and  in  fact  the  later-built  ironclads 
have  cost  much  less  than  the  ear- 
lier ones.  Mr  Reed  takes  credit, 
and  justly  so,  for  the  comparative 
cheapness  of  his  vessels;  but  on 
this  point  there  is  something  to 
be  considered.  Iron  shipbuilding 
had  never  been  practised  in  the 
Royal  dockyards  till  the  Achilles 
was  laid  down  at  Chatham  in  1861. 
It  was  therefore  an  entirely  new 
description  of  work  for  the  dock- 
yard people  ;  and  naturally  the  first 
ships  constructed  by  them  on  this 
principle  would  cost  more  than 
those  following,  when  the  men  had 
become  more  accustomed  to  the 
work,  and  the  system  had  got  into 
regular  order.  But  the  'difference 
is,  after  all,  not  really  so  great  as 
the  figures  in  Mr  Reed's  book  might 
lead  one  to  suppose.  For  instance, 
the  Achilles  cost,  in  actual  outlay 
on  labour  and  materials,  .£470,330, 
and  the  Bellerophon,  built  immedi- 
ately after  in  the  same  yard,  and, 
we  believe,  in  the  same  dock,  cost 
.£364,327.  But  the  Achilles  is  380 
feet  long,  and  the  Bellerophon  only 
300  ;  therefore  the  Achilles  cost 
£1238  per  foot  of  length,  and  the 
Bellerophon  £1214 — an  inappreci- 
able difference.  Or,  taking  the 
tonnage  of  the  two  ships,  that  of 
the  Achilles  being  6121,  and  the 
Bellerophon  4270,  the  former  ves- 
sel cost  £77  a-ton,  the  latter  £85, 
the  balance  in  this  case  being 


against  Mr  Reed's  ship.  But  as 
the  Bellerophon  is  of  a  more  com- 
plicated construction,  and  carries 
heavier  armour  than  the  Achilles, 
the  outlay  upon  her  would  conse- 
quently be  greater  in  proportion, 
which  would  account  for  this  differ- 
ence. 

Nothing  is  so  striking,  at  first 
sight,  in  considering  this  recon- 
struction of  the  navy,  as  the  small 
amount  of  the  actual  cost  of  the 
ships  when  compared  with  the  total 
sums  voted  annually  by  Parliament 
for  the  Navy  Estimates.  We  are 
told  by  Mr  Reed  that  our  new  iron- 
clad fleet,  which  was  commenced 
in  May  1859,  cost,  in  round  num- 
bers, ten  millions  sterling  up  to 
January  1869,  or  about  a  million 
a-year.  In  these  ten  years  the 
total  amount  voted  by  Parliament 
was  £116,800,000. 

"Out  of  this  116  millions  sterling, 
10  millions  only  have,  as  we  have  seen, 
been  expended  upon  the  building  and 
equipment  of  new  ironclads,  the  remain- 
ing 106  millions  having  been  expended 
upon  other  objects.  It  is  desirable  that 
this  fact  should  be  better  understood 
than  it  is  at  present.  There  are  many 
influential  persons  who  seem  to  think 
that  it  is  upon  new  ironclad  ships  that 
millions  have  been  annually  spent  of 
late  years,  whereas,  in  point  of  fact, 
one  million  per  year,  or  less  than  one- 
eleventh  of  our  outlay  on  the  navy,  is 
all  that  has  been  expended  in  this  way ; 
and  I  venture  to  say  that  it  would  be 
very  difficult  to  prove  either  that  our 
present  magnificent  and  powerful  iron- 
clad fleet  has  been  dearly  purchased 
at  10  millions,  or  that  any  other  10 
millions  of  the  116  have  secured  for 
the  country  a  more  valuable  result." 

There  is,  after  all,  nothing  sur- 
prising or  unreasonable  in  this.  If 
the  accounts  of  any  of  the  large 
railway  companies  were  examined, 
the  cost  of  new  rolling-stock  would 
be  found  to  bear  but  a  small  pro- 
portion to  the  total  outlay ;  and  so 
also  with  respect  to  the  great  steam- 
ship companies,  whose  expenditure 
on  new  vessels  is  but  small  when 
compared  with  the  whole  amount 
exhibited  on  the  balance-sheet. 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


'15 


We  must  remember  that  our  naval 
establishments  require  to  be  main- 
tained upon  such  a  scale,  as  that 
they  shall  be  capable  of  enduring 
an  immense  strain,  in  the  event  of 
any  sudden  and  unforeseen  emer- 
gency arising,  without  the  proba- 
bility of  their  breaking  down  at  a 
critical  moment.  It  is  this  that 
excites  such  distrust  with  regard  to 
the  sweeping  reductions  which  have 
been  taking  place.  It  is  not  only 
a  question  as  to  whether,  in  peace 
time,  we  cannot  do  with  a  few  ships 
less  in  commission,  with  a  smaller 
number  of  officers,  dockyard  offi- 
cials, and  admiralty  clerks,  and  with 
magazines  of  stores  reduced  to  a 
minimum.  The  question  to  con- 
sider is,  whether  we  shall  be  in  a 
condition  to  send  a  powerful  fleet 
to  sea  at  short  notice,  to  bring  for- 
ward rapidly  a  second  fleet  to  sup- 
port it,  and  to  repair  and  refit  our 
ships  in  the  shortest  possible  time 
as  they  come  in  disabled.  This  is 
a  very  grave  consideration  for  Eng- 
land ;  and  beside  it  the  showy  tri- 
umphs of  a  surplus  budget  would, 
if  the  hour  of  danger  should  arrive, 
prove  illusory  phantoms. 

When  we  come  to  consider  the 
speed  of  our  ironclads,  we  touch 
one  of  the  weak  points  of  the  short 
ships,  notwithstanding  Mr  Reed's 
protestations  to  the  contrary,  with 
whom  we  find  ourselves  at  direct 
issue  here.  He  says: — 

"  I  am  warranted  in  making  the  as- 
sertion that  in  armoured  ships,  as  the 
extent  and  thickness  of  the  armour  to  be 
carried  are  increased,  the  proportion  of 
length  to  breadth  should  he  diminished, 
and  the  fulness  of  the  water-lines  in- 
creased; and  that  the  shorter,  fuller 
ship  can  be  propelled  at  as  great  a  speed 
as  the  longer,  finer  ship,  with  about  the 
same,  or  only  a  little  greater,  horse- 
power. " 

To  the  first  part  of  this  proposi- 
tion we  have  nothing  to  object;  but 
to  the  latter  we  take  leave  to  demur 
entirely,  and  to  advance  instead, 
that  "  the  shorter,  fuller  ship  can 
only  be  propelled  at  as  great  a  speed 
as  the  longer,  finer  ship,  by  a  very 

VOL.  CVTI. — NO.  DCLVI. 


considerable  addition  to  her  horse- 
power, and  by  sacrificing  a  portion 
of  her  coal -stowage"  And  this  we 
propose  to  show  by  Mr  Reed's  own 
figures  and  statements,  though  it  is 
such  an  evident  truism  as  to  be 
hardly  worth  the  arguing. 

"The  old  type  of  marine  engine, 
with  which  our  wooden  ships  and  the 
earlier  ironclads  were  supplied,  was 
capable  of  developing  from  four  to  five 
times  the  nominal  power,  and  the  total 
weight  of  engines  and  boilers  but  little 
exceeded  three-quarters  of  a  ton  per 
nominal  horse-power.  It  had  been 
gradually  improved  during  a  long  course 
of  years,  and  had  been  brought  to  such 
perfection  that  the  guaranteed  power 
was  often  exceeded  on  the  measured- 
mile  trial.  The  great  drawback,  how- 
ever, to  its  many  excellences  was  its 
large  consumption  of  fuel ;  and,  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  the  new  type  of  engine, 
with  surface  condensers,  superheaters, 
and  other  contrivances  for  economising 
fuel,  was  introduced.  This  type  is 
capable  of  developing  from  six  to  seven 
times  the  nominal  power,  and  the  total 
weight  of  engines  and  boilers  about 
equals  one  ton  per  nominal  horse- 
power. The  weight  of  the  new  engines 
is  thus  considerably  greater  per  nominal 
horse-power  than  the  old,  but  the  de- 
veloped power  is  also  greater,  and,  as  I 
shall  show  hereafter,  they  are  far  more 
economical  of  fuel." 

Therefore  it  is  manifest  that,  if 
the  longer  vessels  were  supplied 
with  the  same  improved  machin- 
ery, they  would  steam  just  so  much 
faster,  inasmuch  as  a  greater  power 
would  be  developed  ;  while,  at  the 
same  time,  their  supply  of  coal 
would  last  longer  than  it  now 
does,  from  the  economy  resulting 
from  the  improved  engines.  No 
doubt  there  is  some  limit  to  the 
proportion  of  length  to  breadth  be- 
yond which  the  extra  speed  would 
be  swallowed  up  by  the  increased 
frictional  resistance  of  the  sides  of 
the  vessel ;  but  the  limits  imposed 
by  the  conditions  of  seaworthiness 
are  certainly  within  this,  and  there- 
fore it  is  that  we  find  that  the  fast- 
est vessels  are  always  the  longest 
in  proportion  to  their  power.  Mr 
Reed  shows  us  kow  dearly  bought 
are  the  last  two  knots  of  speed  in 
30 


716 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


fast  ships ;  that,  in  fact,  "  it  may 
be  taken  as  roughly  correct  to  say 
that,  to  increase  a  speed  of,  say, 
nearly  12  knots  to  over  14  knots,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  nearly  double 
the  power — in  some  cases  to  quite 
double  it."  For  instance,  the  Mino- 
taur at  11.84  knots  was  working  at 
3497  indicated  H.-R,  but  at  14.33 
knots  the  H.-P.  developed  was  6949, 
or  very  nearly  double  for  the  2.49 
knots  increase  of  speed.  The  en- 
gines of  the  Hercules,  steaming  at 
12.12  knots,  developed  4045  indi- 
cated H.-R,  while  at  14.69  knots 
they  worked  up  to  8529  H.-P.,  or 
considerably  more  than  double  for 
the  extra  2.57  knots.  Here  we  see 
that  the  shorter  vessel  required  a 
much  greater  proportional  increase 
of  power  to  obtain  the  additional 
2^  knots  than  the  long  one ;  and 
the  higher  the  rate  of  speed  the 
greater  sacrifice  of  power  is  neces- 
sary for  each  additional  knot. 
Applying,  then,  this  principle,  we 
shall  find  that  it  is  by  no  means  a 
slight  addition  to  the  engine-power 
that  is  required  to  bring  the  speed 
of  a  short  ship  up  to  that  of  a  long 
one.  The  Warrior,  of  380  feet  long 
and  1250  nominal  H.-R,  has  a  speed 
of  14.3  knots;  the  Hercules,  55  feet 
shorter  and  1200  H.-R,  is  T4o  of  a 
knot  faster.  Now  the  Hercules  is 
fitted  with  all  the  latest  improve- 
ments of  machinery  mentioned 
above,  and  her  engines  and  boilers 
weigh  1206  tons  to  the  Warrior's 
920.  At  the  same  time,  the  Her- 
cules' engines  work  up  to  8529  in- 
dicated H.-P.,  or  more  than  seven 
times  the  nominal  power;  while 
those  of  the  Warrior  develop  less 
than  five  times  their  nominal  power, 
or  little  more  than  two-thirds  of  the 
indicated  H.-P.  of  the  Hercules. 
Now,  let  us  imagine  the  two  ships 
to  have  changed  their  machinery, 
and  what  would  be  the  result  ?  The 
speed  of  the  Hercules  would  be  re- 
duced to  about  13|  knots,  while 
that  of  the  Warrior  would  exceed 
15  knots.  Or  give  the  Warrior 
machinery  similar  to  that  of  the 
Hercules,  and  her  speed  would  ex- 


ceed that  of  the  latter  vessel  by 
half  a  knot,  instead  of  being  nearly 
half  a  knot  less. 

With  respect  to  the  stowage  of 
coal,  similar  reasoning  applies.  Mr 
Reed  gives  a  table  showing  the  dis- 
tances various  ships  can  steam  at 
different  speeds  before  their  coal  is 
exhausted.  Of  the  six  ships  men- 
tioned, the  Monarch  stands  first  in 
this  respect,  then  Warrior,  Her- 
cules, Bellerophon,  Achilles,  Mino- 
taur, in  order  of  merit ;  thus,  with 
the  exception  of  Warrior,  showing 
a  superiority  in  favour  of  the  shorter 
ships.  Now,  let  us  again  compare 
the  Hercules  and  Warrior.  The 
former  vessel  carries  600  tons  of 
coal,  which,  at  a  speed  of  11  knots, 
will  cover  a  distance  of  2030  miles. 
The  Warrior  carries  800  tons,  and 
can  steam  at  the  same  speed  2100 
miles.  But  the  machinery  of  the 
Hercules  weighs,  as  we  have  seen, 
286  tons  more  than  the  Warrior's. 
If  we  then  imagine  the  Warrior  to 
be  fitted  with  similar  machinery, 
her  stowage  of  coal  must,  to  main- 
tain the  same  line  of  flotation,  be 
reduced  to  514  tons,  or  86  tons  less 
than  the  Hercules  ;  but  her  speed 
will  have  become  so  greatly  in- 
creased, and  her  boilers  so  much 
more  economical,  that  she  would 
be  able  to  steam  almost  if  not  quite 
as  great  a  distance  as  before,  but 
certainly  as  far  as  the  other  ship. 
But  the  improvements  of  machinery 
above  mentioned,  though  they  in- 
crease the  weight  considerably,  do 
not  materially  affect  the  space  occu- 
pied—  indeed  the  boilers  occupy 
less  space — and  therefore  the  War- 
rior would  still  be  able  to  carry  her 
800  tons  of  coal,  with  but  a  slight 
increase  to  her  draught  of  water. 
Thus  then  we  find  that,  with  simi- 
lar machinery,  the  long  ship  not 
only  steams  half  a  knot  faster  at 
full  speed  than  the  short  one,  but 
carries  coal  enough  to  take  her  a 
distance  of  at  least  half  as  far  again 
as  the  other.  And  here  it  must  be 
remarked  that  we  have  chosen  one 
of  Mr  Reed's  largest  ships  as  an 
example  for  our  reasoning;  were 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


717 


we  to  take  a  shorter  vessel  she 
would  contrast  still  more  unfavour- 
ably in  these  respects. 

The  above  is  so  self-evident  a 
proposition  that  it  would  be  a  waste 
of  argument  to  maintain  it,  were  it 
not  that  Mr  Eeed  has  endeavoured 
to  persuade  the  public  that  short 
ships  may  be  made  to  go  as  fast  as 
long  ones,  and  at  the  same  time 
carry  as  much  or  more  coal — which 
is  a  simple  impossibility.  Inven- 
tors are  proverbially  enthusiasts. 
The  mind,  from  dwelling  so  long 
and  anxiously  upon  the  work  of  its 
creation,  becomes  totally  insensi- 
ble to  its  imperfections,  and  can 
perceive  nothing  but  faultless  excel- 
lence. Like  a  fond  mother,  who  is 
as  blind  to  the  failings  of  her  own 
darlings  as  she  is  slow  to  acknow- 
ledge attractions  in  any  others,  so 
Mr  Reed,  not  content  with  the 
many  good  points  which  his  ships 
really  possess,  insists  that  they 
have  no  faults  whatever,  and  that 
they  combine  even  those  qualities 
which  are  irreconcilable.  He  says 
^tgain : — 

"It  must  be  obvious  that,  if  a  ship 
300  feet  long,  plated  all  over  with  given 
armour,  carrying  a  given  armament,  and 
costing,  say  £300,000,  steams  at  a  given 
speed  with  a  given  power,  it  would  be  a 
mere  waste  of  money  and  a  sacrifice  of 
liandiness  to  build  her  400  feet  long,  at 
a  cost,  say,  of  £380,000,  for  no  other 
object  than  that  of  driving  the  greater 
weight  at  the  same  speed  with  about  the 
same  power." 

To  this  we  would  reply  : — "  Cer- 
tainly, if  there  were  no  other  object 
to  be  attained  by  it ;  but  since  the 
increased  coal-stowage,  gained  by 
the  greater  length,  would  enable 
the  greater  weight  to  be  driven  at 
the  same  speed  with  about  the 
same  power  for  a  much  greater  dis- 
tance or  a  much  longer  time,  there  is 
clearly  another  object — and  a  very 
important  one — to  be  gained,  which 
must  not  be  ignored." 

From  what  has  been  said  pre- 
viously, it  will  not  be  supposed 
that  we  are  advocating  a  return  to 
long  ships ;  we  merely  desire  to 
point  out  what  Mr  Reed  strives  to 


conceal,  that  short  ships  have  their 
failings  as  well  as  their  merits. 
The  fact  is — and  no  one  knows  it 
better  than  Mr  Reed  himself,  not- 
withstanding his  book — it  is  impos- 
sible to  combine  in  any  vessel,  to  a 
maximum  extent,  all  the  qualities 
which  are  desirable  for  a  war-ship. 
We  want  to  carry  heavy  guns, 
capable  of  being  fired  in  any  direc- 
tion, and  armour  of  sufficient  thick- 
ness to  resist  equally  heavy  artil- 
lery ;  we  want  a  high  rate  of  speed, 
and  great  capacity  for  stowage  of 
fuel  •  we  want  our  ship  to  be  of 
moderate  length,  so  as  to  be  quick 
and  handy  in  manoeuvring;  she 
must  not  draw  too  much  water ;  she 
must  have  sufficient  sail-power  to 
be  able  to  dispense  with  steam 
when  it  is  not  specially  required  ; 
she  must  also  have  a  steady  gun- 
platform,  or,  in  other  words,  must 
not  roll ;  and  she  must  carry  her 
guns  sufficiently  high  out  of  the 
water.  Every  shipbuilder  and 
every  sailor  knows  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  get  all  these  desirable 
qualities  in  one  vessel  Some  of 
them  may  be  obtained  to  a  high 
degree,  but  only  by  a  sacrifice  of 
others,  and  therefore  every  iron- 
clad— and  indeed  we  may  say  every 
vessel  of  whatever  description — is 
a  compromise  of  some  sort.  That 
our  later  and  shorter  ironclads  do 
compare  favourably  with  the  long 
ones  in  combining  a  high  speed 
with  a  fair  stowage  of  coal,  is  due, 
as  we  have  seen,  solely  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  the  engine-makers 
having  devised  means  of  develop- 
ing a  greater  power  with  a  smaller 
expense  of  fuel ;  and  of  this  im- 
provement having  come  about  just 
in  time  for  Mr  Reed  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it  for  his  vessels.  With- 
out this  improvement  of  machinery, 
the  short  ships  must  either  have 
been  considerably  slower  than  the 
long  ones,  or  would  have  carried 
a  very  small  quantity  of  coal. 

The  question  of  the  most  desir- 
able speed  for  our  ironclads  is  a 
matter  for  much  consideration,  and 
is  open  to  argument  on  the  point 


718 


Our  Ironclad  Shijjs. 


[June- 


of  how  far  capacity  for  coal-stowage 
should  be  given  up  to  increased 
engine-power.  It  is,  we  venture  to 
say,  too  much  taken  for  granted 
that  great  speed  is  necessary  above 
all  other  things  for  these  vessels. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
ironclads  are  our  present  line-of- 
battle  ships ;  and  that  the  capability 
of  keeping  the  sea  for  a  lengthened 
period,  without  being  compelled  to 
go  into  port  to  coal,  would  probably 
in  war-time  prove  to  be  even  a  more 
important  qualification  for  such 
vessels  than  great  speed.  Expe- 
rience has  shown  that  when  a 
squadron  of  ironclads  are  cruising 
together,  it  is  necessary  that  the 
steam  should  always  be  ready  for 
use  ;  since  these  ponderous  vessels 
are  not  sufficiently  manageable 
under  sail  alone  to  be  depended 
upon  for  manoeuvring  and  keeping 
proper  station.  And  when  cruising 
off  and  blockading  an  enemy's  port, 
or  even  when  at  anchor  in  the 
vicinity,  it  will  certainly  be  requi- 
site to  keep  the  fires  constantly 
alight,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  an 
attack  at  any  moment.  Now,  speed 
is  synonymous  with  horse-power, 
which  means  consumption  of  fuel, 
and  this  implies  space  which  is 
fixed  within  arbitrary  limits ;  and 
so  long  as  coal  continues  to  be  the 
fuel  used,  these  limits  are  of  no 
great  extent.  A  reduction  of  the 
power  of  the  engines  gives  smaller 
boilers  and  more  space  for  coal,  and 
the  result  is  twofold,  since  the  con- 
sumption of  coal  is  diminished 
while  the  quantity  carried  is  in- 
creased. Hence  we  see  that  for 
one  of  the  purposes  which  our  iron- 
clads would  probably  be  called 
upon  to  fulfil  in  war-time  —  that 
of  a  blockading  squadron  —  speed 
would  be  a  secondary  qualification 
to  stowage  of  coal.  We  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  some  very  fast 
ships  would  not  be  required  ;  on 
the  contrary,  even  a  squadron  such 
as  we  have  supposed  ought  to  have 
some  such  vessels  attached  to  it ; 
but  for  the  main  body  of  the  fleet, 
which  is  to  be  considered  as  the  linc- 


of-battle,  the  experience  of  future 
naval  wars  will  probably  show  that 
great  speed  is  not  so  desirable  as- 
to  be  able  to  keep  the  sea  for  a 
lengthened  period.  It  is  with  ships 
as  with  horses,  we  cannot  combine 
the  swiftness  of  the  English  racer 
with  the  endurance  of  the  Arab; 
each  have  their  good  qualities  and 
each  is  useful  for  different  purposes. 
We  have  scarcely  perhaps  yet 
realised  the  peculiarly  accidental 
character  which  future  naval  war- 
fare will  probably  acquire.  Past 
experience  shows  us  how  the  best- 
laid  plans  and  calculations  of  cur- 
ablest  admirals  were  liable  to- 
be  frustrated  by  the  chances  of 
wind,  weather,  and  tide  ;  and  it  is- 
frequently  taken  for  granted  that, 
as  the  steam-power  of  modern  fleets 
enables  these  considerations  to  be 
in  a  great  measure  set  aside,  com- 
binations will  be  formed  and  man- 
oeuvres planned  with  the  greatest 
certainty  of  accomplishment.  But 
the  truth  is,  there  are  many  ele- 
ments of  uncertainty  in  such  com- 
plicated machines  as  our  present 
war-ships,  which  the  old  sailing 
fleets  were  free  from.  Bottoms 
will  get  foul,  coal  will  become  ex- 
hausted, engines  will  break  down, 
valves  will  get  out  of  order,  boilers 
will  leak — all  these  are  accidents 
to  which  steam  -  ships  are  liable 
at  any  time;  and,  besides  these, 
there  will  be  the  chances  of  irrepar- 
able damage  from  battle  or  tor- 
pedo explosions.  For  one  of  the 
contrasts  between  past  and  future 
naval  wars  will  be  the  terrible  in- 
jury that  ships  will  inflict  upon  one 
another  with  the  destructive  mo- 
dern weapons.  In  Nelson's  time, 
unless  a  ship  were  dismasted,  it 
was  frequently  unnecessary  even  to 
make  for  an  anchorage  after  a  bat- 
tle— the  damages  could  generally 
be  repaired  at  sea  ;  but  this  will 
now  be  out  of  the  question  ;  for  if 
an  action  between  two  ironclads 
with  heavy  guns  be  only  moderately 
well  contested,  the  chances  are  ten 
to  one  that,  if  the  ships  survive  the 
conflict — that  is,  continue  to  float — 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  /SI^s. 


719 


they  will  both  have  to  go  into  port 
for  repairs  to  make  them  seaworthy. 

The  tentative  progress  of  our 
ironclad  shipbuilding  —  the  con- 
sequence partly  of  the  rapid  ad- 
vance in  guns  and  armour-plating, 
and  also  of  the  entire  novelty  of 
the  system,  with  the  want  of  pre- 
vious experience  as  a  guide — has 
produced  a  great  diversity  of  type 
in  our  armoured  fleet.  Leaving 
out  the  rams  and  the  smaller  ves- 
sels, and  taking  only  those  that 
may  be  looked  upon  as  ships  of 
the  line,  there  are  some  seven  or 
eight  distinct  classes,  differing 
greatly  in  some  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  dimensions,  armour,  arma- 
ment, speed,  handiness,  and  rig. 
That  this  want  of  uniformity  could 
have  been  avoided,  without  retard- 
ing the  advance  which  has  been 
made  in  the  qualities  of  our  ships, 
we  do  not  believe ;  and  we  quite 
agree  with  Mr  Reed  that  "  variety 
of  design  resulting  from  progres- 
sive improvements  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  a  non-progressive  unifor- 
mity." But  a  nearer  approach 
to  uniformity  than  exists  at  present 
is  not  the  less  desirable  when  a 
.-satisfactory  type  of  ship  is  obtained. 
The  difficulties  of  manoeuvring  a 
ifleet  in  action  will  be  great  enough 
as  it  is,  from  the  smoke  of  fifty 
funnels  and  monster  guns,  without 
the  additional  perplexities  of  ves- 
sels of  very  different  speeds  and 
turning  powers.  We  cannot  there- 
fore agree  with  Mr  Reed  when  he 
considers  this  diversity  of  type 
rather  advantageous  than  other- 
wise. 

The  invention  of  the  balanced 
•rudder  is  another  circumstance 
which  has  given  an  adventitious 
superiority  to  our  later  ironclads  in 
respect  to  quickness  of  turning; 
and  Mr  Reed  has  not  been  slow  to 
take  advantage  of  it  for  his  ships. 
The  merits  of  this  invention  are, 
that  it  enables  a  greater  rudder- 
surface  to  be  applied,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  it  allows  the  helm  to  be 
.put  further  over  than  was  possible 
with  the  common  rudder  when  going 


at  full  speed  in  a  powerful  ship. 
This  has  produced  a  great  effect  in 
improving  the  turning  qualities  of 
ships  under  steam;  and  as  it  has 
only  been  introduced  in  the  later 
ships,  it  has  given  the  shorter 
vessels  another  great  superiority 
over  the  long  ones,  quite  beyond 
the  merits  of  the  ships  themselves. 
And  when  Mr  Reed  vaunts  the  ex- 
traordinary handiness  of  the  Her- 
cules, compared  with  the  Warrior 
and  Minotaur,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  the  former  ship  has  this 
new  style  of  rudder,  which  the 
others  have  not.  It  would  appear, 
however,  that  although  the  balanced 
rudder  answers  well  for  steaming, 
there  is  some  doubt  yet  as  to  its 
efficacy  for  sailing  only.  During 
the  cruise  of  the  Admiralty  last 
autumn,  when  the  squadron  fell  in 
with  a  gale  of  wind  off  Cape  Finis- 
terre,  the  captains  of  the  Monarch 
and  Hercules  reported  that  they 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  steer- 
ing their  ships.  In  the  Monarch, 
"running  before  it  with  no  after- 
sail,  it  was  found  almost  impossible 
to  keep  the  ship  from  broaching- 
to;"  and  Lord  Gilford,  command- 
ing the  Hercules,  reports  : — "  I  re- 
gret to  say  she  is  a  most  difficult 
ship  to  steer  under  all  circum- 
stances" (under  sail?),  "from  the 
large  weather -helm  she  carries, 
without  a  speed  of  four  to  five 
knots,  more  especially  running  be- 
fore the  wind.  When  the  gale 
commenced,  she  steered  so  wildly, 
and  broached-to  so  often,  that  I 
gave  up  the  idea  of  running  out  the 
gale,  and  hove-to  with  fore  and 
main  trysails  and  fore  -  staysail, 
using  steam  with  about  twenty 
revolutions."  But  it  must  be  men- 
tioned here  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  these  steering  difficulties, 
both  ships  behaved  admirably  dur- 
ing the  gale,  proving  themselves 
such  excellent  sea-boats  that  they 
could  have  been  at  any  time  taken 
into  action  with  confidence.  The 
Controller  of  the  Navy  believes 
that,  with  some  alteration  and 
further  experience  in  the  use  of 


720 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


this  rudder,  the  difficulty  of  steer- 
ing will  be  overcome. 

The  introduction  of  the  double- 
screw  principle  has  also  greatly 
improved  the  efficiency  of  our  ships 
for  manoeuvring  purposes,  more 
particularly  ram-vessels.  Not  only 
has  it  much  increased  their  capabil- 
ities for  turning  quickly  and  in  a 
small  space,  but  it  has  lessened  the 
chance  of  a  ship  being  disabled, 
whether  by  accident  to  the  ma- 
chinery, or  the  screw  becoming 
fouled,  since  the  vessel  can  be  pro- 
pelled and  manosuvred  by  one 
screw  only,  in  the  event  of  the 
other  being  crippled.  The  Penel- 
ope, and  some  of  the  ships  of  the 
Invincible  class,  also  the  Captain, 
and  the  monitor  vessels  now  build- 
ing, are  fitted,  or  being  fitted,  on 
this  principle. 

One  of  the  much-debated  points 
in  connection  with  ironclads,  and 
especially  turret-ships,  is  the  ques- 
tion of  masts  and  sails.  There  are 
not  wanting  those  who  would  see 
our  armoured  fleet  steam -hulks 
and  nothing  more;  but  practical 
men,  seamen  particularly,  are  all 
of  accord  that  sail-power  is  still 
necessary  even  for  our  ironclads — 
called  upon  as  they  may  be  to  ope- 
rate in  any  quarter  of  the  globe. 
The  three  latest  monitor  vessels  or- 
dered— the  Devastation,  Thunderer, 
and  Fury — are  however  to  have  no 
masts ;  but  they  have  been  designed 
with  the  view  of  carrying  a  very 
large  quantity  of  coal,  1700  tons, 
and  they  will  not  have  a  high  speed. 
They  are  not  intended  for  cruising 
purposes,  but  to  be  able,  if  required, 
to  steam  across  the  Atlantic  with- 
out coaling;  and  they  are  meant 
for  special  and  not  general  service. 
We  have  not,  however,  yet  arrived 
at  a  suitable  rig  for  our  ironclads. 
The  traditions  of  the  service  require 
that  our  new  ships  of  the  line, 
though  strangely  metamorphosed, 
shall  yet  retain  something  of  the 
former  days ;  and  so  "  shift  top- 
sail-yards "  and  "  strike  topmasts  " 
must  still  be  practicable  drills, 
though  the  necessity  for  them — the 


being  able  to  replace  a  spar  quickly 
when  in  chase,  or  being  chased — has 
long  ceased  to  exist.  And  the  eyes 
of  our  gallant  tars  must  still  be 
gladdened  by  the  sight  of  a  cloud 
of  studding-sails  and  other  "  flying 
kites,"  though  the  mind  acknow- 
ledges that  when  the  day  of  battle 
arrives  they  will  be  anathematised 
as  so  much  mischievous  lumber. 
Though  a  certain  amount  of  sail- 
power  is,  and  always  will  be,  neces- 
sary to  steady  a  ship  in  a  sea-way,. 
and  render  her  manageable  in  case 
of  accident  to  the  machinery,  yet  a 
redundancy  of  top-hamper  is  very 
objectionable.  Not  only  is  the  deck 
encumbered  with  a  number  of  spare 
spars,  and  the  space  below — never 
too  great — largely  taken  up  with  a 
multiplicity  of  sails  and  gear  of  all 
sorts,  but  every  rope  above  the 
gunwale  is  a  trap  to  catch  the  screw 
when  a  mast  is  shot  away;  and  there- 
fore the  simpler  the  rig,  and  the 
fewer  the  ropes,  the  better.  Much 
has  to  be  done  in  this  respect  before 
our  ironclads  can  be  considered 
properly  efficient  for  fighting  pur- 
poses ;  and  if  a  war  was  to  break 
out  now,  it  would  not  be  long  before 
their  rig  was  altered  to  something 
more  suitable. 

We  have  hitherto  chiefly  confined 
our  attention  to  broadside -ships, 
but  we  come  now  to  the  turret 
system;  and  here  we  are  met,  at 
the  very  outset  of  our  remarks,  by 
the  reflection,  that  although  this  in- 
genious design  has  been  before  the 
public  for  ten  years,  having  been 
laid  before  the  Admiralty  some 
years  previously  —  though  it  has 
been  strenuously  advocated  by  the 
most  skilful  shipbuilders  as  well 
as  experienced  seamen— though  it 
has  been  taken  up  warmly  long, 
since  by  nearly  every  maritime  na- 
tion, it  is  only  now  receiving  a 
proper  trial  in  the  navy  to  which 
its  inventor  belongs.  It  is  not  our 
intention,  however,  as  we  said  be- 
fore, to  rake  up  again  the  old  griev- 
ance of  the  long-continued  preju- 
dice against  Captain  Coles's  plans, 
especially  as  they  are  now  at  last 


1870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


721 


being  fairly  and  fully  tested  in  his 
noble  ship  the  Captain,  which 
has  already  given  splendid  proof 
of  her  good  qualities  in  her  trial 
trips.  There  is,  however,  one  pas- 
sage in  Mr  Reed's  book  bearing 
on  the  past  which  should  be  no- 
ticed : — 

"The  turret  system  possesses  both 
so  many  advantages,  and,  under  certain 
circumstances,  so  many  disadvantages, 
that  its  introduction  almost  necessarily 
occasioned  much  division  of  opinion 
among  naval  officers  and  naval  archi- 
tects; but  I  must  say  that  I  have 
always  considered  that  this  controversy 
has  been  unnecessarily  embittered  by 
the  unrestrained  manner  in  which  its 
advocacy  has  been  urged.  The  inher- 
ent merits  of  the  system  are,  however, 
so  great,  that  the  only  effect  of  this 
error  of  advocacy  has  been  to  somewhat 
retard  its  extensive  adoption." 

This  is  very  significant,  and  is  a 
pretty  plain  avowal  of  the  opposi- 
tion that  this  admirable  design  re- 
ceived. But  why  was  the  contro- 
versy thus  embittered  1  Only  be- 
cause the  trial  which  was  demanded 
for  Captain  Coles's  plans  was  refused, 
evaded,  or  delayed,  while  the  ships 
of  his  avowed  opponent  were  being 
built  and  sent  to  sea  by  the  dozen. 
Even  when  Captain  Coles  at  last 
obtained  carte  blanche  permission 
to  build  a  ship,  a  rival  vessel,  the 
Monarch,  from  the  chief  construc- 
tor's designs,  though  upon  Captain 
Coles's  principle,  was  hurried  on, 
and  has  had  a  year's  start  of  her  at 
sea. 

Mr  Reed  accords  in  his  pages 
but  grudging  praise  even  to  his 
own  Monarch,  embodying,  as  she 
does,  the  obnoxious  turret  principle, 
and  takes  care  to  claim  any  good 
qualities  which  she  may  possess  as 
a  fighting  ship  to  his  peculiar  mode 
of  applying  the  system ;  yet  the  re- 
ports of  her  performances,  so  far  as 
they  have  been  made  public,  tend 
to  show  that  she  is  one  of  the  best, 
if  not  the  very  best,  ship  that  he 
has  yet  built,  being  fast,  steady,  and 
a  good  sea-boat,  while  she  has  en- 


tirely upset  his  theory  that  broad- 
side-vessels' must  roll  less  than  tur- 
ret-ships. She  has  attained  a  speed 
of  within  a  fraction  of  15  knots, 
being  the  highest  performance  as 
yet  of  any  ironclad  at  the  measured- 
mile  trials,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Vanguard.  The  Controller  of  the 
Navy,  in  referring  to  the  reports  of 
the  cruise  of  the  combined  squad- 
rons last  autumn,  says  of  her  in  the 
papers  recently  laid  before  Parlia- 
ment : — 

"  The  Monarch,  a  ship  of  an  entirely 
new  class,  the  only  true  sea-going  tur- 
ret-ship produced  as  yet  by  any  navy,* 
is  classed  by  the  Captain  of  the  Fleet, 
and  by  other  information,  as  equal  in 
steadiness  of  platform  to  the  Hercules, 
and  is  spoken  of  as  having  behaved  in 
an  equally  satisfactory  manner  as  the 
other  ships ;  and  also  that  she  could 
have  fought  her  guns  during  the  gale 
to  which  they  were  exposed.  Captain 
Commerell,  in  private  letters,  speaks  of 
the  ease,  comfort,  and  dryness  of  the 
ship  as  extraordinary." 

Again  : 

' '  The  turret  armament  of  the  Mon- 
arch, consisting  of  four  12-inch  rifled 
guns,  when  considered  with  reference 
to  the  angle  of  training  and  its  armour- 
piercing  power  at  long  ranges,  places 
the  Monarch  as  one  among,  if  not  posi- 
tively, the  most  formidable  of  the  iron- 
clad sea-going  ships  in  existence." 

And  in  a  letter  addressed  to  the 
Secretary  of  the  American  Navy  by 
Captain  Macomb,  commanding  the 
U.S.  ship  Plymouth,  which  escorted 
the  Monarch  in  her  voyage  to  Ame- 
rica with  the  remains  of  Mr  Pea- 
body,  that  officer  reports  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  PORTLAND-MAINE,  2SthJan.  1870. 
"  After  having  escorted  H.  B.  M. 
ironclad  turret  -  ship  Monarch  from 
Portsmouth,  England,  to  this  port  via 
Madeira  and  Bermuda,  during  which 
voyage  this  ship  was  in  company,  hold- 
ing a  position  quite  near  her,  I  have 
consequently  been  afforded  sufficient 
opportunities  to  form  an  opinion  of  her 
sailing,  steaming,  and  sea-going  quali- 
ties. During  the  voyage  we  encountered 
a  variety  of  weather — viz.,  light,  mo- 
derate, and  fresh  breezes,  and  strong 


The  Captain  had  not  then  left  her  building-yard. 


722 


Oar  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


gales,  with  heavy  seas.  Under  steam 
alone  she  is  fast,  steers  well,  and  turns 
well.  .  .  .  Under  steam  and  sail 
steers  well,  and  is  fast;  under  sail  alone 
steers  well,  but  not  so  well  as  under 
steam  alone.  .  .  .  Her  motions  roll- 
ing or  pitching  are  so  slight  that  I  think 
there  would  be  but  rarely  an  occasion 
when  the  height  of  sea  would  prevent 

her  from  fighting  her  guns 

Under  all  circumstances  during  the 
voyage,  she  has  proved  herself  a  *  sea- 
boat,  '  and  capable  of  steaming  or  sailing 
round  the  world  unattended  or  escorted. 
Altogether,  I  consider  the  Monarch  the 
most, formidable  and  effective  ironclad 
vessel  of  war  for  ocean  service  in  the 
world." 

Nothing  could  be  more  satisfac- 
tory than  these  accounts,  and  Mr 
Reed  may  well  be  proud  of  his 
ship,  turrets  notwithstanding. 

We  come  now  to  the  Captain, 
built  by  Messrs  Laird  of  Birken- 
head,  upon  Captain  Coles's  own 
plans,  and  representing  his  system 
pur  et  simple.  As  we  have  said 
already,  this  ship  has  been  most 
successful  in  her  trials  of  speed, 
having  realised  14 j  knots  at  the 
measured  mile,  and  rather  more  on 
the  occasion  of  her  six  hours'  run  in 
the  Channel.  Mr  Reed  is  so  fond 
of  comparing  the  qualities  of  his 
ships  with  others,  that  we  cannot 
do  better  than  follow  his  example 
here,  and  place  his  ship,  the  Beller- 
ophon, side  by  side  with  the  Cap- 
tain ;  and  as  the  two  ships  are  of 
exactly  the  same  tonnage,  the  com- 
parison cannot  be  fairer.  Without 
repeating  again  the  particulars 
which  our  table  contains,  but  to 
which  we  beg  the  reader  again  to 
refer,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  Cap- 
tain is  the  longest  by  20  feet,  but 
the  Bellerophon  has  engines  of 
100  nominal  H.-P.  more.  The  Bel- 
lerophon has  3  feet  more  beam,  and 
draws  10  inches  more  water  abaft 
than  the  Captain.  At  full  speed  on 
the  measured  mile  the  Bellerophon 
realised  14.23  knots,  with  5966  in- 
dicated H.-P.  ;  the  Captain  14.24 
knots,  and  5989  H.-P.  The  Bel- 
lerophon carries  560  tons  of  coal ; 
the  Captain  700  tons.  The  Beller- 
ophon is  armed  with  12- ton  250- 


pounder  guns  ;  the  Captain  with 
25-ton  600-pounders.  The  Beller- 
ophon has  6-inch  armour,  with  10- 
inch  backing ;  the  Captain  has 
8-inch  armour  on  her  sides,  with 
12 -inch  backing,  and  10 -inch  ar- 
mour on  her  turrets.  Inner  skin- 
plating  the  same  in  both  ships. 
Now  here  we  see  the  Captain,  an 
incomparably  more  powerful  fight- 
ing ship  than  the  other,  steaming 
faster,  carrying  considerably  more 
coal,  and  drawing  less  water.  This 
is  therefore  another  example,  if 
one  were  needed,  to  prove  the  in- 
stability of  Mr  Reed's  theory  be- 
fore quoted,  as  to  the  relative  capa- 
bilities of  short  and  long  ships ; 
and  to  establish  the  counter-pro- 
position which  we  then  put  forth. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be 
stated  that  the  Bellerophon  has  a 
great  superiority  over  the  Captain 
in  quickness  of  turning,  arising 
partly  from  her  proportions,  but 
chiefly  from  the  circumstance  of 
her  being  fitted  with  a  balanced 
rudder,  while  the  Captain  has  a 
common  one.  The  sea-going  quali- 
ties of  the  Captain  are  now  being 
tested  in  a  cruise  with  the  Monarch, 
the  result  of  which  will  probably 
be  known  before  these  pages  are 
published;  but  so  far  Captain  Coles 
and  the  Messrs  Laird  may  be  con- 
gratulated upon  the  great  success  of 
their  ship.  Messrs  Laird  have  also 
achieved  a  signal  triumph  in  the 
Vanguard,  one  of  the  Invincible 
class,  which  attained  a  speed  of  no 
less  than  15  knots  on  her  measured- 
mile  trial ;  and  though  she  was 
designed  by  Mr  Reed,  the  credit  of 
such  an  extraordinary  performance 
is  -mainly  due  to  this  celebrated 
firm,  who  made  the  engines,  as  well 
as  built  the  ship,  since  those  of  her 
sister  vessels  which  have  yet  been 
tried  have  not  realised  nearly  so 
great  a  speed. 

To  return  to  the  main  question — 
the  comparative  value  of  the  turret 
and  broadside  systems — it  is  in  much 
the  same  condition,  relatively,  as  it 
was  when  discussed  in  these  pages 
seven  years  ago.  At  that  time 


L870.] 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


723 


guns  of  five  tons'  weight  were  the 
heaviest  that  had  ever  been  mount- 
ed at  sea  in  broadside-ports ;  and 
it  was  believed  by  many  people 
3hat  it  would  not  be  practicable  to 
work  much  larger  guns  on  that  sys- 
tem. It  was  this  conviction  that 
liad  led  Captain  Coles  years  before 
to  devise  plans  for  working  heavy 
ordnance  on  board  a  ship,  and 
hence  his  idea  of  placing  the  gun 
in  a  fixed  position  on  a  turn-table 
inside  a  shield  of  thick  armour. 
Mr  Reed,  however,  maintained  that 
ships  could  be  built  to  carry  the 
heaviest  guns  on  the  broadside ;  and 
Captain  Scott,  R.N.,  designed  most 
admirable  plans  for  carriages,  by 
means  of  which  very  much  larger 
guns  could  be  mounted  and  worked 
with  ease  and  safety  than  had  been 
previously  thought  possible.  The 
result  is,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
Hercules  carrying  18-ton  guns  in 
broadside-ports.  So  far,  therefore, 
it  may  be  said,  the  superiority  of 
the  turret  system  is  not  so  decided 
as  it  was  claimed  to  be  some  years 
back.  But  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  Monarch  and  Captain  car- 
ry 25-ton  guns,  that  the  monitors 
now  building  will  have  guns  of  35 
tons'  weight,  and  that  50-ton  guns 
are  to  appear  before  long.  How 
far  beyond  this  we  shall  eventually 
arrive  at,  no  one  can  say ;  but  it  is 
plain  that  the  further  we  go  in  the 
weight  of  the  guns,  the  more  de- 
cided becomes  the  value  of  the 
turret  system  of  working  them. 
Seeing  what  an  advance  has  been 
lately  made  in  the  method  of  work- 
ing broadside  -  guns,  it  would  be 
rash  to  say  that  we  have  attained 
the  utmost  limit  in  that  direction  ; 
but  it  does  not  at  present  seem 
probable  that  guns  larger  than  those 
of  the  Hercules  will  be  mounted  in 
that  manner.  The  large  size  of 
port  necessary  to  admit  of  sufficient 
training  is  a  very  grave  objection  ; 
and  looking  to  the  possibility  of  a 
gun  being  dismounted  in  action, 
or  the  carriage  smashed  by  a  shot 
entering  the  port,  it  is  a  serious 
thing  to  contemplate  a  mass  of  20 


tons  rolling  about  the  deck.  On 
the  whole,  then,  keeping  in  view 
the  guns  of  the  future,  the  advan- 
vantages  of  the  turret  principle 
are  quite  as  decided  now  as  when 
it  was  first  brought  forward,  with 
the  exception  that  the  dimensions 
necessary  for  a  turret  to  contain 
the  largest-sized  guns  are  too  great 
to  permit  it  to  be  applied  to  sea- 
going vessels  of  small  size.  But 
in  this  respect  the  broadside  ar- 
rangement is  much  more  restricted. 

There  are  two  drawbacks  to  the 
turret  system,  when  carried  out  in 
sea-going  ships,  which  must  be  no- 
ticed— viz.,  the  difficulty  of  com- 
bining with  it  a  satisfactory  method 
of  rigging  and  working  the  ship; 
and  the  interference  of  the  turrets 
with  the  necessary  accommodation 
below  for  the  crew.  The  latter  in- 
volves the  necessity  for  a  raised 
poop  and  forecastle  which  prevent 
the  turret -guns  from  being  fired 
nearer  to  the  fore-and-aft  line  than 
an  angle  of  about  twenty  degrees. 
The  truth  is  that  the  "  all-round  " 
fire  has  hitherto  proved  to  be  in- 
compatible with  the  requisites  for 
a  full-rigged  sea-going  ship,  and  is 
practicable  only  for  vessels  of  the 
monitor  type,  or  of  some  such  modi- 
fications of  it  as  those  adopted  by  Mr 
Reed  in  the  Hotspur  and  Thunder- 
er classes.  As  to  the  monitor  cb 
I'Americaine,  we  trust  never  to  see 
such  craft  in  our  navy.  They  are 
fit  only  for  operations  in  inland 
waters,  being  dangerous  at  sea  or 
in  an  open  roadstead,  unhealthy  at 
all  times,  and  like  dungeons  to 
inhabit. 

Space  does  not  permit  us  to  fol- 
low Mr  Reed  much  further  in  his 
interesting  work.  He  devotes  a 
chapter  to  ironclad  rams,  and  we 
agree  with  him  in  thinking  that  the 
eperon,  or  projecting  spur,  is  prefer- 
able to  either  the  upright  stem  or 
the  overhanging  form  of  bow  for 
ramming  purposes ;  but  the  value 
of  this  novel  mode  of  warfare  at 
sea  has  yet  to  be  decided.  The 
battle  off  Lissa,  and  the  experience 
of  the  American  war,  is  all  we  have 


724 


Our  Ironclad  Ships. 


[June 


to  guide  us  on  this  point,  and  none 
of  these  can  be  said  to  be  conclus- 
ive experiments.  It  remains  to  be 
seen  what  effect  will  be  produced 
upon  a  ram  by  a  charge  into  a 
heavy  ironclad  at  sea.  This  would 
be  a  very  different  business  from 
the  charge  of  the  Merrimac  into 
the  old  wooden  ship  Cumberland 
in  Hampton  Roads,  or  that  of  the 
Ferdinand  Max  into  the  weakly- 
built  Italian  ironclads  in  the 
smooth  waters  of  the  Adriatic. 
With  only  a  slight  swell,  such  as 
the  Atlantic  is  never  free  from,  if 
at  the  moment  of  collision  the  iron- 
clad happened  to  roll  towards  the 
ram,  or  if  the  latter  should  be  just 
then  lifted  on  the  top  of  a  wave, 
the  contact  would  take  place  on  the 
strongest  part  of  the  ironclad's  side, 
and  the  bow  of  the  ram  would  al- 
most certainly  be  shattered,  which 
would  make  this  a  costly  mode  of 
warfare.  Only  further  experience 
can,  however,  determine  the  effi- 
cacy of  this  method  of  fighting ;  but 
it  is  clear  that  as  the  power  of  ar- 
tillery increases,  the  utility  of  the 
ram  is  lessened  in  comparison. 

The  conversion  of  more  of  our 
wooden  ships  into  ironclads  has 
been  constantly  urged  upon  the 
Admiralty,  and  numerous  plans — 
some  of  them  of  great  merit — have 
been  suggested  for  that  purpose. 
Mr  Reed,  however,  demonstrates 
very  clearly  the  wisdom  of  the 
course  pursued  by  the  Admiralty 
in  building  new  iron  vessels,  in 
preference  to  converting  the  old 
wooden  ones.  And,  in  fact,  the 
rapid  progress  making  in  artillery, 
with  the  development  of  the  two 
novel  modes  of  warfare,  the  butting 


ram  and  the  devilish  torpedo,  only 
establish  more  clearly  the  superior- 
ity of  the  iron-built  ship,  with  its 
arrangements  of  cellular  framing, 
double  bottom,  and  water-tight 
compartments. 

When  we  look  back  upon  the 
extraordinary  change  that  has  come 
over  the  whole  science  of  naval 
warfare  during  the  last  twenty 
years — for  it  was  only  so  lately  that 
the  old  sailing-ships  began  to  give 
place  to  the  infant  screw  fleet — and 
then  venture  on  a  speculation  of 
what  may  be  the  ships  of  our  navy 
twenty,  or  even  ten,  years  hence, 
we  find  ourselves  completely  lost. 
Who  shall  say,  in  this  inventive 
age,  what  new  engines  of  destruc- 
tion may  not  be  devised  1  Already 
we  see  a  vision  of  shot  of  such  enor- 
mous weight  and  velocity,  that  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  impact  of  such 
projectiles  must  inevitably  shatter 
the  whole  structure  of  any  ship 
that  could  be  sent  to  sea,  even  if 
armour  could  be  carried  sufficient- 
ly thick  to  resist  actual  penetra- 
tion ;  and  if  so,  the  question  which 
arises  even  now  in  some  minds, 
will  then  become  a  prominent  one, 
as  to  the  desirability  of  armour  at 
all.  But  we  forbear  to  go  any 
further  into  the  regions  of  specula- 
tion ;  and  in  the  mean  time  we  may 
rest  satisfied  with  the  certainty 
that  we  possess  an  ironclad  fleet  in 
every  way  creditable  to  the  coun- 
try, and  that  all  the  tendencies  of 
the  progress  of  science  as  applied 
to  naval  purposes,  are  more  and 
more  to  the  advantage  of  Great 
Britain  from  her  unrivalled  manu- 
facturing resources. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


725 


JOHN. — PART     VIII. 


CHAPTEK   XXIV. 


THE  first  great  apparent  change 
in  a  life  is  not  always  its  real  be- 
ginning. It  may  be  but  the  begin- 
ning of  the  beginning,  as  it  were, 
the  first  grand  crash  of  the  ice,  the 
opening  of  the  fountain.  There  is 
more  noise  and  more  demonstration 
than  when  the  full  tide  of  waters 
begin  to  swell  into  the  broader 
channel,  but  it  is  not  the  great  crisis 
which  it  has  the  look  of  being.  It 
is  the  commencement  of  a  process 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  predict 
the  end.  This  had  been  emphati- 
cally the  case  with  John  Mitford 
when  he  was  suddenly  swept  out  of 
his  father's  house  and  out  of  all  the 
traditions  of  his  youth.  It  seemed 
to  him  and  to  everybody  that  his 
life  had  then  taken  its  individual 
shape.  The  chasm  between  the 
present  and  the  past  was  as  great 
as  if  a  vast  St  Lawrence  rolled  be- 
tween the  two  edges  of  circum- 
stance, separating  them  more  and 
more  widely  as  it  rose  in  force  and 
fulness.  But  the  fact  was  that 
this  great  convulsion  was  no  de- 
cisive throe  of  nature  at  all,  but 
the  first  impulse  of  life  arbitrarily 
shaped,  the  beginning  of  individual 
action  which  might  yet  go  to  one 
side  or  other,  nobody  could  predict 
which.  He  did  not  know  it  him- 
self, any  more  than  did  any  one  of 
the  spectators.  In  short,  he  was 
more  certain  than  any  one  that  his 
old  life  had  passed  away,  and  that 
all  things  had  become  new.  He 
went  about  Fanshawe  Regis  with 
new  eyes,  curiously  observing  every- 
thing which  before  he  had  accepted 
without  observation.  Was  it  that 
he  felt  the  new  better?  Was  it 
that  he  hankered  after  the  old? 
These  were  questions  which  he 
could  not  answer.  The  only  thing 
he  was  quite  sure  of  in  respect  to 
himself  was  that  he  was  uncertain 
about  everything,  and  that  life  was 


no  longer  sweet  enough  to  make 
up  for  the  darkness  and  troubles  in 
it.  With  this  feeling  in  his  mind 
he  listened  to  his  father's  sermons, 
seeing  everything  in  a  different 
light,  and  went  with  his  mother  on 
her  parish  work,  carrying  her  bas- 
ket, gazing  wistfully  in  at  the  cot- 
tage windows,  wondering  what  was 
the  good  of  it  all.  He  had  never 
questioned  for  a  moment  the  good 
of  at  least  his  mother's  ministra- 
tions until  now.  When  she  came 
smiling  out  of  one  of  the  cottages 
it  cast  a  gloom  upon  her  to  find 
her  boy,  who  had  always  been  full 
of  faith  in  her  at  least,  standing 
unresponsive,  waiting  for  her  out- 
side. She  looked  him  in  the  eyes 
with  her  tender  smile,  and  said, 
"  Well,  John  ]"  as  she  gave  back  the 
little  basket  into  his  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh, 
"  my  good  little  mother,  do  you 
think  it  is  worth  all  the  trouble  you 
are  taking,  and  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken  since  ever  I  remember  ? 
— that  is  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Mit- 
ford, "  that  and  a  great  deal  more. 
Oh,  John,  if  I  could  feel  that  but 
one,  only  one,  was  brought  back  to 
God  by  my  means  ! " 
H  "I  think  they  are  all  very  much 
the  same  as  they  used  to  be/'  said 
John.  "  I  recollect  when  I  was  a 
small  boy  there  was  always  some- 
thing to  be  set  right  there." 

"  That  was  the  father,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs  Mitford.  "  He  was  very 
troublesome.  He  took  more  than 
was  good  for  him,  you  know  ;  and 
then  he  used  to  be  very  unkind  to 
his  poor  wife.  Ah,  John,  some  of 
these  poor  women  have  a  great  deal 
to  bear!" 

"  But  the  blackguard  is  dead  now, 
heaven  be  praised!"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  hush,  my  dear,  hush,  and. 
don't  speak  of  an  immortal  soul 


726 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


like  that !  Yes  indeed,  John,  he 
has  gone  where  he  will  be  judged 
with  clearer  sight  than  ours.  But 
I  wish  I  could  hope  things  were 
really  mended,"  said  Mrs  Mitford, 
shaking  her  head.  She  went  on 
shaking  her  head  for  a  whole  min- 
ute after  she  had  stopped  speaking, 
as  if  her  hope  was  a  very  slight  one 
indeed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ? " 

"  The  boys  are  very  tiresome,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs  Mitford,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Somehow  it  seems  natural  to  them 
to  take  to  bad  ways.  You  can't 
think  how  idle  and  lazy  Jim  is, 
though  he  used  to  be  such  a  good 
boy  when  he  was  in  the  choir,  don't 
you  remember  1  He  looked  a  per- 
fect little  angel  in  his  white  surplice, 
but  I  fear  he  has  been  a  very  bad 
boy;  and  Willie  and  his  mother 
never  do  get  on  together.  He  is 
the  only  one  that  can  be  depended 
upon  in  the  least,  and  he  talks  of 
marrying  and  going  away." 

"  You  have  not  much  satisfaction 
out  of  them,"  said  John,  "  though  I 
know  you  have  always  kept  on  doing 
all  sorts  of  things  for  them.  They 
ought  at  least  to  be  grateful  to  you." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Mit- 
ford, with  anxious  gravity,  "  I  don't 
like  to  blame  her — but  I  am  afraid 
sometimes  their  mother  is  not  very 
judicious,  poor  woman.  It  sours 
one  sadly  to  have  so  much  misfor- 
tune. She  is  always  contradicting 
and  crossing  them  for  things  that 
don't  matter.  I  don't  like  to  blame 
her,  she  has  had  so  much  to  put  up 
with ;  but  still,  you  know — and  of 
course  it  is  discouraging,  whatever 
one  may  try  to  say." 

"  And  then  there  are  the  Littles," 
said  John,  leading  his  mother  on. 

"  Oh,  the  Littles,  dear !  I  wish 
you  would  not  speak  of  them.  Every 
month  or  so  I. think  I  have  just  got 
their  mind  up  to  the  point  of  going 
to  church.  If  you  but  knew  the 
number  of  bonnets  that  woman  has 
had,  and  shoes  for  the  children,  and 
even  your  papa's  last  old  greatcoat 
which  I  got  the  tailor  to  alter  for 
Robert.  But  it  is  never  any  good. 


And  though  I  pay  myself  for  the 
children's  schooling  they  never  go. 
It  is  enough  to  break  one's  heart." 

"  And  Lizzie's  people  are  always 
a  trouble  to  you,"  said  John. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  but  then  the  old 
woman  is  a  Dissenter,"  said  Mrs 
Mitford,  with  alacrity;  "and  in  such 
a  case  what  can  one  do? " 

"  But,  mother  dear,  with  all  these 
things  before  you,  does  it  sometimes 
strike  you  what  a  hopeless  business 
it  is  ?,"  cried  John.  "  You  have  been 
working  in  the  parish  for  twenty 
years " 

"Twenty- five,  my  dear  boy — 
since  before  you  were  born." 

"And  what  is  it  the  better?"  said 
John ;  "the  same  evils  reappear  just 
in  the  same  way — the  same  wicked- 
ness, and  profanity,  and  indiffer- 
ence. For  all  the  change  one  can 
see,  mother  dear,  all  your  work  and 
fatigue  might  never  have  been." 

"  I  must  say  so  far  as  that  goes 
I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,  John," 
cried  his  mother,  with  a  certain  sharp 
ring  in  her  voice.  The  colour  came 
to  her  cheeks  and  the  water  to  her 
eyes.  If  it  had  been  said  to  her 
that  her  life  itself  had  been  a  mis- 
take and  failure,  she  could  not  have 
felt  it  more.  Indeed  the  one  im- 
plied the  other ;  and  if  there  was 
any  one  thing  that  she  had  built 
upon  in  all  her  modest  existence, 
it  was  the  difference  in  the  parish. 
John's  words  gave  her  such  a  shock 
that  she  gasped  after  them  with  a 
sense  of  partial  suffocation.  And 
then  she  did  her  best  to  restrain 
the  momentary  sharp  thrill  of  re- 
sentment; for  how  could  she  be 
angry  with  her  boy  1  "  My  dear," 
she  said,  humbly,  with  the  tears 
in  her  soft  eyes,  "  I  don't  suppose 
I  have  done  half  or  quarter  what 
I  ought  to  have  done;  but  still  if 
you  had  seen  the  parish  when  we 

came If  I  had  been  a  woman 

of  more  energy,  and  cleverer  than 
I  am " 

"You  cannot  think  it  was  that 
I  meant,"  cried  John.  "  How  you 
mistake  me,  mother !  It  is  be- 
cause your  work  has  been  so  perfect, 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


727 


so  unwearied — because  it  ought  to 
have  wrought  miracles " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  that/'  she  said, 
recovering  her  tranquillity,  and 
smiling  on  her  boy.  "  It  has  been 
very  humble,  my  dear;  but  still,  if 
you  had  seen  the  parish  when  we 
came — the  alehouse  was  more  fre- 
quented than  the  church  a  great 
deal — the  children  were  not  bap- 
tised— there  were  things  going  on 
I  could  not  speak  of  even  to  you. 
That  very  Robert  Little  that  we 
were  speaking  of — his  father  was 
the  most  inveterate  poacher  in  the 
whole  country,  always  in  prison 
or  in  trouble;  the  eldest  brother 
went  for  a  soldier,  and  one  of  the 
girls Oh,  John,  Fanshawe  Re- 
gis is  not  Paradise,  but  things  are 
better  now.3' 

"  My  dear  little  mother,  but 
they  are  not  as  good  as  they  ought 
to  be  after  the  work  of  all  your  life." 

"  Don't  speak  of  me,  my  dear 
boy,  as  if  I  were  everything,"  said 
Mrs  Mitford;  "think  of  your 
papa,  and  oh,  John,  think  of  what 
is  far  beyond  any  of  us.  Think 
whose  life  it  was  that  was  given, 
not  for  the  righteous,  but  to  call 
sinners;  think  who  it  was  that 
said  there  was  joy  in  heaven  over 
one  that  repented ;  and  should  we 
grudge  a  whole  lifetime  if  we  could 
but  be  sure  that  one  was  saved  1  I 
hope  that  is  what  I  shall  never, 
never  do." 

John  drew  his  mother's  hand 
through  his  arm  as  she  looked  up 
in  his  face,  with  her  soft  features 
all  quivering  with  emotion.  What 
more  could  he  say  ]  She  was  not 
clever,  never  very  able  to  take  a 
philosophical  view  of  the  matter. 
She  never  stopped  to  ask  herself, 
as  he  did,  whether  this  faulty, 
shifty,  mean,  unprofitable  world 
was  worth  the  expenditure  of  that 
divine  life  eighteen  hundred  years 
ago,  and  of  the  many  lives  since 
which  have  been  half  divine.  All 
that ; — and  nothing  better  come  of 
it  than  the  vice,  and  the  hypocrisy, 
and  mercenary  pretences  at  good- 
ness, and  brutal  indifference  to 


everything  pure  and  true,  which 
were  to  be  found  in  this  very  vil- 
lage, in  the  depth  of  the  rural 
country,  in  England  that  has  been 
called  Christian  for  all  these  hun- 
dreds of  years.  So  much— and  so  lit- 
tle to  result  from  it.  Such  were  the 
thoughts  that  passed  through  John's 
mind,  mingled  with  many  another 
gloomy  fancy.  Adding  up  long 
lines  of  figures  was  scarcely  more 
unprofitable — could  scarcely  be  of 
less  use  to  the  world.  When  he 
thought  of  his  father's  precise  lit- 
tle sermons,  a  certain  stir  of  possi- 
bility might  struggle  through ;  for 
Dr  Mitford  spoke  as  a  member  of 
the  Archaeological  Society  might  be 
supposed  to  speak,  being  compelled 
to  do  so,  to  a  handful  of  bump- 
kins who  could  not,  as  he  was  well 
aware,  understand  a  word  he  said, 
and  was  content  with  having  thus 
performed  the  "duty"  incumbent 
on  him.  That  might  be  mended 
so  far  as  it  went ;  but  who  could 
mend  the  self-devotion,  the  un- 
conscious gospel  of  a  life  which  his 
mother  set  before  the  eyes  of  the 
village  1  They  knew  that  her  cha- 
rity never  failed,  nor  her  interest 
in  them,  nor  the  tender  service 
which  she  was  ready  to  give  to  the 
poorest,  or  even  to  the  wickedest. 
Twenty-five  years  this  woman,  who 
was  as  pure  as  the  angels,  had  been 
their  servant,  at  their  call  night  and 
day.  Heaven  and  earth  could  not 
produce  a  more  perfect  ministra- 
tion, her  son  said  to  himself,  as 
he  watched  her  coming  and  going ; 
and  yet  what  did  it  all  come  to? 
Had  Mrs  Mitford  seen  the  thoughts 
that  were  going  on  in  his  mind, 
she  would  have  shrunk  from  him 
with  a  certain  horror.  They  were 
hard  thoughts  both  of  God  and 
man.  What  was  the  good  of  it1? 
Nobody,  it  appeared  to  John,  was 
the  better.  If  Fanshawe  Regis,  for 
one  place,  had  been  left  to  itself, 
would  it  have  made  any  difference  1 
Such  thoughts  are  hard  to  bear, 
when  a  man  has  been  trained  into 
the  habit  of  thinking  that  much, 
almost  anything,  can  be  done  for 


728 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


his  neighbours  if  he  will  but  suffi- 
ciently exert  himself.  Here  was  a 
tender  good  woman  who  had  ex- 
erted herself  all  her  life — and  what 
was  the  end  of  it  1  Meanwhile 
Mrs  Mitford  walked  on  cheerfully, 
holding  her  son's  arm,  with  a  little 
glow  of  devotion  about  her  heart, 
thinking,  what  did  it  matter  how 
much  labour  was  spent  on  the 
work  if  but  the  one  stray  lamb  was 
brought  back  to  the  fold  1  and  pon- 
dering in  the  same  breath  a  new 
argument  by  which  Robert  Little, 
in  the  Doctor's  greatcoat,  and  his 
wife  in  one  of  her  own  bonnets, 
could  be  got  to  come  to  church, 
and  induced  to  send  their  children 
to  school. 

Sometimes,  however,  John's 
strange  holiday,  which  nobody 
could  quite  understand,  was  dis- 
turbed by  immediate  questions  still 
more  difficult.  Mrs  Mitford  did 
not  say  much,  having  discovered  in 
her  son's  eye  at  the  moment  of  his 
return  that  all  was  not  well  with 
him  •  but  she  looked  wistfully  at 
him  from  time  to  time,  and  sur- 
prised him  in  the  midst  of  his  fre- 
quent reveries  with  sudden  glances 
of  anxious  inquiry  which  spoke 
more  distinctly  than  words.  She 
did  not  mention  Kate,  which  was 
more  significant  than  if  she  had 
spoken  volumes ;  and  when  the 
letters  came  in,  in  the  morning,  she 
would  turn  her  head  away  not  to 
see  whether  her  son  expected  any- 
thing, or  if  he  was  disappointed. 
A  mixture  of  love  and  pride  was  in 
her  self-restraint.  He  should  not 
be  forced  to  confide  in  her,  she  had 
resolved;  she  would  exercise  the 
last  and  hardest  of  all  maternal 
duties  towards  him,  and  leave  him 
to  himself.  But  Dr  Mitford  had 
no  such  idea.  He  was  busy  at  the 
moment  with  something  for  the 
'  Gentleman's  Magazine,'  which 
kept  him  in  his  study  for  the  first 
few  days  after  John's  arrival ;  but 
as  soon  as  his  article  was  off  his 
mind,  he  began  to  talk  to  his  son 
of  his  prospects,  as  was  natural. 
This  happened  in  the  library,  where 


John  was  sitting,  exactly  as  he  had 
been  sitting  that  first  morning  when 
Kate  peeped  in  at  the  door  and  all 
the  world  was  changed.  I  cannot 
tell  whether  the  young  man  re- 
membered that ;  but  he  was  seated 
in  almost  the  same  attitude  pre- 
tending to  read,  and  in  reality  pon- 
dering over  his  condition  and  pro- 
spects, and  what  he  was  to  do.  Dr 
Mitford  was  seated  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,- as  he  had  been 
that  day.  A  ray  of  October  sun- 
shine shone  in  through  one  light  of 
the  great  Elizabethan  window  and 
fell  in  a  long  line  upon  the  polished 
oak  floor,  on  the  library  carpet,  on 
Dr  Mitford's  white  head,  and  as  far 
as  the  wall  on  the  other  side  of  him 
— a  great  broad  arrow  of  light,  with 
some  colour  in  it  from  the  shield  in 
the  centre  of  the  glass.  Behind 
this  was  the  glimmer  of  a  fire,  and 
John,  lifting  his  weary  eyes  from 
his  book,  or  his  eyes  from  his  weary 
book,  he  could  scarcely  have  told 
which,  became  suddenly  aware  of 
the  absolute  identity  of  the  outside 
circumstances,  and  held  his  breath 
and  asked  himself,  had  he  dreamed 
it,  or  had  that  interruption  ever 
been  1  Was  the  door  going  to  open 
and  Kate  to  peep  in  breathless,  shy, 
daring,  full  of  fun  and  temerity1? 
or  had  she  done  it,  and  turned  all 
the  world  upside  down  ?  When  he 
was  asking  himself  this  question 
Dr  Mitford  laid  down  his  pen ;  then 
he  coughed  his  little  habitual  cough, 
which  was  the  well-understood  sign 
between  him  and  his  domestic 
world  that  he  might  be  spoken  to ; 
then  he  was  fretted  by  the  sunshine, 
and  got  up  and  drew  the  blind 
down  ;  and  then,  having  quite  fin- 
ished his  article,  and  feeling  him- 
self in  a  mood  for  a  little  talk,  he 
took  a  walk  towards  his  son  between 
the  pillars  that  narrowed  the  library 
in  the  middle,  and  looked  like  a 
great  doorway.  He  did  not  go 
straight  to  John,  but  paused  on  the 
way  to  remark  upon  some  empty 
corners,  and  to  set  right  some 
books  which  had  dropped  out  of 
their  exact  places. 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


729 


"  I  wish  the  doctor  would  return 
my  Early  English  books/'  he  said, 
approaching  his  son;  "one  ought 
to  make  a  resolution  against  lend- 
ing. You  might  give  me  a  day, 
John,  just  to  look  up  what  books 
are  missing,  and  who  has  them.  I 
think  you  know  them  better  than  I 
do.  But,  by  the  by,  you  have  not 
told  us  how  long  you  can  stay." 

"  I  don't  think  it  matters  much," 
»aid  John. 

"You  don't  think  it  matters 
:  nuch !  but  that  looks  as  if  you 
were  not  taking  any  great  trouble 
•DO  make  yourself  missed.  I  don't 
like  that,"  said  Dr  Mitford,  shaking 
his  head :  "  depend  upon  it,  my 
ooy,  you  will  never  secure  proper 
ippreciation  until  you  show  the 
people  you  are  among  that  another 
cannot  fill  your  place." 

"But  the  fact  is  that  a  dozen 
others  could  fill  my  place,  sir,"  said 
John,  "  quite  as  well  as — very  pro- 
bably much  better  than  I." 

"What!  with  Mr  Crediton  1  and 
his  daughter?"  said  Dr  Mitford. 
He  thought  he  had  made  a  joke, 
and  turned  away  with  a  mild  little 
laugh  to  arrange  and  caress  his 
folios  in  the  recess  behind  his  son. 
Then  he  went  on  talking  with  his 
back  to  John — "  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  what  you  really  think  of 
it  now  that  you  have  had  time  to 
make  the  experiment.  I  don't  un- 
derstand the  commercial  mind  my- 
self. I  don't  know  that  I  could 
be  brought  to  understand  it ;  but 
the  opinion  of  an  intelligence  capa- 
ble of  judging,  and  accustomed  to 
trains  of  thought  so  different,  could 
not  but  be  interesting.  I  should 
like  to  hear  what  you  think  of  it 
frankly.  Somebody  has  made  dog's 
ears  in  this  Shakespeare,  which  is 
unpardonable,"  said  the  Doctor, 
passing  his  hand  with  sudden  in- 
dignation over  the  folded  edges.  "  I 
should  like  to  know  what  your 
opinion  is." 

"  I  think  I  can  get  it  straight, 
sir,"  said  John,  "  if  you  will  trust 
the  book  to  me." 

"  Thanks — and  put  a  label  on  it, 


1  Not  to  be  lent,'  "  said  Dr  Mitford. 
"It  is  not  to  be  expected,  you 
know,  that  the  most  good-natured 
of  men  should  lend  one  of  the  earli- 
est editions.  What  were  we  talk- 
ing of  ?  oh,  the  bank.  What  is 
your  real  opinion  about  it,  my 
boy?" 

"  I  think  I  am  ceasing  to  have 
opinions  about  anything,"  said 
John. 

"Well, 'well,  we  need  not  argue 
about  the  word.  Let  us  say  im- 
pressions. I  hope  you  are  quite 
satisfied  that  you  can  do  your  duty 
as  well  or  better  in  that  way  than 
in  the  manner  we  had  intended  for 
you.  Nothing  but  that  thought 
would  have  induced  me  to  yield. 
It  was  a  disappointment,  John," 
said  his  father,  turning  round  with 
a  tall  volume  in  his  hand — "  I  can- 
not deny  that  it  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment ;  but  you  think  you 
are  able  to  do  your  duty  better 
where  you  are  ? 

"  What  is  my  duty,  father  1 "  said 
John,  with  a  hoarseness  in  his  voice. 

And  then  it  was  Dr  Mitford's 
turn  to  show  consternation.  "  Your 
duty,"  he  faltered— " your  duty? 
It  does  not  say  much  for  my  teach- 
ing and  your  mother's  if  you  have 
to  ask  that  question  at  this  time  of 
day." 

This,  it  will  be  easy  to  see,  was 
a  very  unsatisfactory  sort  of  answer. 
John  got  up  too,  feeling  very  heavy 
about  the  heart.  "Relative  duty 
is  easy  enough,"  he  said;  "  but  ab- 
solute duty,  what  is  it?  is  there 
such  a  thing?  Is  it  not  just  as 
good  both  for  myself  and  other 
people  that  I  should  live  for  my- 
self as  I  am  doing,  instead  of  liv- 
ing for  God  and  my  neighbour  like 
my  mother  ?  So  far  as  I  can  see,  it 
comes  to  exactly  the  same  thing." 

Dr  Mitford  looked  at  his  son 
with  an  absolute  astonishment  that 
would  have  been  comical  had  John 
been  able  to  see  it.  But  then  it  was 
not  so  much  his  son's  perplexity 
the  Doctor  thought  of  as  that  curi- 
ous, quite  inexplicable  reference. 
"Like  your  mother!"  the  Rector 


730 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


of  Fanshawe  Regis  said,  with  utter 
amazement.  It  took  away  his 
breath.  He  could  not  even  notice 
his  son's  question  in  his  conster- 
nation. "  Yes/'  said  John,  not  in 
the  least  perceiving  the  point, 
"  what  is  the  good  1  That  is  what 
one  asks  one's  self ;  it  does  not 
seem  to  make  any  difference  to  the 
world." 

Dr  Mitford  turned,  and  put  up 
the  dog's- eared  folio  on  its  shelf. 
He  shook  his  head  in  his  bewilder- 
ment, and  gave  a  sigh  of  impatience. 
"You  young  men  have  a  way  of 
talking  and  of  thinking  which  I 
don't  understand,"  he  said,  still 
shaking  his  head.  "I  hope  to 
goodness,  John,  that  you  have  not 
been  led  astray  by  those  ridiculous 
fallacies  of  Comtism.  You  may 
suppose  that  as  you  are  not  to  be  a 
clergyman  it  does  not  matter  what 
your  opinions  are ;  but  it  always 
matters.  A  private  Christian  has 
as  much  need  to  be  right  as  if  he 
were  an  archbishop ;  and  I  confess, 
after  your  careful  training,  I  lit- 
tle expected a  mere  farrago  of 

French  sentiment  and  nonsense. 
Your  mother !  what  she  has  to  do 
with  the  question  I  can't  under- 
stand." 

"And  I  am  sure  neither  do  I, 
sir,"  said  John,  moved  to  a  laugh, 
**  nor  why  you  should  set  me  down 
as  a  Comtist.  I  am  not  an  any- 
thingist,  worse  luck — for  then,  per- 
haps, one  might  see  a  little  more 
plainly  what  to  do." 

"  If  a  young  man,  with  the  best 
education  England  can  give,  and 
friends  to  consult,  who,  I  flatter  my- 
self, are  not  idiots,  cannot  see  what 
to  do,  it  does  not  say  much  for  his 
sense,"  said  Dr  Mitford,  with  some 
indignation.  -  "I  suppose  by  all 
this  I  am  to  understand  that  you 
are  tired  of  the  office  drudgery  and 
beginning  to  repent " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any- 
thing to  repent  of,"  said  John,  who 
under  this  questioning  began  to  get 
rebellious,  as  sons  are  wont  to  do. 

"  I  advise  you  to  make  up  your 
mind,"  said  Dr  Mitford,  not  with- 


out a  half-tone  of  contempt.  "I 
never  thought  you  were  adapted 
for  business.  If  experience  has 
shown  you  this,  it  is  best  to  take 
steps  at  once.  You  might  not  like, 
perhaps,  to  return  to  your  original 
destination ' ; 

"  Father,  this  discussion  is  quite 
unnecessary,"  said  John,  growing 
red.  "I  am  not  tired  of  office 
drudgery.  No  trade,  I  suppose,  is 
very  delightful  just  at  first ;  and 
when  one  begins  to  think  for  one's 
self  there  are  many  questions  that 
arise  in  one's  mind.  Yes,  mother, 
I  am  quite  ready.  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  this  half-hour." 

"  But  not  if  your  papa  wants  you, 
my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Mitford,  in  her 
white  shawl,  standing  smiling  upon 
them  at  the  door. 

' "  I  shall  look  after  the  Shake- 
speare when  I  come  in,"  said  John. 
That  was  exactly  where  Kate  had 
stood  peeping — Kate,  who,  when  she 
was  old,  would  be  just  such  another 
woman.  Would  she  grow  so  by  his 
side  ?  Could  it  ever  be  that  she 
would  come,  in  all  the  soft  confidence 
of  proprietorship,  and  look  in  upon 
him  as  his  mother  did  ?  All  at  once 
it  flashed  upon  him  that  such  a  thing 
might  have  been,  in  this  very  place, 
in  this  very  way,  had  he  kept  his 
traditionary  place.  He  might  have 
been  the  Rector,  putting  up  his 
folios,  and  she  the  Lady  Bountiful 
of  the  parish,  as  his  mother  was. 
This  flashed  across  his  mind  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  was  asking 
what  use  it  was,  and  feeling  that 
a  life  spent  in  doing  good  was  as 
much  thrown  away  as  a  life  spent 
in  making  money.  Strange  incon- 
sistency !  And  then  he  went  and 
took  the  basket,  with  its  little  vials 
of  wine  and  carefully-packed  dain- 
ties, out  of  his  mother's  hand. 

Dr  Mitford  watched  them  going 
away  with  feelings  more  odd  and 
strange  than  he  recollected  to  have 
experienced  for  years.  He  watched 
till  the  door  was  closed,  and  then 
he  turned  abruptly  to  his  books, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  a  rummage 
among  them  for  a  minute,  but 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


731 


turned  again  and  walked  impatient-     certain  snort  of  wonder  and  offence 


ly  to  the  window,  and  saw  his  wife's 
white    shawl    disappear  from  the 


— and  then  went  back  to  his  writ- 
ing-table, and  wrote  a  note  to  ac- 


garden  gate,  with  her  tall  boy  by     company  his   article   to   Sylvanus 


her  side  shadowing  over  her  in  the 
October  sunshine.  "  His  mother !" 
Dr  Mitford  said  to  himself,  with  a 


Urban,  who  was  a  more  compre- 
hensible personage  on  the  whole 
than  either  wife  or  son. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


John  remained  rather  more  than 
a  fortnight  at  home.  His  arm  healed 
and  his  health  improved  during  this 
interval  of  quiet.  But  he  did  not 
relieve  his  mind  by  any  disclosure 
of  his  feelings.  Indeed,  what  was 
there  to  disclose  ?  He  asked  him- 
self the  question  ten  times  in  a  day. 
He  had  come  to  no  breach  with 
Kate,  he  had  not  quarrelled  with 
her  father ;  he  had,  on  the  contrary, 
increased  his  claims  upon  Mr  Credi- 
ton  by  actual  service ;  and  the  some- 
thing which  had  sprung  up  between 
Kate  and  himself  was  like  a  wall  of 
glass  or  of  transparent  ice,  changing 
nothing  to  outward  appearance.  He 
spent  his  time  in  an  uneasy  languor, 
sometimes  roused  to  positive  suffer- 
ing, but  more  generally  in  mere 
discomfort,  vague  as  his  thoughts 
were,  as  his  prospects  were,  as  all 
the  world  was  to  him.  It  seemed 
even  a  thing  of  the  past  that  his 
feelings  should  be  very  vehement 
about  that  or  any  other  subject. 
He  had  gone  through  a  great  deal 
of  active  pain,  but  now  it  seemed 
all  to  be  passive,  and  he  only  a  kind 
of  spectator.  A  host  of  questions 
had  widened  out  like  circles  in  the 
water  round  the  central  question. 
What  was  life  worth  1  was  it  any 
great  matter  how  it  was  spent] 
The  banker  among  his  manifold 
concerns,  or  Mr  Whichelo  among 
the  clerks,  or  the  Rector  of  Fan- 
shawe  Regis  in  his  library — did  it 
matter  to  any  mortal  creature  which 
was  which  1  The  one  was  laying 
up  money  which  a  great  fire  or  a 
scoundrel  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world  might  make  an  end  of  in  a 
moment ;  the  other  was  laughed  at 
behind  his  back,  and  outwitted  by 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVI. 


the  young  men  whom  he  thought 
he  had  so  well  in  hand  ;  and  the 
third — what  was  the  parish  the 
better  for  Dr  Mitford  1  And  yet 
John  had  to  face  the  matter  steadi- 
ly, as  if  it  were  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance, and  decide  which  of  these 
pretences  at  existence  he  would 
adopt.  He  got  no  letter  during  this 
curious  interval.  The  outer  world 
kept  silence  and  did  not  interfere 
with  his  ponderings.  Heaven  and 
earth,  and  even  Kate  and  his 
mother,  left  him  to  take  his  own 
way. 

It  was  not  until  the  last  morning 
of  his  stay  that  Mrs  Mitford  said 
anything  to  John  on  the  subject. 
She  had  gone  down  to  breakfast  a 
little  earlier  than  usual,  perhaps, 
with  a  little  innocent  stealthy  inten- 
tion of  looking  at  the  letters,  and 
making  sure  what  there  was  for  her 
boy ;  and  there  was  one  little  letter 
lying  by  John's  plate  which  made 
his  mother's  heart  beat  quicker. 
Yes  ;  at  last  it  was  evident  Kate 
had  written  to  him  ;  and  if  there 
had  been  any  quarrel  or  misunder- 
standing, here  surely  must  be  the 
end  of  it.  She  watched  for  his  ap- 
pearance with  speechless  anxiety ; 
and  of  course  he  was  late  that 
morning,  as  was  to  be  expected. 
And  it  was  very  easy  to  see  by  his 
indifferent  air  that  he  was  not  look- 
ing for  any  letter.  When  he  per- 
ceived it  he  gave  a  little  start,  and 
his  mother  pretended  to  be  very 
much  occupied  with  the  coffee.  He 
read  it  twice  over  from  beginning 
to  end,  which  was  not  a  long  pro- 
cess, for  it  only  occupied  one  page 
of  a  small  sheet  of  note-paper ;  and 
then  he  put  it  into  his  pocket  and 

3D 


732 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


began  to  eat  his  breakfast  and  talk 
just  as  usual.  Mrs  Mitford,  anxious 
and  wondering,  was  brought  to  her 
wits'  end. 

"  You  had  better  order  the  phae- 
ton, John,"  said  Dr  Mitford,  "if 
you  are  going  by  the  twelve  train." 

"  I  need  not  go  till  the  evening," 
said  John  ;  "  and  my  mother  means 
to  walk  there  with  me  ;  don't  you, 
mamma?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs  Mitford, 
smiling  upon  him.  She  had  been 
looking  forward  to  this  last  heart- 
rending pleasure,  and  thinking  that 
then  he  would  perhaps  tell  her  some- 
thing, if  indeed  there  was  anything 
to  tell. 

"  Then  let  the  phaeton  take  your 
portmanteau  and  bring  your  mother 
home,"  said  the  Doctor,  "if  you 
insist  on  taking  her  such  a  long 
walk.  For  my  part  I  can  never 
see  the  good  of  such  expeditions. 
It  is  much  better  to  say  good-bye 
at  home." 

"  But  I  like  the  walk,"  said  Mrs 
Mitford,  eagerly ;  and  the  Doctor, 
who  did  not  quite  approve  of  the 
pair  and  their  doings,  shook  his 
head,  and  gathered  up  his  papers 
(he  had  no  less  than  two  proof- 
sheets  to  correct,  and  a  revise,  for 
he  was  very  particular),  and  went 
off  to  his  work.  "  You  will  find 
me  in  the  library  whenever  I  am 
wanted,"  he  said,  as  he  withdrew. 
He  thought  his  wife  was  spoiling 
her  son,  as  she  had  spoiled  him 
when  he  was  ten  years  old,  and  he 
did  not  approve  of  it ;  but  when  a 
woman  is  so  foolish,  what  can  the 
most  sensible  of  men  and  fathers 
do? 

And  then  the  mother  and  son 
were  left  alone,  with  that  letter  in 
John's  pocket  which  might  explain 
so  much  of  the  mystery.  But  he 
did  not  say  a  word  about  it,  nor 
about  Kate,  nor  anything  that  con- 
cerned his  happiness ;  and  when 
Mrs  Mitford  talked  of  his  new 
shirts  and  stockings  (which  was 
the  only  other  subject  she  found 
herself  capable  of  entering  upon), 
he  talked  of  them  too,  and  agreed 
in  her  remarks  about  the  negligence 


of  washerwomen,  and  all  the  diffi- 
culty of  keeping  linen  a  good  colour 
in  a  town.  "  As  for  your  socks,  my 
poor  boy,  I  never  saw  such  mend- 
ing," she  said,  almost  with  the  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  I  must  take  it  all  out 
and  darn  it  over  again  as  it  ought 
to  be.  When  darning  is  nicely 
done,  I  never  think  the  stocking 
looks  a  bit  the  worse  ;  but  how  any 
woman  could  drag  the  two  edges 
together  like  some  of  these,  I  can't 
understand." 

"It  is  always  hard  work  dragging 
edges  together,"  said  John,  getting 
up  from  the  table.  "  I  think  I'll 
go  and  say  good-bye  to  old  Mrs 
Fanshawe,  mother.  It  is  too  long 
a  walk  for  you." 

"  I  could  not  go  there  and  to  the 
station  too,"  said  Mrs  Mitford,  "and 
I  ought  not  to  neglect  the  schools 
because  I  am  so  happy  as  to  have  my 
own  boy.  Yes,  dear ;  go  and  see  the 
old  people  :  you  must  keep  up  the 
old  ties  for  our  sakes,  even  though 
they  are  to  be  broken  off  so  far  as 
the  Rectory  goes;"  and  she  smiled 
at  him  and  gave  a  little  nod  of  her 
head,  dismissing  him  by  way  of 
concealing  that  she  wanted  to  cry. 
She  did  cry  as  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
and  had  scarcely  time  to  dry  her 
eyes  when  Jervis  came  in  to  clear 
the  table.  Mrs  Mitford  snubbed 
him  on  the  spot,  with  a  vehemence 
which  took  that  personage  quite  by 
surprise.  "I  observe  that  Mr  John's 
things  have  not  been  laid  out  for 
him  properly,  as  they  ought  to  have 
been,"  she  said,  suddenly,  snapping 
his  nose  off,  as  Jervis  said.  "I  trust 
I  shall  find  everything  properly 
brushed  and  folded  to-day.  It  is  a 
piece  of  negligence,  Jervis,  which  I 
don't  at  all  understand."  "  And 
Missis  give  her  head  a  toss,  and 
walks  off  as  if  she  was  the  queen," 
said  the  amazed  man-of-all-work 
when  he  got  to  the  kitchen,  and  was 
free  to  unburden  himself.  After  this 
Mrs  Mitford  had  another  cry  in  her 
own  room,  and  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  went  across  to  the  schools,  won- 
dering through  all  the  lessons  and 
all  the  weary  chatter  of  the  children, 
—  Oh,  what  was  the  matter  with  her 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


733 


boy  1  oh,  was  lie  unhappy  1  had 
they  quarrelled  ?  must  not  his  mo- 
ther know  1 

Meanwhile  John  strode  across 
the  country  to  Fansha we  to  bid  the 
old  squire  and  his  old  wife  good- 
bye. He  went,  as  the  crow  flies, 
over  the  stubble,  and  by  the  hedge- 
sides,  never  pausing  to  draw  breath. 
Not  because  he  was  excited  by  his 
departure,  or  by  the  letter  in  his 
pocket,  or  by  any  actual  incident. 
On  the  contrary,  he  was  quite  still, 
like  the  day,  which  was  a  grey 
autumn  morning,  with  wistful  scraps 
of  blue  on  the  horizon,  and  a  brood- 
ing, pondering  quiet  in  the  air.  All 
is  over  for  the  year,  nature  was 
saying  to  herself.  Shall  there  be 
another  year  ?  shall  old  earth  begin 
again,  take  in  the  new  seeds,  keep 
the  spring  germs  alive  for  another 
blossoming1?  or  shall  all  come  to 
a  conclusion  at  last,  and  the  new 
heavens  and  the  new  earth  come 
down  out  of  those  rolling  clouds 
and  fathomless  shrill  breaks  of  blue? 
John  was  in  much  the  same  mood. 
Kate's  little  note  in  his  pocket  had 
a  kind  of  promise  in  it  of  the  new- 
earth  and  the  new  heaven.  But 
was  it  a  solid,  real  promise,  or  only 
a  dissolving  view,  that  would  vanish 
as  he  approached  it?  and  might  not 
an  end  be  better,  and  no  more  delu- 
sive hopes?  Mrs  Fanshawe  was  very 
kind  when  he  got  to  the  hall.  She 
told  him  of  poor  Cecily,  just  nine- 
teen (Kate's  age),  who  was  dying  at 
Nice,  and  cried  a  little,  and  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  it  don't 
matter  for  us  ;  we  can't  be  long  of 
^oing  after  her."  But  though  she 
was  reconciled  to  that,  she  made  a 
little  outcry  over  John's  leave-tak- 
ing. "  Going  so  soon  !  and  what 
will  your  poor  mother  say  ?  "  cried 
i;he  old  lady.  "  I  am  afraid  you 
think  more  of  one  smile  from  Miss 
Crediton  than  of  all  your  old 
friends;  and  I  suppose  it  is  natural," 
•she  added,  as  she  shook  hands  with 
him.  Did  he  care  more  for  Kate's 
smile  than  for  anything  else  ?  He 
walked  home  again  in  the  same  dead 
sort  of  way,  without  being  able  to 
answer  even  such  a  question.  He 


did  not  care  for  anything,  he 
thought,  except,  now  that  he  was 
at  Fanshawe,  to  get  away;  and 
probably  when  he  got  to  Camelford 
his  desire  would  be  to  get  back 
again,  or  to  Fernwood,  or  to  any- 
where, except  just  the  place  where 
he  happened  to  be. 

It  was  evening  when  he  set  out 
to  go  to  the  station,  with  his  mother 
leaning  on  his  arm.  The  evening 
comes  early  in  October,  and  it  was 
necessary  that  she  should  get  back 
to  dinner  at  seven.  Twilight  was 
coming  on  as  they  walked  together 
along  the  dewy  road,  where  the 
hedgerows  were  all  humid  and  chill 
with  the  dew,  which  some  of  these 
nights  would  grow  white  upon  the 
leaves  before  any  one  knew,  and 
make  winter  out  of  autumn.  A  sort 
of  premonition  of  the  first  frost  was 
in  the  air ;  and  the  hawthorns  were 
very  rusty  and  shabby  in  their  foli- 
age, but  picked  out  here  and  there  by 
red  flaming  bramble -leaves,  which 
warmed  up  the  hedgerows  notwith- 
standing the  damp.  The  mother 
and  son  walked  slowly,  to  spin  out 
the  time  as  long  as  might  be.  To 
be  sure  they  might,  as  Dr  Mitford 
said,  have  just  as  well  talked  in- 
doors ;  but  then  the  good  Doctor 
knew  nothing  about  that  charm  of 
isolation  and  unity — the  silent  world 
all  round  about,  the  soft,  harmonious 
motion,  the  tender  contact  and  sup- 
port. They  could  speak  so  low  to 
each  other  without  any  fear  of  not 
being  heard.  They  could  look  at 
each  other  if  they  would,  yet  were 
not  compelled  to  any  meeting  of 
the  eyes.  There  is  no  position  in 
which  it  is  so  difficult  to  disagree, 
so  natural  to  confide  and  trust.  Mrs 
Mitford's  very  touch  upon  her  son's 
arm  was  in  itself  a  caress.  My 
dear,  dear  boy,  her  eyes  said  as  she 
looked  at  him.  She  had  carried 
him  in  those  soft  arms,  and  no  wit 
was  her  turn  to  lean  upon  him. 
This  thought  was  always  in  her 
mind  when  she  leant  upon  John's 
arm. 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  she  said, 
cunningly,  leading  up  to  her  sub- 
ject with  innocent  pretences  of 


734 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


general  conversation,  "if  we  had 
frost  to-night." 

"  The  air  is  very  still,  and  very 
cold  :  it  is  quite  likely,"  said  John, 
assenting,  without  much  caring 
what  he  said. 

"  And  actually  winter  is  coming  ! 
after  this  wonderful  summer  we 
have  had.  What  a  summer  it  has 
been !  I  don't  remember  such  a 
long  stretch  of  bright  weather  since 
the  year  you  went  first  to  school. 
I  was  so  glad  of  the  first  frost  that 
year,  thinking  of  Christmas.  You 
will  come  home  for  Christmas, 
John  1 "  said  Mrs  Mitford,  sudden- 
ly, with  a  tighter  clasp  of  his  arm. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  mother.  I  don't 
seem  to  realise  Christmas,"  said 
John. 

"  Well,  dear,  I  won't  press  you 
for  any  promise ;  but  you  know  it 
will  be  a  very  poor  Christmas  with- 
out you.  Life  itself  feels  poor 
without  my  boy.  There!  I  did 
not  mean  to  have  said  it ;  but  I  am 
a  foolish  woman,  and  it  is  quite 
true/' 

"  Life  is  so  poor  in  any  case.  I 
don't  know  how  it  can  matter  one 
way  or  another,"  said  John,  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  He  was 
not  touched  so  much  as  impatient ; 
and  unconsciously  he  quickened 
his  pace  and  drew  her  on  with  him, 
faster  than  it  was  easy  for  her 
to  go. 

"  We  are  in  plenty  of  time  for 
the  train,"  Mrs  Mitford  said;  "  not 
so  quick,  if  you  please,  my  dear. 
Oh,  John,  it  is  so  strange  to  hear 
you  say  that  life  is  poor !  Have 
you  nothing  to  tell  me,  my  own 
boy  ]  I  have  never  asked  a  ques- 
tion, though  you  may  think  my 
heart  has  been  sore  enough  some- 
times. What  is  the  matter  1  won't 
you  tell  me  now  1 " 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell— no- 
thing is  the  matter,"  said  John. 

"  But  you  are  not  happy,  my  dear 
boy.  Do  you  think  your  mother 
could  help  seeing  that  1  Oh,  John, 
what  is  it  ?  Is  it  her  father  ?  Do 
you  feel  the  change  1  It  must  be 
something  about  Kate  1 " 

"  It  is  nothing  at  all,  mother," 


said  John,  with  hasty  impatience  ; 
and  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  he  was  going  away  into 
utter  solitude,  and  that  here  was 
the  only  being  in  the  world  to 
whom  he  could  even  partially  open 
his  heart.  She  felt  the  change  of 
his  voice,  though  she  had  no  clue 
to  the  fitfulness  of  his  thoughts. 
"  It  is  quite  true,"  he  continued, 
"  there  is  nothing  to  tell ;  and  yet 
all  is  not  well,  mother.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  or  why.  I  am  jangled 
somehow  out  of  tune — that  is  all ; 
there  is  nobody  to  blame." 

"  I  could  see  that,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  looking  wistfully  at  him; 
"  but  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to 
your  mother,  John  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  say," 
he  repeated.  "  I  cannot  tell  you, 
I  can't  tell  myself  what  is  the  mat- 
ter. There  is  nothing  the  matter. 
It  is  a  false  position  somehow,  I 
suppose — that  is  all." 

"  In  the  bank,  John  ? " 

"  In  the  bank,  and  in  the  house, 
and  in  the  world,  mother,"  he  cried, 
with  sudden  vehemence.  "  I  don't 
seem  able  to  take  root  anywhere  ; 
everything  looks  false  and  forced 
and  miserable.  I  can  neither  go 
on  nor  go  back,  and  I  stagnate 
standing  still.  Never  mind  ;  I 
suppose  it  is  just  an  experience 
like  any  other,  and  will  have  to  be 
borne." 

Then  there  passed  through  Mrs 
Mitf  ord's  mind  as  quick  as  lightning 
that  passage  about  those  who  put 
their  hand  to  the  plough  and  draw 
back.  But  she  restrained  herself. 
"  I  suppose  it  is  just  the  great 
change,  my  dear,"  she  said,  falter- 
ing, yet  soothing  him,  "  and  all  that 
you  have  given  up — for  you  have 
given  up  a  great  deal,  John.  I 
suppose  your  time  is  not  your  own 
now,  and  you  can't  do  what  you 
like  1  And  sitting  at  a  desk — you 
who  used  to  be  free  to  read,  or  to 
walk,  or  to  go  on  the  river,  or  to 
help  your  papa,  or  see  your  friends 
— it  must  make  a  great  difference, 
John." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  what  it 
is,"  he  said,  feeling  that  he  had 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


735 


successfully  eluded  the  subject,  and 
yet  celebrating  his  success  with  a 
sigh. 

"But  I  hope  it  is  made  up  to 
you  in  another  way,"  Mrs  Mitford 
said,  suddenly,  looking  up  into  his 
face.  He  thought  he  had  got  off, 
but  she  did  not  mean  to  let  him  off. 
She  was  a  simple  little  woman,  but 
yet  not  so  simple  but  what  she 
could  employ  a  legitimate  artifice, 
like  the  rest  of  her  kind.  "  You 
had  a  letter  from  Kate  this  morning, 
dear.  I  saw  her  little  handwriting. 
I  suppose  she  makes  up  for  every- 
thing, John?" 

They  were  drawing  near  the  sta- 
tion, and  she  spoke  fast,  partly  from 
that  reason,  partly  to  make  her 
attack  the  more  potent,  and  to  leave 
him  no  time  to  think.  But  he  an- 
swered her  a  great  deal  more  readily 
than  she  had  expected. 

"  Is  it  fair  upon  a  girl  to  expect 
her  to  make  up  for  all  that  ? "  he 
asked.  "  Mother,  I  ask  myself 
sometimes,  if  she  gave  up  her  own 
life  for  me  as  I  have  done  for  her — 
no,  not  altogether  for  her — could  I 
make  it  up  to  her  ?  Is  it  fair  or 
just  to  expect  it1?  Life  means  a 
great  deal,  after  all — more  than  just 
what  you  call  happiness.  You  will 
think  I  am  very  hard-hearted ;  but, 
do  you  know,  it  almost  appears  to 
me  sometimes  as  if  a  man  could  get 
on  better  without  happiness,  if  he 
had  plenty  of  work  to  do,  than  he 
could  without  the  work,  with  only 
the  happiness  to  comfort  him.  Is 
it  blasphemy,  mother  ?  Even  if  it 
is,  you  will  not  be  too  hard  upon 
me." 

Mrs  Mitford  paused  a  little  to 
think  over  her  answer;  and  per- 
haps anybody  who  takes  an  interest 
in  her  will  be  shocked  to  hear  that 
she  was  rather — glad — half-glad — 
with  a  kind  of  relief  at  her  heart. 
"John,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  I  am — sorry — you 
have  found  it  out,  my  dear.  Oh,  I 
am  very  sorry  you  have  found  it 
out — for  it  is  hard ;  but,  do  you 
know,  I  fear  it  is  true." 

"  I  wonder  how  my  mother  found 
it  out,"  he  said,  looking  down  upon 


her  with  that  strange  surprise  which 
moves  a  child  when  it  suddenly 
suspects  some  unthought-of  conflict 
in  the  settled  immovable  life  which 
it  has  been  familiar  with  all  its 
days,  and  accepted  as  an  eternal 
reality.  He  had  propounded  his 
theory  as  the  very  worst  and  very 
saddest  discovery  in  existence,  and 
lo  !  she  had  accepted  it  as  a  truism. 
It  bewildered  John  so  that  he  could 
not  add  another  word. 

"  One  finds  everything  out  if  one 
lives  long  enough,"  she  said,  hastily, 
with  a  nervous  smile.  "  And,  my 
dear,  this  is  what  I  always  thought 
— this  is  why  I  always  disapproved 
of  this  bank  scheme.  You  were 
hurried  into  it  without  time  to 
think.  And  now  that  you  find  it 
does  not  answer,  oh,  my  boy,  what 
is  to  be  done  ?  You  should  not 
lose  any  time,  John.  You  should 
come  to  an  understanding  with  Mr 
Crediton  and  Kate " 

Heavy  as  his  heart  was,  John 
could  not  but  smile.  "  You  go  so 
fast,  mother  dear,  that  you  take 
away  my  breath." 

"  So  fast !  what  can  be  too  fast, 
when  you  are  unhappy,  my  dear  \ 
One  can  see  at  a  glance  that  you 
are  unhappy.  Oh,  John,  come  back ! 
Believe  me,  my  own  boy,  the  only 
comfort  is  doing  God's  work ;  every- 
thing else  is  unsatisfactory.  Oh, 
my  dear,  come  home  !  If  I  but  saw 
you  taking  to  the  parish  work,  and 
coming  back  to  your  own  life,  I 
should  care  for  nothing  more — no- 
thing more  in  this  world." 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  John.  "  My 
dear  mother,  I  was  not  thinking  of 
the  parish  work — far,  very  far  from 
it.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  was 
thinking  of.  I  may  find  what  I 
want  in  the  bank  after  all.  Here 
is  the  train,  and  James  waiting  for 
you  with  the  phaeton.  Let  me  put 
you  in  before  I  go  away." 

"  But  oh,  John,  if  it  cannot  be 
for  the  present — if  you  cannot  come 
back  all  at  once — now  that  your 
mind  is  unsettled,  dear,  oh  think  it 
carefully  over  this  time,  and  con- 
sider what  I  say." 

"  This  time"  John  said  to  him- 


736 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


self,  when  he  had  bidden  his  mother 
good-bye  and  had  thrown  himself 
into  a  corner  of  the  railway  carriage 
with  his  face  towards  Camelford — 
" think  it  carefully  over  this  time" 
The  words  filled  him  with  strange 
shame.  He  had  made  one  disrup- 
tion in  his  life,  it  was  evident, 
without  sufficient  care  or  thought. 
Was  he  one  of  the  wretched  vacil- 
lators  so  contemptible  to  a  young 
man,  who  are  always  changing,  and 
yet  never  come  to  any  settled  de- 
termination? His  cheeks  flushed 
crimson,  though  he  was  all  alone, 
as  the  thought  came  into  his  mind. 
No ;  this  time  he  must  make  no 
hasty  change ;  this  time,  at  least, 
no  false  position  must  be  consented 
to.  He  must  put  Kate  out  of  his 
mind,  and  every  vain  hope  and 
yearning  after  what  people  call 
happiness.  Happiness !  most  people 
managed  to  do  without  it ;  even — 
could  it  be  possible  ] — his  mother 
managed  to  do  without  it ;  for  hap- 
piness, after  all,  is  not  life.  This 
time  there  must  be  no  mistake  on 
that  head. 

It  was  night  when  he  reached 
his  lodging  ;  and  his  mind  was  as 
doubtful  and  his  thoughts  as  con- 
fused and  uncertain  as  when  he  had 
left  it.  He  went  into  his  dreary 
little  parlour,  and  had  his  lamp 
lighted,  and  sat  down  in  the  silence. 
He  iiad  come  back  again  just  as  he 
went  away.  The  decision  which  he 
had  to  make  seemed  to  have  been 
waiting  for  him  here — waiting  all 
these  days — and  faced  him  the  mo- 
ment he  returned.  What  was  he 
going  to  do  ?  He  sat  down  and 
listened  to  the  clock  ticking,  and  to 
now  and  then  an  unfrequent  step 
passing  outside,  or  the  voice  of  his 
landlady  talking  in  the  little  under- 
ground kitchen.  His  portmanteau, 
which  he  had  brought  in  with  him, 
was  on  the  floor  just  by  the  door. 
The  thought  came  upon  him  in  his 
unrest  to  seize  it  again  in  his  hand, 
and  rush  out  and  jump  into  the 
first  cab,  and  go  back  to  Fern  wood ; 
not  that  he  expected  any  comfort 
at  Fernwood,  but  only  that  it  was 
the  only  other  change  possible  to 


him.  If  he  arrived  there  late  at 
night,  when  nobody  expected  him, 
and  went  in  suddenly  without  any 
warning,  what  should  he  see  1  The 
impulse  to  make  the  experiment 
was  so  strong  upon  him  that  he 
actually  got  up  from  his  seat  to 
obey  it,  but  then  came  to  himself, 
and  sat  down  again,  and  took  out 
Kate's  little  letter.  It  was  very 
short,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it 
to  excite  any  man.  This  was  all 
that  Kate  said  : — 

"DEAREST  JOHN, — Why  don't 
you  write  to  me  1  You  used  to 
write  almost  every  day,  and  now 
here,  is  a  full  fortnight  and  I  have 
not  heard  from  you.  I  think  it  so 
strange.  I  hope  you  are  not  ill, 
nor  anybody  belonging  to  you.  It 
makes  me  very  anxious.  Do  write. 
— Ever  your  affectionate 

"  KATE." 

That  was^ll.  There  was  nothing 
in  it  to  open  any  fresh  fountain  in 
his  breast.' .  He  folded  it  up  care- 
fully and  slowly  into  its  envelope, 
and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket. 
Write  to  her !  why  should  he  write  ] 
It  was  not  «as  if  he  wanted  to  up- 
braid her,  or  to  point  out  any  enor- 
mity she  had  done.  She  had  not 
done  anything ;  and  what  could 
he  say  ?  The  future  was  so  misty 
before  him,  and  his  own  heart  so 
languid,  that  her  appeal  made  no 
impression  upon  him.  Why  should 
he  do  it?  But  he  stopped  again 
just  before  he  put  the  letter  in  his 
pocket,  and  gave  another  glance  at 
his  portmanteau.  Should  he  go, 
and  carry  her  his  answer,  and  judge 
once  again  what  was  the  best  for 
her  and  for  himself  ?  He  gave  up 
that  fancy  when  the  clock  struck 
eight  slowly  in  his  ears.  It  was 
too  late  to  go  to  Fernwood  that 
night;  and  yet  there  were  hours 
and  hours  to  pass  before  he  could 
throw  himself  on  his  bed  with  any 
chance  of  sleeping  ;  and  he  had  no 
business  to  occupy  him,  or  work  to 
do — and  how  was  this  long,  slow, 
silent  night  to  be  hastened  on  its 
tardy  wing  1  John  rose  at  last, 
with  a  kind  of  desperation,  and 


1870.] 


John.-— Part  VIII. 


737 


went  out.  He  had  nowhere  to  go, 
having  sought  no  acquaintances  in 
Camelford.  There  was  nobody  in 
the  place  that  he  cared  to  see,  or 
indeed  would  not  have  gone  out  of 
his  way  to  avoid  ;  but  the  streets 
were  all  lit  up,  and  some  of  them 
were  noisy  enough.  John  wander- 
ed through  them  in  the  lamp-light 
with  strange  thoughts.  He  seemed 
to  himself  like  a  man  who  had  lost 
his  way  in  the  world.  He  was  like 
Dante  when  he  stood  in  the  midst 
of  his  life  and  found  that  he  had 
missed  the  true  path.  To  go  on 
seemed  impossible;  and  when  he 
would  have  turned  back,  how  many 
wild  beasts  were  in  the  way  to  with- 
stand him !  Was  there  anybody, 
he  wondered,  who  could  lead  him 
back  that  long,  long  roundabout 
way  through  Hell  and  Purgatory 
and  Heaven  ?  With  such  a  ques- 
tion in  his  mind,  he  wandered  into 
places  such  as  he  had  il^ver  entered 
before  ;  he  watched  the  people  in 
the  streets,  and  went  after  them  to 
their  haunts.  -A  strange  phantas- 
magoria seemed  to  pass  before  his 
eyes,  of  dancers  and  singers,  and 
stupid  crowds  gaping  and  looking 
on,  amid  smoke  and  noise  and  sor- 
did merrymaking.  He  heard  their 
rude  jests  and  their  talk,  and  loud 
harsh  peals  of  laughter;  he  listened 
to  the  songs  they  were  listening 
to  with  the  rough  clamour  of  ap- 


plause in  which  there  was  no  real 
enjoyment.  He  followed  them 
mutely — a  solitary,  keen-eyed  spec- 
tator— into  the  places  where  they 
danced,  and  where  they  drank,  and 
where  they  listened  to  those  songs, 
with  a  strange  sense  of  unreality 
upon  him  all  the  while.  They  were 
as  unreal  as  if  they  had  been  lords 
and  ladies  yawning  at  a  State  ball. 
And  then  all  at  once  John  found 
himself  in  a  dreary  half -lighted 
room,  in  the  midst  of  a  Wesleyan 
prayer -meeting,  where  half-seen 
people,  like  ghosts  in  the  half-light, 
were  calling  to  God  to  have  mercy 
upon  them.  He  gazed  at  the 
prayer -meeting  as  he  did  at  the 
music-hall,  wondering  what  all  the 
people  meant.  Would  they  go  on 
like  that  till  death  suddenly  came 
and  turned  the  performance  into  a 
reality  at  last  1  He  had  no  Yirgil 
to  guide  him,  no  Donna  sceso  del 
cielo  to  be  his  passport  everywhere. 
And  he  scarcely  knew  what  were 
the  doubts  he  wanted  to  be  solved. 
"  Now  I  shall  sleep  at  last,"  was 
all  he  said  to  himself  as  he  went  in 
when  the  night  was  far  advanced, 
having  spent  it  in  visiting  many 
places  where  Dr  Mitford's  son 
should  not  have  entered.  Was  he 
taking  to  evil  ways  1  or  was  there 
any  chance  that  he  could  solve  his 
own  problem  by  means  such  as 
these  1 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


Next  morning  John  did  not  per- 
mit himself  any  musings ;  he  got  up 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  some- 
thing to  do  for  the  first  time  for 
many  weeks.  There  was  nobody  to 
do  anything  for  him  in  his  poor 
lodging  ;  no  Jervis  to  unpack  his 
things  and  put  them  in  order.  He 
had  opened  his  portmanteau  to  take 
out  what  he  wanted  from  it,  but  he 
had  not  unpacked  it.  It  stood  open 
with  all  its  straps  undone,  and  every- 
thing laid  smooth  by  the  careful 
hands  at  home,  and  John  closed  it 
once  more  and  left  it  in  readiness 
to  be  removed  again  when  he  went 


out.  It  was  quite  early  in  the  Oc- 
tober morning,  which  was  bright, 
and  sharp,  and  frosty,  with  patches 
of  white  rime  lying  in  the  unsunned 
corners,  and  great  blobs  of  cold  dew 
hanging  from  the  branches  of  the 
suburban  trees.  "  My  mother  has 
had  her  frost,"  John  could  not  help 
saying  to  himself,  as  he  went  out. 
And  all  the  world  was  astir,  looking 
as  unlike  that  feverish,  noisy  world 
which  had  smoked  and  cheered  at 
the  music-halls  last  night,  as  could 
be  supposed.  When  he  saw  the 
people  moving  about  so  briskly  in 
the  sharp,  clear  air,  he  could  not 


738 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


but  ask  himself,  were  they  the 
same  1  Was  that  the  man  who  had 
thumped  with  hands  and  feet,  and 
roared  open-mouthed,  at  the  imbe- 
cility of  the  comic  song?  or  was 
that  he  who  led  the  chorus  of  ex- 
clamations at  the  prayer-meeting1? 
John  was  in  so  strange  a  state  of 
mind  that  the  one  was  to  him  very 
much  as  the  other,  both  phantoms — 
one  coarsely  making  believe  to  be 
amused,  the  other  coarsely  pretend- 
ing to  pray.  He  went  to  the  bank 
first,  where  all  the  clerks  had  just 
settled  down  in  the  first  freshness 
of  morning  work.  He  went  in  at 
the  swinging  doors  with  the  early 
public,  and  stood  outside  the  coun- 
ter looking  for  some  one  to  address 
himself  to.  In  his  first  glance 
round  he  saw  that  his  place  at  the 
desk  in  the  window  from  which  he 
had  so  often  watched  Kate  was 
filled  by  another;  which  was  a 
small  matter  enough,  and  yet  went 
through  him  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
adding  firmness  to  the  resolution 
which  began  to  form  in  his  mind. 
After  a  moment  Mr  Whichelo  rose 
from  his  desk,  and  came  forward, 
holding  out  his  hand,  to  meet  him. 
"How  are  you,  Mr  Mitford  1  I 
hope  I  see  you  quite  recovered  : 
how  is  the  arm  1 "  said  Mr  Whichelo, 
with  bustling  cordiality ;  and  John 
had  to  pause  to  explain  how  it 
was  that  he  was  able  to  do  without 
his  bandages,  and  no  longer  re- 
quired to  wear  the  injured  arm  in 
a  sling. 

"  Mr  Crediton  has  not  come  in 
to-day.  I  don't  suppose  we  are 
likely  to  see  him  to-day ;  but  you 
must  know  better  than  we  do,  Mr 
Mitford,  for  I  suppose  you  have 
just  come  from  Fern  wood  ? " 

"  No,  it  is  some  time  since  I  left 
Fern  wood.  I  have  been  at  home," 
said  John. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  the  head  clerk, 
raising  his  eyebrows.  Mr  Whichelo 
thought  there  was  no  such  place  as 
Fernwood  in  the  kingdom,  and  was 
naturally  astonished  that  any  man 
could  relinquish  its  delights.  But 
then  he  added,  with  condescending 
moral  approval,  "  And  quite  right, 


too,  Mr  Mitford ;  when  there  is  any- 
thing the  matter  with  you,  there  is 
no  place  like  home." 

Then  there  was  a  momentary 
pause ;  the  public  were  coming  and 
going,  in  small  numbers  as  yet,  but 
still  enough  to  keep  the  doors 
swinging  and  the  clerks  at  the 
counter  employed.  But  Mr  Which- 
elo and  John  stood  in  the  centre, 
between  the  two  lines  of  desks,  tak- 
ing no  notice  of  the  public.  John 
would  have  known  quite  well  what 
to  say  to  Mr  Crediton  had  he  found 
him  there,  but  it  was  more  difficult 
with  his  head  clerk. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  Mr  Whichelo; 
"  you  always  had  a  very  quick  eye, 
Mr  Mitford  —  you  perceive  the 
change  we  have  made." 

"  I  perceive  you  have  filled  up 
my  place,"  said  John. 

"  No,  no — not  filled  up  your 
place ;  I  have  put  in  a  junior  tem- 
porarily to  do  the  work.  My  dear 
Mr  Mitford,"  said  the  head  clerk, 
with  a  smile,  "  if  you  were  only  an 
ordinary  employe  like  one  of  the 
rest " 

"  I  should  not  be  worth  my  salt," 
said  John,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
laugh. 

"Very  far  from  that;  you  are 
only  too  good  for  us — too  good  for 
us,  that  is  all.  It  seems  a  shame, 
with  your  education,  to  see  you 
making  entries  that  any  lad  could 
make.  But  of  course,  Mr  Mit- 
ford, you  occupy  a  very  different 
position.  We  are  all  aware  of 
that." 

"A  false  position,"  said  John. 
"Don't  disturb  the  young  fellow 
for  me.  No,  I  have  not  come  back 
to  work.  I  want  to  see  Mr  Credi- 
ton if  I  can.  You  don't  expect 
him  to  -  day  ?  nor  to  -  morrow  1 
Then  I  must  see  him  somewhere 
else » 

"  At  Fernwood,"  said  Mr  Which- 
elo ;  "  you  can  always  see  him  at 
Fernwood." 

"  Very  well,"  said  John.  He  felt 
as- if  he  had  got  his  orders  when 
these  words  were  said.  Of  course 
it  was  to  Fernwood  he  must  go  to 
see  if  any  comfort  was  to  be  had 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VIII. 


739 


there.  Fanshawe  threw  no  light 
upon  what  he  ought  to  do,  neither 
did  Camelford;  and  Fernwood 
was  the  only  place  that  remained. 
He  shook  hands  with  Mr  Whichelo 
again,  and  went  out  with  a  certain 
alacrity.  The  junior  at  his  desk 
in  the  window  no  longer  troubled 
him.  Yes  j  no  doubt  the  boy  would 
sit  there,  and  see  Kate  come  and 
go,  and  take  no  thought.  The 
beautiful  Miss  Crediton,  with  all 
her  gaieties  and  splendour,  would 
be  nothing  to  him  :  far  better  that 
he  should  fill  that  corner  and  make 
his  entries,  than  that  John  should 
sit  there  cousuming  his  heart. 
Fernwood  was  ten  miles  off,  but 
it  was  a  bright  day,  and  to  walk 
there  was  the  best  thing  he  could 
do.  It  gave  him  time  to  think, 
and  it  kept  up  -a  certain  rhythm 
of  movement  and  action  about  him 
which  prevented  him  from  think- 
ing— and  that  on  the  whole  was  the 
best.  The  long  road  spun  along 
like  a  thread,  lengthening  and 
lengthening  as  he  went  on,  moving 
as  if  off  a  wheel,  with  half-stripped 
trees  and  falling  leaves,  and  brown 
hedges,  and  here  and  there  the 
russet  glory  of  a  bramble -branch 
trailing  over  the  humid  grass. 
Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel,  he 
seemed  to  hear  some  one  singing 
as  he  went  on  and  on ;  and  the 
gleaming  line  of  path  spun  out, 
circling  out  of  the  horizon  on  one 
side,  back  into  it  on  the  other, 
and  there  seemed  no  reason  why 
it  should  ever  come  to  any  pause. 
His  brain  was  giddy,  and  spun,  too, 
as  the  road  did.  He  went  on  with 
a  buzzing  in  his  ears,  as  if  he  too 
were  on  the  wheel,  and  was  wind- 
ing, winding,  and  revolving  with 
it,  now  up,  now  down,  going  on 
and  on.  What  the  end  was,  or  if 
there  was  any  end,  he  did  not  seem 
to  know.  It  was  the  measured 
chant,  the  circles  woven  by  mystic 
feet,  never  ending,  still  beginning. 
He  had  come  to  the  very  park  of 
Fernwood  before  he  roused  himsejf 
from  this  strange  dreamy  sense  of 
movement.  It  was  a  brilliant  au- 
tumn, and  already  the  beech-trees 


and  the  oaks  were  dressed  in  a 
hundred  colours.  The  gentlemen 
of  the  party  would  of  course  be 
among  the  covers — and  the  ladies 

Here  John  paused,  and  began 

to  ask  himself  what  his  meaning 
was.  Was  it  Kate  he  had  come  to 
see  1  was  it  into  her  hands  that 
once  more,  once  again,  like  a  fool, 
he  was  going  to  put  his  fate  1 

He  stopped,  and  leaned  upon  a 
great  beech,  which  stood  with  a 
little  forest  of  juniper-bushes  round 
it,  withdrawn  from  the  road.  It 
was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  park, 
just  where  two  paths  met  —  one 
starting  off  into  the  wilder  tan- 
gled ground  beyond  the  open ;  the 
other  leading  up  towards  the  house 
on  a  parallel  with  the  avenue 
which  John  had  just  left.  He  was 
crossing  through  the  brushwood 
to  gain  this  footpath,  when  he  stop- 
ped there  against  the  beech -tree 
to  collect  himself,  feeling  giddy. 
It  was  a  huge  beech,  with  a  trunk 
vast  enough  to  have  hidden  a  com- 
pany of  people,  and  great  russet 
branches  sweeping  down,  and  the 
juniper  in  circles,  like  the  stones  of 
the  Druids,  making  a  sort  of  jungle 
round  it.  Was  it  an  evil  or  a  good 
fate  that  brought  him  there  at  that 
moment  of  all  others  1  He  had 
scarcely  stopped,  and  the  sound  of 
his  foot  crushing  down  the  juniper 
could  not  have  ceased  in  the  still 
air,  when  his  eye  caught  a  gleam  of 
colour  and  some  moving  figures 
passing  close  to  him  on  the  other 
side  of  the  beech.  He  stood  like 
one  bewildered  when  he  saw  that  it 
was  Kate.  She  was  walking  along 
slowly  at  a  very  meditative  pace, 
with  her  head  drooping  and  her  eyes 
cast  down,  so  far  occupied  with  her 
thoughts  that  she  neither  heard  nor 
saw  nor  suspected  the  presence  of 
any  observing  bystander.  And  she 
was  not  alone.  Walking  by  her 
side,  with  his  eyes  upon  her,  was 
Fred  Huntley.  She  was  gazing  on 
the  ground,  but  he  was  gazing  at 
her.  Her  face  was  abstracted  and 
full  of  thought ;  but  his  was  eager, 
flushed  with  wishes  and  hopes  and 
expectation.  They  were  not  saying 


740 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


anything  to  each  other.  John  did 
not  hear  a  word  as  they  went  slowly 
past ;  but  imagine  how  it  must  have 
felt  to  wake  up  out  of  a  feverish 
haze  of  doubt  and  inquietude  and 
unreality,  and  suddenly  open  his 
eyes  on  such  a  sight!  He  stood 
spell-bound,  scarcely  venturing  to 
breathe,  and  heard  the  rustle  and 
sweep  of  her  dress  over  the  grass, 
and  her  sometimes  faltering,  un- 
steady step,  and  Huntley's  foot, 
that  rang  firm  upon  the  path. 
Their  very  breathing  seemed  to 
come  to  him  in  the  air,  and  the 
faint  violet  scent,  which  was  Kate's 
favourite  perfume,  and  the  move- 
ment and  rustle  of  her  going.  They 
passed  as  if  they  had  been  a  dream, 
and  John  held  his  breath,  and  all 
his  life  concentrated  itself  into  his 
eyes.  Her  figure  detached  itself 
so  against  the  still  autumnal  land- 
scape, her  grey  dress,  the  blue  rib- 
bons that  fluttered  softly  about  her, 
the  soft  ruffled  feathers,  lightly 
puffed  up  against  the  wind  in  her 
hat — and  the  man  by  her  side,  with 
his  eyes  so  intent  upon  her.  It  was 
an  affair  of  a  moment,  and  they 
were  gone  ;  and  as  soon  as  they  had 
passed  out  of  hearing,  and  were 
about  to  disappear  among  the  trees, 
they  began  to  talk.  He  heard  their 


voices,  but  could  not  tell  what  they 
said;  but  the  voices  were  low, 
toned  to  the  key  of  that  still  land- 
scape, and  of  something  still  more 
potential  than  the  landscape  ;  and 
John  turned  from  the  scene,  which 
was  stamped  on  his  memory  as  if 
in  lines  of  fire,  and  looked  himself 
as  it  were  in  the  face,  feeling  that 
this  at  last  was  the  truth  which 
had  burst  upon  him,  scattering  to 
the  wind  all  his  dreams. 

He  turned  without  a  word,  and 
walked  back  to  Camelford.  There 
seemed  no  more  doubt  or  power  of 
question  in  his  mind.  He  did  not 
even  feel  as  if  any  painful  accident 
had  happened  to  him  ;  only  that  it 
was  all  over — finished  and  past,  and 
the  seal  put  to  the  grave  of  his 
dreams.  He  even  walked  back 
with  more  assured  steps,  with  less 
sense  of  a  burden  on  his  shoulders 
and  a  yoke  about  his  neck.  It  had 
been  very  sweet  and  very  bitter, 
delightsome  and  miserable,  while  it 
lasted  ;  but  now  it  was  over.  And 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  the 
conclusion  which  he  thus  accepted 
so  summarily  was  as  unreasonable 
as  the  beginning.  No  ;  the  time  of 
dreaming  was  over,  he  thought,  and 
now  at  last  there  stood  revealed  to 
him  the  real  and  the  true. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
John  reached  Camelford.  He  had 
stopped  to  rest  at  a  roadside  public- 
house,  where  he  ate  and  drank, 
as  a  man  might  do  in  the  ex- 
haustion of  grief  coming  home 
from  a  funeral.  He  had  sat  before 
the  rustic  door,  and  watched  the 
carts  that  went  slowly  past  with 
heavy  wheels,  and  the  unfrequent 
passengers  ;  and  he  had  felt  very 
much  as  if  he  had  been  at  a  funeral. 
It  was  a  long  walk,  and  he  was  very 
footsore  and  weary  when  he  reach- 
ed his  lodgings.  He  was  out  of 
training,  and  the  fire  and  his  acci- 
dent had  impaired  his  strength,  and 
his  heart  was  not  light  enough  to 
give  him  any  assistance.  When  he 


shut  himself  once  more  into  his  little 
parlour,  he  was  so  much  worn  out 
that  he  had  no  strength  to  do  any- 
thing. He  had  meant  to  return  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  portmanteau, 
which  imagination  represented  to 
him  lying  open  on  the  floor  of  his 
bedroom,  all  packed,  which  it  was  a 
comfort  to  think  of ;  but  after  his, 
twenty-miles  walk  he  had  no  longer 
the  energy  to  gather  his  little  pos- 
sessions together.  He  laid  his  ach- 
ing limbs  on  the  sofa  and  tried  to 
rest.  But  it  was  very  hard  to  rest ; 
he  wanted  to  be  in  motion  all  the 
time  ;  he  did  not  feel  able  to  con- 
front the  idea  of  spending  all  the 
gloomy  evening  alone  in  that  dreary 
little  room.  Home,  home,  his  mind 


1870.] 


John.— Part  VI1L 


741 


kept  saying.  It  would  not  be  cheer- 
ful at  home.  He  did  not  know  how 
he  was  to  bear  the  stillness,  and  his 
mother's  cry  of  wonder,  and  his 
father's  questionings.  But  yet  a 
necessity  was  upon  him  to  go  on 
and  make  an  end  of  the  whole 
matter  ;  and  he  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  even  one  evening  more 
in  that  half-lighted,  drab-coloured, 
miserable  room.  After  his  first 
pause  of  weariness,  he  sprang  up 
and  rang  his  bell,  and  told  his 
landlady  he  was  going  away.  "  Get 
my  bill  ready,  please/'  he  said  ; 
"  and  if  you  will  put  my  things  to- 
gether for  me,  and  send  for  a  cab 

for  the   eight   o'clock  train " 

"  Lord,  sir,  I  hope  it  aint  nothing 
in  the  rooms  !  they're  nice  rooms 
as  ever  could  be,  and  as  comf orable 
as  I  could  make  them,  or  any 
woman,"  she  said.  John  comforted 
her  amour  propre  as  well  as  he 
could,  with  a  tale  of  circumstances 
that  compelled  his  departure,  and 
felt  as  if  he  had  been  addressing  a 
public  meeting  when  his  short  col- 
loquy was  over.  Never  in  his  life 
before  had  he  been  so  tired — not 
ill  nor  sad  to  speak  of — but  tired ; 
so  fatigued  that  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  himself.  But  it 
was  still  only  four  o'clock,  and  there 
were  four  hours  to  be  got  through, 
and  a  great  deal  to  do.  He  got  his 
writing  things  together  with  as 
much  difficulty  as  if  they  had  been 
miles  apart,  and  threw  himself  on 
the  sofa  again,  and  wrote.  The  first 
letter  was  to  Mr  Crediton,  and  over 
that  the  pen  went  on  fluently 
enough. 

"  DEAR  Sm,— I  think  it  right  to 
let  you  know  at  once — as  soon  as  I 
am  perfectly  sure  of  my  own  mind 
— that  I  feel  obliged  to  relinquish 
the  post  you  kindly  gave  me  three 
months  ago  in  the  bank.  Early 
training,  and  the  habits  belonging 
to  a  totally  different  kind  of  life, 
have  at  last  made  the  position  un- 
tenable. I  am  very  sorry,  but  it  is 
better  to  stop  before  worse  come  of 
it,  if  worse  could  come.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  the  suddenness  of  my 


resolution  can  put  you  to  any  in- 
convenience, as  I  saw,  on  visiting 
the  bank  this  morning,  that  my 
place  had  been  already  filled  up.  I 
meant  to  have  seen  you,  but  found 
it  impracticable.  I  hope  you  will 
accept  my  apologies  for  any  abrupt- 
ness that  there  may  be  in  this 
letter,  and  regrets  that  I  have  not 
been  able  better  to  make  use  of  the 
opportunity  you  afforded  me " 

Here  John  came  to  a  stop — op- 
portunity for  what  ]  Opportunity 
of  winning  your  confidence — oppor- 
tunity of  gaining  an  acquaintance 
with  business  —  of  proving  myself 
worthy  of  higher  trust  1  He  could 
not  adopt  any  of  these  expressions. 
The  shorter  the  letter, the  least  said, 
the  better.  He  broke  off  abruptly 
without  concluding  his  sentence. 
He  had  very  little  to  thank  Mr 
Crediton  for ;  but  yet  he  could  not, 
with  any  regard  to  justice,  blame 
him.  Kate's  father,  though  he  had 
done  little  for,  had  done  nothing 
absolutely  against  him.  It  was  not 
Mr  Crediton  he  found  fault  with — 
Mr  Crediton  was  very  justifiable  ; 
and  was  it,  could  it  be,  that  he  was 
about  to  find  fault  with  Kate  1 

He  began  to  write  to  her  half-a- 
dozen  times  at  least.  He  began  in- 
dignant—  he  began  tenderly, — he 
upbraided — he  remonstrated — his 
pen  ran  away  with  him.  He  had 
meant  to  use  one  class  of  words,  and 
under  his  very  eyes  it  employed 
another.  He  wrote  her  ever  so 
many  letters.  He  set  before  her 
all  his  passion — all  his  readiness  to 
sacrifice  himself — all  the  tortures  he 
had  suffered  at  the  window  of  the 
bank  seeing  her  come  and  go  and 
having  no  share  in  her  life.  He 
told  her  what  a  chill  blank  had  come 
over  him  at  Fernwood — how  he  had 
felt  that  he  was  nothing  to  her.  He 
told  her  what  he  had  seen  that 
morning.  He  was  eloquent,  pathet- 
ic, overwhelming.  His  own  heart 
felt  as  if  it  must  burst  while  he 
wrote ;  but  as  he  read  over  each 
completed  page,  John  had  still  so 
much  good  sense  left  that  he 
dragged  his  stiff  limbs  from  the 


742 


John.— Part  VIII. 


[June 


sofa  and  put  it  in  the  fire.  It  was 
thus  he  occupied  almost  all  the  time 
he  had  to  wait ;  and  it  was  only  just 
before  his  cab  came  to  the  door  that 
he  put  into  its  envelope  this  letter, 
in  which  it  will  be  seen  he  neither 
remonstrated  nor  upbraided,  nor 
even  gave  her  up.  He  could  not 
give  her  up,  and  how  could  he 
accuse  her  ?  He  accuse  Kate  !  If 
she  was  guilty  her  heart  would  do 

that — if  not But  alas  !   the 

latter  alternative  was  impossible ; 
only  for  "  utter  courtesy,"  for  utter 
tenderness,  he  could  not  blame  the 
woman  he  loved. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  write," 
he  said,  "though  you  tell  me  to 
write.  Dear  Kate,  dearest  Kate — 
you  will  always  be  dearest  to  me, 
— This  may  pass  over,  and  be  to 
you  as  the  merest  dream ;  but  to  me 
it  must  always  be  the  centre  and 
heart  of  my  life.  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  you.  I  have  not 
written,  not  out  of  lack  of  love,  but 
lack  of  hope.  If  I  could  think  I 
was  any  way  necessary  to  you — if 
I  could  feel  you  wanted  me — but 
your  sweet  life  is  so  complete ;  and 
what  is  mine  to  be  tacked  on  to  it  1 
I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Silence 
seems  the  best.  Dear  !  dearest !  you 
are  so  bright  that  my  heart  fails  me 
when  I  look  at  you.  I  drop  down 
into  the  shade,  and  there  seems 
nothing  left  for  me  but  to  keep  still. 
I  try  to  rouse  myself  with  the 
thought  of  what  you  say — that  you 
want  me  to  write,  that  you  are 
anxious — anxious  about  me  !  And 
you  mean  it,  dear — you  mean  it,  I 
know ;  but  the  words  have  a  soft 
meaning  to  you  different  from  their 
meaning  to  me.  And  you  have  no 
need  of  me,  Kate.  I  feel  it,  and  that 
takes  the  words  out  of  my  mouth, 
and  all  the  courage  out  of  my  heart. 

"  I  was  at  Fernwood  to-day,  and 
saw  you,  though  you  did  not  see 
me.  You  were  walking  in  the  little 
footpath  near  the  avenue.  Ah,  Kate! 
but  for  that  I  think  I  could  have 
gone  to  you,  and  said  some  things 
I  cannot  write.  Do  not  be  grieved 
in  your  kind  heart  because  I  am  leav- 


ing Camelford.  It  was  a  mistake, 
but  I  was  to  blame.  I  am  going 
home,  and  I  don't  quite  know  what 
I  shall  do ;  but  time,  perhaps,  will 
make  the  way  clear.  Dearest,  if 
ever  you  should  want  me — but  how 
should  you  want  me  ?  God  bless 
you  !  I  have  no  claim  to  make,  nor 
plea  to  put  forth ;  but  I  am  always 
and  ever  yours — always  and  for 
ever,  whatever  may  happen — yours 
and  yours  only  to  command, 

"JOHN  MITFORD." 

He  put  the  two  letters  into  their 
envelopes,  and  sealed  and  put  them 
into  the  post  with  his  own  hand  as 
he  went  to  the  station.  He  car- 
ried all  his  possessions  with  him — 
not  merely  the  portmanteau  ;  and 
he  was  dead  tired — so  tired  that 
he  would  have  passed  Fanshawe 
station  and  gone  on  perhaps  to 
London — for  he  had  dropt  asleep 
in  the  train — but  for  the  guard, 
who  knew  him.  When  he  found 
himself  on  the  little  platform  at  Fan- 
shawe, chilly  and  stupid  as  a  man 
is  who  has  just  awakened  from  sleep, 
the  only  strong  feeling  in  his  mind 
was  an  earnest  overwhelming  desire 
to  get  to  bed.  He  did  not  seem 
capable  of  realising  that  he  had  got 
home  again,  after  his  disastrous 
voyage  into  the  world  —  he  only 
thought  of  going  to  sleep;  and  it 
was  not  his  mother's  wondering 
welcome  he  was  thinking  of,  or  the 
questions  they  would  ask  him, 
but  a  pleasant  vision  of  his  own 
room,  with  the  fire  burning  in  the 
grate,  and  the  white  fragrant  sheets 
opened  up  and  inviting  him  to  rest. 
He  felt  half  asleep  when  he  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  Rectory,  and 
walked  into  the  drawing-room  to 
his  mother,  who  gave  a  shriek  of 
mingled  delight  and  alarm  at  so 
unlooked-for  an  apparition.  "  John, 
you  are  ill ;  something  has  hap- 
pened," Mrs  Mitford  cried  out,  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension.  "  I  am  only 
sleepy,  mother,"  he  said.  That  was 
all  he  could  say.  He  sat  down  and 
smiled  at  her,  and  told  her  how  tired 
he  was.  "  Nothing  particular  has 
happened,  except  in  my  own  mind," 


1870.] 


John.— Part  Vlll. 


743 


he  added,  when  he  came  to  himself 
a  little,  "and  not  much  even  there. 
I  am  awfully  tired.  Don't  ask  me 
anything,  and  don't  be  unhappy. 
There  is  nothing  to  be  unhappy 
about.  You  shall  know  it  all  to- 
morrow. But  please,  mother  dear, 
let  me  go  to  bed." 

"  And  so  you  shall,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs  Mitford;  "but,  oh,  my  own  boy, 
what  is  the  matter]  What  can  I 
say  to  your  papa  1  What  is  it  1 
Oh,  John,  I  know  there  is  some- 
thing wrong." 

"  Only  that  I  shall  go  to  sleep 
here,"  he  said,  "  and  snore — which 
you  never  could  endure.  There  is 
nothing  wrong,  mamma.  I  have 
come  home  to  be  put  to  bed." 

"  Then  you  are  ill,"  she  said. 
"  You  have  caught  one  of  those 
dreadful  fevers.  I  see  it  now. 
Your  eyes  are  so  heavy  you  can 
scarcely  look  at  me.  You  have 
been  in  some  of  the  cottages,  or  in 
the  back  streets,  where  there  is  al- 
ways fever;  but  Jervis  shall  run  for 
the  doctor,  and  the  fire  must  be 
lighted  in  your  room." 

"  The  fire  by  all  means,  but  not 
the  doctor,"  said  John.  "  I  have  no 
fever,  mother;  but  I  have  walked 
twenty  miles  to-day,  and  I  am  very 
tired.  That  is  all.  I  am  not  hiding 
anything :  let  me  go  up-stairs." 

"  You  are  sure  that  is  all  1  A  fire 
in  Mr  John's  room  directly,  Jervis 
— directly,  mind ;  and  some  boiling 
water  to  make  him  a  hot  drink — he 
has  caught  a  bad  cold.  Oh,  my  dear, 
you  are  sure  that  is  all1?  And,  John, 
you  have  really,  really  come  home — 
to  stay  1  You  don't  mean  to  stay  1 " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  mean,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  left  Camelford.  I 
have  come  back  like  a  piece  of  bad 
money.  But,  mother,  don't  ask  me 
any  questions  to-night." 

"Not  one,"  she  answered  prompt- 
ly; and  then  besieged  him  with  her 
eyes — "  Twenty  miles,  my  dear  boy ! 
what  a  long  walk  !  no  wonder  you 
are  tired.  But  what  put  it  into  your 
head,  John  1  Never  mind,  my  dear. 
I  did  not  mean  to  ask  any  more 
questions.  But,  dear  me  !  where 
could  you  want  to  go  that  was 


twenty  miles  off?  That  is  what 
bewilders  me." 

"  You  shall  hear  all  about  it  to- 
morrow," said  John,  rising  to  his 
feet.  He  was  so  tired  that  he  stag- 
gered as  he  rose,  and  his  mother 
turned  upon  him  eyes  in  which 
another  kind  of  fear  flashed  up. 
She  grew  frightened  at  his  weak- 
ness, and  at  the  pale  smile  that 
came  over  his  face. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  go  to  bed— that 
will  be  the  best  thing,"  she  said, 
looking  scared  and  miserable.  And 
it  went  to  John's  heart  to  see  the 
painful  looks  she  gave  him,  though 
it  was  with  a  mixture  of  indignation 
and  amusement  that  he  perceived  the 
new  turn  her  thoughts  had  taken. 
He  could  not  but  laugh  as  he  put  his 
arm  round  her  to  say  good-night. 

"  It  is  not  that  either,"  he  said  ; 
"  you  need  not  mistrust  me.  Stay- 
ing in  Camelford  will  not  answer, 
mother.  I  must  find  some  other 
way.  And  I  have  had  a  long  walk.  I 
am  better  now  that  my  head  is  under 
my  mother's  wing.  Good-night." 

"  I  will  bring  you  your  hot  drink, 
my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Mitford.  She 
followed  him  in  her  great  wonder  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  watched 
him  go  up  wearily  with  his  candle, 
and  then  she  returned  and  made  the 
hot  drink,  and  carried  it  up-stairs 
with  her  own  hands.  Was  it  all 
over  1  —  was  he  hers  again  ?  —  her 
boy,  with  nobody  else  to  share  him  ] 
"If  he  only  escapes  without  a 
heartbreak,  I  shall  be  the  happiest 
mother  in  the  world,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  went  down-stairs 
again,  wiping  tears  of  joy  out  of 
her  eyes.  Without  a  heartbreak ! 
while  John  laid  his  head  on  the 
familiar  pillow  and  felt  as  if  he  had 
died.  He  had  no  heart  any  longer  to 
break.  He  must  have  something  to 
do,  and  no  doubt  he  would  get  up 
next  day  and  go  and  do  something, 
if  it  was  only  working  in  the  gar- 
den ;  but  as  for  the  heart,  that 
which  gives  all  the  zest  and  all  the 
bitterness  to  life,  that  was  dead. 
His  life  was  over  and  ended,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  could  never 
come  alive  again. 


744 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


TRADE-  UNIONS. 


IN  a  former  article*  we  stated  the 
leading  principles  which  ultimate- 
ly govern  the  relations  between 
capital  and  labour.  The  discussion 
brought  us  into  contact  with  a  doc- 
trine which  has  been  largely  used 
in  defence  of  Trade-Unions,  and  has 
brought  them  no  little  sympathy  in 
quarters  not  naturally  prepossessed 
in  their  favour.  It  is  asserted  that 
on  many  points  the  wages  obtained 
by  the  workmen  are  determined  in 
no  slight  degree  by  bargaining ; 
and  then  it  is  added  that  the  la- 
bourers do  not  bargain  on  equal 
terms  with  their  employers — that 
each  workman  is  isolated  and  un- 
able to  enforce  what  is  fairly  his 
due,  and  that  Trade-Unions  help  him 
with  a  combination  which  remedies 
his  natural  weakness,  and  enables 
him  to  deal  on  fair  terms  with  the 
superior  position  of  his  master. 
We  stated  how  much  truth  and 
error  we  conceived  to  be  involved 
in  this  doctrine.  We  thus  reach 
the  second  division  of  our  subject — 
that  part  of  it,  namely,  which  con- 
tains the  economical  principles 
which  the  Unions  claim  to  have 
appreciated,  and  to  carry  out  by 
practical  organisation. 

The  Unions  appeal  to  political 
economy.  They  profess  to  act  in 
obedience  to  its  laws  and  to  seek 
the  execution  of  its  suggestions. 
They  put  forward  in  their  de- 
fence a  body  of  doctrine,  and  there- 
by raise  an  issue  of  which  economi- 
cal science  must  be  the  judge.  In 
trying  this  issue  we  shall  on  our 
side  appeal  to  the  general  principles 
laid  down  in  our  previous  article  : 
for  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
both  to  the  wage-receiving  classes 
as  well  as  to  the  country  at  large 
that  the  real  economical  truth  in 
this  important  matter  should  be 
correctly  apprehended.  The  Unions 
themselves,  by  the  profession  of 


certain  doctrines,  admit  the  neces- 
sity of  establishing  the  position 
of  masters  and  men  on  scientific 
grounds. 

The  first  assertion  put  forth  by 
the  advocates  of  Trade-Unions  al- 
leges that  their  aim  is  to  secure  a 
permanent  minimum  of  wages. 
They  not  only  seek  to  give  help  to 
the  individual  workman,  who  does 
not  and  cannot  know  what  is  the 
true  market-value  of  his  labour, 
and  who  can  easily  be  overpowered 
by  the  counter-bargainer  to  whom 
he  is  opposed— they  aspire  to  a 
much  greater  and  nobler  end. 
Their  ambition  is  to  place  the  la- 
bourer on  permanently  solid  ground, 
to  secure  for  him  an  existence 
which  befits  civilisation,  and, 
whilst  admitting  the  range  which 
must  be  conceded  to  bargaining, 
shall  nevertheless  prevent  him 
from  being  degraded  into  a  con- 
dition unworthy  of  him  as  a  man. 
Wages  shall  not  fall  below  a  cer- 
tain point,  proclaim  the  Unions; 
and  we,  the  Unions,  shall  also  de- 
termine that  point.  The  workman 
may  obtain  more,  if  circumstances 
whether  of  trade  or  bargaining  fa- 
vour him ;  less  he  shall  never  re- 
ceive from  his  employer  under  pain 
of  that  employer's  business  being 
stopped  altogether  by  the  strike  we 
shall  decree.  There  is  a  certain 
nobleness  in  this  language — it  has 
a  grand  air  of  philanthropy;  nay,  it 
is  an  ideal  which  every  man  would 
rejoice  to  see  realised.  It  will  be 
a  blessed  thing  indeed  for  any 
country  if  its  workmen  shall  never 
receive  less  than  a  satisfactory 
minimum  of  wages.  But  our  pre- 
vious discussion  has  taught  us  that 
the  propriety,  on  grounds  of  hu- 
manity, of  every  man  being  re- 
warded with  a  remuneration  which 
shall  give  comfort  and  even  dignity 
to  his  existence,  does  not  express 


See  article  "  Trade-Unions  "  in  our  May  Number. 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


745 


the  whole  of  the  problem.  There 
is  at  least  one  other  element  in 
it  which  must  be  combined  with 
the  fitness  of  the  minimum  wage. 
Can  it  be  permanently  assured1? 
Good  wages  are  an  excellent  thing, 
but  their  desirableness  will  not 
procure  them  unless  they  are  pos- 
sible. To  preach  to  a  master  that 
he  shall  not  pay  below  a  certain 
amount  will  not  be  sufficient  for 
reaching  the  wished-f or  end ;  some 
one  else  must  be  preached  to  be- 
sides the  master,  and  that  is  the 
workman  himself.  The  labourers 
must  not  have  families  beyond 
the  means  of  obtaining  work  for 
them  at  this  minimum  rate.  Do 
the  Trade-Unions  recognise  the 
fact,  that  it  is  far  easier  to  procure 
good  wages  for  the  labourers  when 
their  numbers  are  not  in  excess, 
than  it  is  to  prevent  the  labourers 
from  multiplying  beyond  the  power 
of  the  market,  or  even  of  the  whole 
nation,  to  maintain  them  1  Those 
who  seek  to  lay  down  a  fixed  and 
imperative  minimum  of  wages  must 
deal  with  all  the  forces  which  are 
acting  on  masters  and  men.  They 
must  have  capital  enough — that  is, 
food,  clothes,  materials,  and  tools 
enough — to  set  the  men  to  work  ; 
further,  they  must  possess  a  mar- 
ket which  will  sell  off  the  goods 
produced — a  demand  which  will 
allow  of  the  required  minimum  be- 
ing obtained  ;  and  then  they  must 
deal  with  the  labourers  themselves, 
and  provide  effectively  that  the 
sharers  in  the  proceeds  shall  not 
be  too  many  to  render  it  possible 
to  distribute  the  full  minimum  to 
each.  These  are  not  easy  condi- 
tions to  fulfil,  and  unfortunately 
for  all  parties  alike,  the  leaders 
of  Trade-Unions  show  but  a  faint 
perception  of  the  necessity  of  meet- 
ing all  these  requirements  together. 
It  is  very  easy  to  say,  Give  five 
shillings  a-day  to  every  man  you 
employ,  or  we  shall  strike;  but 
even  if  the  masters  agree  to  obey 
the  requisition,  it  far  from  follows 
that  there  will  be  five  shillings  a- 
day  for  every  labourer  who  wants 


employment.  The  Unions  are  pro- 
foundly silent  on  this  point,  yet  it 
is  the  very  kernel  of  the  principle 
of  a  minimum,  if  it  is  to  be  an 
economical  truth.  To  insist  on  a 
given  wage  for  the  men  employed, 
by  itself  alone,  is  nothing  else  but 
pure  bargaining — it  is  not  a  gene- 
ral economical  principle,  a  scien- 
tific and  enduring  method  of  per- 
manently improving  the  wages  of 
the  working  classes.  To  exact  a 
given  wage  from  the  employers, 
if  many  workmen  are  left  unem- 
ployed, is  not  a  raising  of  the  gen- 
eral standard  of  the  whole  class. 
It  may  be  within  the  power  of  a 
Union  to  prevent  any  master  from 
procuring  labourers  at  particular 
times  except  upon  wages  which  it 
shall  determine.  It  may  say  to  a 
master  tailor  that  he  shall  pay  five 
shillings  a-day  to  a  few  workmen, 
and  not  four  shillings  to  many;  but 
if  the  buyers  of  coats  will  purchase 
coats  made  with  labour  paid  at  five 
shillings  a-day  only  in  reduced 
quantities,  it  is  inevitable  that 
some  of  the  workmen  shall  obtain 
no  wages  at  all.  In  such  a  case, 
to  talk  of  securing  a  minimum  of 
wages  as  a  permanent  standard  is 
mere  sound  and  absurdity,  unless 
the  leaders  mean  by  this  process 
to  starve  the  labourers  into  reduc- 
ing their  numbers  and  limiting 
their  marriages  and  the  size  of  their 
families.  If  such  is  their  meaning, 
then  their  action  in  this  matter  is 
directed  far  more  really  and  more 
severely  against  the  men  than 
against  the  masters;  and  justice  ob- 
viously demands  that  they  should  let 
the  workmen  who  subscribe  their 
money  to  the  support  of  the  Unions 
know  they  are  subscribing  for  en- 
forcing restraint  on  themselves — 
that  they  are  setting  up  a  contriv- 
ance for  procuring  large  wages  for 
a  few  men,  and  no  wages  for  the  re- 
mainder— and  that  those  who  in- 
vented this  contrivance  are  per- 
fectly aware  that  a  minimum  of 
wages  which  would  be  satisfactory 
to  their  feelings  can  be  procured 
only  from  a  due  proportion  be- 


746 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


tween  work  and  population.  By 
avowing  a  minimum  of  wages  to  be 
their  aim,  the  expounders  of  the 
principles  of  Trade-Unions  neces- 
sarily imply  that  those  who  cannot 
get  work  must  come  upon  the  work- 
house or  emigrate.  There  is  no 
escape  from  this  conclusion ;  and  it 
is  of  the  very  highest  importance 
that  the  labouring  classes  should 
thoroughly  take  in  this  inevitable 
result  of  an  inexorable  law. 

But  in  truth  this  plan  of  securing 
a  permanent  minimum  of  wages  is 
nothing  but  an  agreeable  vision, 
which  the  leaders  of  Trade-Unions 
dangle  before  the  eyes  of  their  fol- 
lowers. It  gives  a  scientific  look 
to  their  action ;  and  the  workmen 
bestow  their  support  on  these  insti- 
tutions more  confidently  when  they 
are  made  to  believe  that  those  who 
understand  such  matters,  those  who 
know  something  about  political 
economy,  are  accomplishing  a  vast 
boon  which  is  fairly  within  their 
grasp.  Who  is  there  to  tell  them 
that  wages,  for  a  continuance, 
must  depend  on  the  demand  there 
is  for  work  and  the  number  of  the 
workmen1?  It 'is  easy  to  perceive 
that  on  a  given  day  the  men  may 
insist  on  a  minimum  below  which 
they  will  not  work,  and,  as  we  have 
admitted  in  our  first  article,  may 
possibly  obtain  it ;  but  when  the 
matter  passes  on  from  a  particular 
struggle  to  a  general  and  abiding 
result,  it  is  not  so  obvious  to  minds 
untrained  in  science  that  the  per- 
manent remuneration  of  labour  is 
an  exceedingly  complex  problem, 
and  involves  many  more  elements 
than  are  ever  heard  of  in  the  coun- 
cils of  Trade-Unions.  If  Trade- 
Union  orators  were  challenged  to 
explain  to  their  followers  what 
they  propose  to  do  with  the  work- 
men for  whom  no  work  at  the  fixed 
rate  of  wages  can  be  found,  and 
what  measures  they  mean  to  adopt 
to  prevent  the  continuance  of  such 
an  excess  of  labourers,  the  pleasant 
dream  of  a  minimum  of  wages 
would  speedily  vanish  from  their 
speech.  But  it  will  be  said,  Talk 


about  a  minimum  of  wages  is  a 
shallow  and  transparent  device  in 
the  lips  of  Trade-Unionists  ;  but 
is  such  a  thing  impracticable  by 
its  very  nature  ?  Is  it  impossible 
that  nations  should  settle  down 
into  a  minimum  of  remuneration  for 
labour,  and  maintain  its  existence 
for  long  periods  of  time  ]  By  no 
means  :  a  minimum  may  be  a  very 
practicable  matter,  and  has  been 
realised  in  many  countries.  Indeed 
the  universal  tendency  of  all  na- 
tions has  been  to  gravitate  towards 
a  minimum.  The  apparent  breach 
of  this  law  exhibited  to  recent  times 
is  exceptional.  It  is  the  result 
mainly  of  the  wonderful  acquisition 
of  mechanical  and  chemical  force 
obtained  from  the  discoveries  of 
science,  and  the  enormous  impulse 
which  has  thereby  been  imparted  to 
industry.  Steam  is  the  generator 
of  many  exceptions.  Every  nation 
on  the  face  of  the  globe  feels  its 
transforming  power  ;  and  one  of  its 
most  prominent  effects  has  been  to 
create  such  relations  as  that  which 
England  and  a  few  other  manufac- 
turing nations  occupy  towards  the 
bulk  of  mankind.  Trade  pene- 
trates everywhere ;  but  precisely 
because  it  is  in  our  age  a  remodel- 
ler,  a  reconstructor  of  many  socie- 
ties, its  course  is  one  of  vast  dis- 
turbance, —  of  beneficial  disturb- 
ance, certainly, — but  still  of  dis- 
turbance. It  is  in  these  days  emi- 
nently unsteady ;  its  action  is  vol- 
canic ;  it  upheaves  and  it  pulls 
down.  It  overthrows  old  methods, 
it  substitutes  new  ones,  which  are 
themselves  in  turn  revolutionised. 
Nowhere  is  a  stable,  permanent, 
normal  condition  established.  But 
it  was  not  so  in  the  past,  it  was  not 
so  in  the  youth  of  the  present  ge- 
neration, it  is  not  so  still  in  many 
regions  of  the  earth.  Trade  was 
then  but  slowly  progressive,  and 
wages  experienced  little  change. 
Neither  population  nor  the  fruits 
of  its  labour  increased  rapidly  or 
largely,  and  thus  a  practical  kind 
of  minimum  prevailed.  Such  a 
minimum,  as  yet  little  ruffled  by 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


747 


the  spasmodic  convulsions  of  manu- 
facturing countries,  is  still  spoken 
of  as  existing  in  Norway  and  other 
lands.  In  other  regions  the  mini- 
mum is  little,  if  at  all,  above  the 
limits  of  what  is  indispensable  for 
bare  existence.  In  the  vast  ex- 
panse of  China,  we  are  told  of  a 
mode  of  life  which  contents  itself 
with  the  minimum  of  necessary 
food,  and  this  as  a  permanent  form 
of  society.  A  stationary  or  moder- 
ately-progressive society  rests  al- 
ways on  a  minimum  of  wages.  The 
vital  matter  is  the  point  at  which 
this  minimum  establishes  itself. 
We  do  not  require  a  Trade -Union 
to  teach  us  the  doctrine  of  a  mini- 
mum :  it  exists  as  a  fact  over  a 
large  part  of  the  human  race. 
Trade-Unions  mean  by  the  term  a 
minimum  adequate  in  their  esti- 
mation ;  and  thus  the  points  to  be 
ascertained  are,  What  is  a  satisfac- 
tory minimum  ?  and  how  is  it  to  be 
accomplished  1 

To  the  first  question  the  Trade- 
Unions  give  no  intelligible  answer : 
at  least  they  define  the  minimum 
to  be  all  they  can  get  by  fight- 
ing ;  and  to  the  second  they  reply, 
that  a  Trade -Union  is  the  most 
effective  instrument  for  obtaining 
the  end  desired,  precisely  because 
it  is  the  best  weapon  for  fighting. 
We  have  shown  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  eminently  unfitted  for 
the  office  of  fixing  a  minimum, 
because  it  takes  no  notice  of  all 
the  forces  which  determine  the  re- 
sult. The  process  is  at  once  em- 
pirical and  incomplete.  It  says  it 
must  have  so  many  shillings ;  fights 
for  so  many  shillings;  and  learns 
only  by  the  issue  of  the  struggle 
how  many  shillings  it  can  have  and 
will  have.  As  to  permanence  it 
does  not  offer  one  single  guarantee, 
3xcept  the  incessant  recurrence  of 
i  fight  whenever  a  variation  is 
threatened.  But  nature  has  provided 
i  process  of  very  different  efficacy. 
The  habits  of  a  people  founded  on 
all  the  circumstances  of  their  posi- 
tion are  perfectly  capable  of  estab- 
lishing as  real  and  as  large  a  mini- 

VOL.  CVIL — NO.  DCLVL 


mum  as  human  life  is  capable  of. 
A  people  which  has  accustomed  itself 
to  a  certain  standard  of  comfort 
calls  into  action  all  the  forces  of 
the  situation.  It  learns  prudence. 
It  resists  a  deterioration  of  its  state 
as  degrading  and  full  of  suffering, 
and  thus,  by  a  kind  of  spontaneous, 
unconscious  action,  applies  a  remedy 
by  the  postponement  of  marriage, 
by  emigration,  and  other  measures. 
It  may  be  subject  to  great  varia- 
tion in  the  rate  of  wages,  especi- 
ally in  days  like  ours.  If  pro- 
sperity abounds,  it  will  steadily 
raise  its  standard,  and  permanently 
secure  some  of  the  good  acquired. 
If  adversity  assails  it  from  causes 
beyond  its  control,  it  will  bear, 
like  the  men  of  Lancashire,  evils 
which  no  art  could  avert,  and  will 
be  careful  to  retain  its  moral  tone 
unimpaired.  It  achieves  these  ends 
without  artificial  expense  and  with- 
out violence.  It  achieves  them  be- 
cause all  the  natural  forces  are 
suffered  to  work  each  after  its  own 
law.  The  minimum  it  attains  is 
built  on  quite  another  foundation 
than  the  precarious  issues  of  suc- 
cessive battles.  It  reposes  on  the 
basis  of  a  population  whose  num- 
bers accommodate  themselves  to 
the  general  products  of  industry, 
and  to  the  share  which  accrues  by 
natural  law  to  the  capitalist  and 
the  labourer.  Such  a  minimum 
is  an  invaluable  blessing  for  a  peo- 
ple; but  it  is  not  always  obtaina- 
ble throughout  a  whole  population 
under  the  actual  circumstances  of 
England. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  much  bad 
political  economy,  many  crude  and 
erroneous  notions,  are  spread  over 
the  working  classes  on  this  very 
point  of  the  nature  of  the  remunera- 
tion they  receive.  Trade-Unionists 
profess  to  be  economists.  It  would 
be  a  valuable  service  indeed  if  their 
teachers  would  enlighten  the  minds 
of  their  disciples  in  this  matter. 
Wages  are  reckoned  up  in  money. 
The  association  with  the  word 
wages  is  always  that  of  money. 
Capital,  too,  is  counted  in  money  ; 
3  E 


748 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


and  thus  both  wages  and  capital 
come  to  be  regarded  as  only  divi- 
sion and  distribution  of  money.  A 
very  pernicious  consequence  natu- 
rally flows  from  this  impression. 
The  mind  is  blinded  to  the  percep- 
tion of  the  fact  that  money  is  only  an 
instrument  for  exchanging  wealth, 
and  is  not  wealth  itself,  except  as 
a  machine,  in  precisely  the  same 
sense  as  a  locomotive  or  a  mill  is 
wealth.  No  wonder,  then,  if  the 
labourers  are  slow  to  observe  that 
the  meaning  of  the  word  wages 
for  them  is  the  amount  of  things 
which  they  can  purchase  in  the  shops ; 
and  still  more  slow  to  notice  that 
the  money  which  is  paid  them  on 
Saturday  nights  has  been  bought 
by  their  employers  with  goods  that 
he  had  to  give  away  to  obtain  it. 
Thus  the  real  character  of  these 
problems  remains  hid  from  them. 
Money  is  to  them  a  thing  of  inde- 
finite size,  whose  limits  they  are 
unacquainted  with;  which  comes 
easily — how,  they  know  not — to  rich 
masters,  and  of  which  these  masters 
seem  able  to  acquire  unlimited  sup- 
plies. Their  opinions  on  these 
matters  might  be  sensibly  modified 
if  their  eyes  were  opened  to  per- 
ceive that  the  minimum  so  loudly 
vaunted  by  their  leaders  depended 
on  the  quantity  of  goods  produc- 
ed in  the  world,  and  that  if  the 
stock  is  diminished,  the  sharers  in 
it  must  of  necessity  receive  less. 
Such  knowledge  might  enable 
them  to  perceive  further  that  it  was 
quite  natural  that  the  wages  of 
Lancashire  should  sink  below  their 
wonted  minimum  during  the  dimi- 
nution of  wealth  created  by  the 
cotton  famine ;  and  that  it  is  just 
as  natural  that  their  own  wages 
should  sink  also  when  any  powerful 
cause  interfered  with  the  produc- 
tion of  wealth. 

In  furtherance  of  this  object,  to 
obtain  a  permanent  minimum  of 
wages,  Trade  -  Unions  prescribe 
rules  for  the  limitation  of  the  num- 
ber of  apprentices  which  each  mas- 
ter shall  be  permitted  to  engage. 
These  rules  will  not  apply  to  the 


greater  number  of  trades  comprised 
within  Trade-Unions  ;  for  they  do 
not  employ  apprentices  at  all.  In 
such  trades,  however,  as  masonry, 
and  those  requiring  skill  acquired 
by  long  training,  apprentices  find 
a  natural  position,  and  thus  fall 
under  this  regulation  of  the  Unions. 
It  is  not  a  testimony  in  favour  of 
these  artificial  limitations  on  ap- 
prentices that  they  are  manifestly 
reactionary — that  they  recall  prac- 
tices which  throve  in  days  when 
commerce  was  feeble  and  confined 
to  narrow  circles,  but  which  have 
been  discarded  as  the  complications 
and  the  vastness  of  modern  times 
were  gradually  developed.  They 
savour  of  a  spirit  which  speaks  of 
the  handloom  and  the  spinning- 
jenny.  Their  tone  is  the  tone  of 
monopoly — of  the  confinement  to  a 
few  of  advantages  which  might  be 
open  to  the  many — of  a  temper 
which  secures  its  own  benefit,  and 
is  heedless  of  that  of  others.  And 
thus  they  display  a  feature  which 
characterises  most  of  the  regula- 
tions enjoined  by  Trade  -  Unions. 
They  are  directed  against  the  men, 
against  'fellow-labourers,  far  more 
than  against  the  masters.  -They 
are  selfish  contrivances  by  which 
those  that  are  in  drive  off  to  starva- 
tion or  emigration  those  that  are 
out.  It  is  right,  therefore,  that  the 
members  of  Trade-Unions  should 
be  fairly  told  that  the  limitation  of 
apprentices,  like  the  general  doc- 
trine of  an  arbitrary  minimum,  is 
artificial  legislation  levelled  against 
themselves;  that  they  are  subscrib- 
ing to  enforce  rules  which  shut  out 
from  employment  all  but  the  ad- 
mitted few  ;  and  which  preach  the 
doctrine  that  they  must  restrict  the 
number  of  their  children.  Thus 
the  question  again  recurs — and  it  is 
one  which,  for  their  own  sakes,  they 
ought  distinctly  to  answer — whether 
it  is  their  opinion  that  this  is  the 
best  and  easiest  method  of  forcing 
them  to  adapt  their  numbers  to  the 
means  of  employment ;  and  whether 
they  believe  that  the  prosperity  of 
the  whole  body  of  workmen  is  most 


1870.] 


Trade-Unions. 


749 


effectually  promoted  by  an  arrange- 
ment which  places  the  decision  of 
how  many  shall  be  apprentices  and 
how  many  shall  not  in  the  power 
of  a  few  persons. 

Bat  another  consideration  pre- 
sents itself  here,  which  we  shall 
find  to  apply  to  other  proceedings 
of  the  Unionists.  If  the  restric- 
tion on  the  number  of  appren- 
tices applies  pressure  on  the  work- 
ing classes  against  the  undue  mul- 
tiplication of  their  numbers,  its 
action  is  equally  unmistakable  in 
restricting  the  amount  of  produc- 
tion, and  consequently  diminishing 
the  quantity  of  wealth.  It  is  very 
important  that  the  operation  of  this 
cause  should  be  clearly  understood. 
If  every  man  born  could  be  set  to 
work  on  the  creation  of  wealth, 
beyond  doubt  a  large  expansion  of 
wealth  would  be  the  inevitable  con- 
sequence. So  far,  then,  as  men 
are  not  set  to  work,  there  is  a  dimi- 
nution of  wealth;  and  a  Unionist 
may  reply  that,  apart  from  all 
regulation  about  apprentices,  every 
force  which  limits  the  number  of 
workers,  restricts  the  production  of 
wealth.  Hence,  he  may  argue, 
whether  this  limitation  of  numbers 
is  effected  by  rules  about  apprenti 
ces,  or  by  the  action  of  spontaneous 
and  natural  causes,  the  result  is  al- 
ways the  same,  and  therefore  no  spe- 
cial objection  can  be  raised  against 
rules  which  decree  the  number  who 
shall  go  on  with  the  trade  as  being 
specially  prejudicial  to  the  general 
wellbeing  of  the  labouring  classes. 
But  this  argument  overlooks  a  very 
radical  distinction  between  the 
action  of  natural  causes  and  that 
of  artificial  regulation.  When  the 
workmen  are  left  to  themselves  to 
discern  the  position  of  the  trade, 
the  demand  for  labour  is  as  sure  a 
guide  as  the  nature  of  human  life 
can  supply.  If  it  rises,  their  skill 
and  energy  are  in  request ;  and  the 
tendency  of  human  nature  to  raise 
its  standard  of  comfort  may  be 
trusted  to  assert  itself.  The  gene- 
ration of  wealth  expands  with  the 
demand  for  labour,  and  men  who 


are  well  off  are  likely  to  listen  to 
prudence.  The  permanent  im- 
provement of  the  working  classes 
depends  upon  this  law  of  human 
nature.  But  it  is  quite  otherwise 
when  the  determination  of  the 
number  to  be  trained  for  effective 
labour  is  left  to  the  a  priori  idea 
of  a  small  number  of  men.  In  this 
case  there  is  no  security  that  work- 
men will  be  forthcoming  according 
as  the  demand  arises ;  and  if  there 
is  expansion  of  demand,  it  will  tend 
to  be  appropriated  by  a  few.  Ma- 
sons may  so  consolidate  themselves 
into  a  guild  as  to  be  sluggishly  con- 
tented with  their  condition,  and  to 
be  heedless  of  the  wants  of  the  com- 
munity. The  instinct  of  self-inte- 
rest will  not  be  wholly  wanting,  we 
freely  grant  ;  but  it  will  act  with 
very  different  energy  from  what 
it  would  display  when  the  call  to 
labour  by  the  certainty  of  reward 
falls  freely  on  the  mass  of  work- 
men. Hence,  when  the  supply  of 
labour  is  governed  by  natural 
causes,  wealth  is  created  as  rapidly 
as  the  circumstances  of  society,  in 
respect  of  its  demand  for  labour 
and  its  power  of  remunerating  it, 
will  allow.  In  the  former  case, 
men  resting  on  privilege  and  mono- 
poly are  sure  to  follow  the  law  pro- 
claimed by  experience  :  they  will 
respond  with  comparative  feeble- 
ness to  the  summons  to  exertion, 
and  the  material  progress  of  society 
may  be  seriously  impeded.  With 
that  progress  the  welfare  of  the 
labouring  classes  is  indissolubly 
bound  up. 

Still  more  grave  are  the  regula- 
tions which  forbid  piece-work  and 
machinery.  They  reveal  the  pro- 
found narrowness  of  conception, 
the  ignorance  of  economical  laws, 
which  characterises  the  leaders  of 
Trade-Unions.  They  may  rail  at 
political  economy  as  unreal  and  un- 
true ;  but  they  will  not  escape  the 
condition  which  human  nature  im- 
poses on  mankind.  Political  econo- 
my, so  far  as  it  is  true,  is  but  the 
exponent  of  the  nature  of  human 
beings  and  of  the  material  forces  to 


750 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


which  they  are  subject ;  and  so  far 
as  it  is  not  true,  it  is  not  political 
economy  at  all.  To  prohibit  piece- 
work is  to  extinguish  every  ardent 
and  progressive  faculty  in  men — to 
take  away  from  them  that  impulse 
to  effort  which  is  the  surest  guaran- 
tee of  their  improvement — to  de- 
stroy that  incentive  to  action  which 
is  the  strongest  call  to  great  deeds — 
and  to  reduce  the  mass  of  the  work- 
men to  the  standard  of  the  selfish, 
the  lazy,  and  the  inefficient.  How 
can  a  greater  cruelty  be  practised 
on  the  energetic  and  the  high-spirit- 
ed, than  to  forbid  them  to  use  their 
strength  and  their  resolution  to  the 
winning  of  a  higher  reward  ?  Can 
the  disposition  of  Unionism  to  act 
against  the  working  classes  them- 
selves, to  press  on  the  labourers  far 
more  than  on  the  masters,  be  more 
manifestly  shown  than  by  a  rule 
which  has  for  its  special  aim  to  re- 
press the  exertions  of  a  man  who 
seeks  to  better  his  condition  2  Some 
of  the  Unionists  have  contended 
that  piece-work  leads  to  badness  of 
workmanship ;  but  this  is  an  idle 
statement,  unavailable  for  their 
purpose  of  justifying  the  prohibi- 
tion. The  master  is  the  true  judge 
of  the  quality  of  the  work  that  he 
pays  for.  If  working  by  the  piece 
produced  inferior  goods,  he  would 
not  require  the  aid  of  the  Union  in 
substituting  the  system  of  wages  by 
the  day.  In  truth,  this  plea  of  in- 
ferior workmanship  is  a  new  pre- 
tence— dust  scattered  in  the  air  to 
blind  the  eyes  of  observers.  Piece- 
work is  disliked  from  the  one  feel- 
ing which  dominates  the  political 
economy  of  the  Unionists.  Their 
spirit  is  intensely  socialist :  they 
dislike  the  masters  much,  but  they 
dislike  the  active,  ardent,  energetic 
workman  still  more.  Piece-work 
brings  higher  wages  to  the  industri- 
ous labourer  :  it  raises  him  above 
his  fellows;  and  they  detest  this. 
Their  real  aim  is  comfortable  wages 
and  short  time,  to  be  enjoyed  by 
every  man  alike  ;  or,  where  this  is 
impracticable,  the  obtainment  of 
this  condition  by  a  favoured  por- 


tion, and  the  abandonment  of  the 
remainder  of  the  workmen  to  the 
workhouse.  In  the  pursuit  of  this 
much-desired  end,  they  heed  not 
whether  piece-work  may  not  ac- 
complish a  greater  production,  and 
thereby  enlarge  the  stock  to  be  di- 
vided amongst  the  labourers.  They 
are  unwilling  to  have  a  maximum 
of  produce,  the  largest  practicable 
creation  of  wealth,  if  it  is  to  be 
achieved  by  the  vigorous  energies 
of  thriving  labourers,  standing  by 
the  side  of  inferior  work  and  lower 
remuneration  of  the  languid  and 
the  idle.  Thus  they  contravene  one 
of  the  most  vital  elements  of  the 
prosperity  of  the  whole  nation,  and, 
most  of  all,  of  the  labouring  classes 
themselves  —  a  large  quantity  of 
wealth  produced,  and  a  large  store 
to  be  divided. 

Hostility  to  machinery  is  natural; 
but  it  is  also  in  the  highest  degree 
ignorant  and  unscientific.  It  is 
scarcely  possible  that  machinery, 
which  performs  more  work  and  re- 
quires fewer  hands,  should  not  for 
a  while  bring  suffering  to  some  of 
the  labourers ;  but  to  infer  from 
this  fact  that  therefore  its  intro- 
duction should  be  resisted,  even  by 
violence,  is  to  sentence  human  life 
to  stagnation,  and  to  render  the 
stationary  state  the  highest  limit  of 
happiness  obtainable.  No  principle 
more  fatal  to  the  wellbeing  of  the 
whole  people  can  be  conceived. 
If  the  machines  of  England  were 
suppressed,  half  of  her  people  would 
inevitably  perish  of  starvation.  If 
she  failed  by  her  engines  of  every 
kind  to  produce  goods  for  which 
foreign  agriculturists  will  give  food 
in  exchange,  the  crops  and  cattle  of 
the  country  would  speedily  be  con- 
sumed, and  what  but  death  would 
bring  down  the  population  into  pro- 
portion with  the  food  produced  in 
her  fields  ?  How  would  Manches- 
ter, Birmingham,  Sheffield,  and 
scores  of  other  towns  and  counties 
be  fed  if  the  machines  employed  in 
their  factories  were  destroyed  by 
the  command  of  the  Unions  ?  Nay, 
how  would  it  fare  with  the  Union- 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


751 


ists  themselves  ?  The  prohibition 
of  machinery  is  too  absurd  for  seri- 
ous refutation.  The  conception  of 
such  a  design  could  be  possible  only 
in  minds  ignorant  of  the  very  first 
elements  of  the  structure  of  society 
— of  the  way  in  which  men  live  to- 
gether in  a  civilised  community. 
It  knows  nothing  of  one  of  the  most 
obvious  facts  revealed  by  experience 
— that  the  multiplication  of  goods 
produced  by  machinery  at  reduced 
cost  is  the  most  prolific  source  of 
an  increased  demand  for  human 
labour.  Do  the  Unionists  imagine 
that  fewer  printers  are  employed 
than  there  would  have  been  of  copy- 
ists if  printing  and  the  steam-press 
had  not  been  invented  ?  Do  they 
believe  that  they  and  their  families 
would  be  better  clad  if  Manchester 
and  Leeds  had  no  mills  driven  by 
machinery?  Robert  Stephenson, 
the  great  engineer,  thought  other- 
wise ;  for  he  announced  many  years 
ago  that  that  mighty  machine,  the 
railway,  had  then  paid  off  the  Na- 
tional Debt — that  is,  that  it  pro- 
duced annually  a  clear  additional 
quantity  of  wealth,  a  net  profit  of 
surplus  goods,  equaldin  value  to  the 
charge  for  paying  the  interest  on 
the  National  Debt.  Do  the  Union- 
ists believe  that  if  the  coaching  in- 
terest of  former  days  had  had  its 
Union,  and  had  been  strong  enough 
to  forbid  the  railway,  the  wages  of 
the  combined  working  classes  would 
have  been  greater  at  this  hour  1  How 
much  of  this  vast  increase  of  goods 
produced  as  net  profit,  without  cost, 
has  gone  to  the  labourers  1  Nay,  is 
it  not  certain  that  they  have  gather- 
ed much  the  largest  share?  Or 
again,  has  the  invention  of  the 
thrashing-machine,  of  the  many  im- 
plements for  reaping,  mowing,  and 
other  work  of  husbandry,  of  the 
steam-plough,  lowered  the  rate  of 
agricultural  labour  ?  Are  the  wages 
of  farm-servants  lower  than  they 
were  in  the  days  of  the  flail  1  But 
we  have  said  that  the  opposition 
of  the  Union  to  machinery  was  na- 
tural, only  its  real  character  should 
be  understood.  Some  men  in  agiven 


locality  or  trade  may  be  thrown  out 
of  employment  by  the  invention  of 
new  machines  ;  as  they  may  be  by 
the  substitution  of  Free-Trade  for 
Protection.  But  what  is  intelligible, 
and  in  a  sense  excusable,  in  an  in- 
dividual workman,  who  is  the  vic- 
tim of  the  general  progress  of  the 
whole  people,  is  unintelligent  and 
discreditable  when  put  forth  as  a 
general  doctrine.  The  true  course 
is  to  mitigate  suffering  by  help  af- 
forded in  the  transition  to  another 
occupation ;  but  war  against  ma- 
chinery is  war  against  the  happi- 
ness and  the  improvement  of  every 
class  in  the  nation. 

Another  object  of  the  fierce  hos- 
tility of  the  Union  is  the  working 
overtime.  Here  a  distinction  of 
some  importance  must  be  noticed. 
The  length  of  a  day's  work  is  great- 
ly a  matter  of  custom ;  and  custom, 
in  the  economical  state  of  a  nation, 
is  a  force  from  which  valuable  ser- 
vice may  be  derived.  It  is  extreme- 
ly desirable  that  labourers  should 
have  in  their  minds  a  standard  of 
the  duration  of  labour,  that  their 
feelings  should  be  attuned  to  a 
limited  number  of  hours  devoted 
to  toil,  that  labour  expended  be- 
yond this  amount  should  be  re- 
garded as  an  exceptional  effort,  but 
that  the  prolongation  of  the  normal 
day's  work  should  be  considered  as 
a  fall  in  their  condition  from  which 
they  should  energetically  seek  every 
practicable  escape.  In  other  words, 
an  excessive  length  of  the  day's 
work  should  be  regarded  as  a  mis- 
ery, calling  for  counteraction  by  a 
reduction  of  their  numbers.  In 
our  former  article  we  expounded 
the  inevitable  law  which  governed 
the  numbers  of  all  animals,  and 
from  which  the  human  race  can 
obtain  no  exemption.  We  said 
enough,  we  hope,  to  repel  the  charge 
of  inhumanity  in  the  proclamation 
of  this  necessity.  The  resistance, 
therefore,  of  custom  to  excessive 
length  of  toil  is  a  power  drawn 
from  suffering  ;  and  on  no  account 
would  we  utter  a  word  to  weaken 
its  action.  On  the  one  side  it 


752 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


tends  to  limit  the  numbers  of  the 
population  ;  on  the  other,  its  effect 
is  to  increase  cost  of  production, 
and  thereby  to  induce  efforts  to 
render  that  cost  endurable  to  con- 
sumers. The  long  hours  of  inces- 
sant toil  devoted  to  the  acquirement 
of  a  scanty  sustenance  by  needle- 
women is  a  calamity  to  be  deplored. 
It  were  better  that  they  had  never 
been  born  if  no  alleviation  of  their 
fate  is  possible.  The  influence, 
then,  of  custom  in  creating  the 
feeling  in  a  man  that  he  will  not 
marry,  or  will  emigrate  rather  than 
be  oppressed  by  toil  of  exorbitant 
duration,  is  a  most  valuable  agent 
in  promoting  a  state  of  society  in 
which  human  life  will  be  worth 
the  living ;  but  the  attainment  of 
this  laudable  end  is  far  from  being 
the  sole  or  indeed  the  chief  aim  of 
the  Unions  in  their  enmity  to  over- 
time. We  encounter  here  again 
the  old  feeling,  jealousy  of  the 
energetic  workmen,  the  dislike  of 
the  mass  to  see  some  of  their  fel- 
lows emerge  above  them  by  superior 
industry.  In  some  trades  overtime 
is  inevitable,  for  the  calls  for  work 
are  fitful.  How  many  clerks  in 
great  firms  in  the  foreign  trade  are 
exempt  from  extra  hours  on  mail- 
days  ]  How  many  printers  can 
escape  the  call  for  additional  hours 
of  labour  when  a  public  emergency 
of  whatever  kind  creates  an  excep- 
tional demand  for  printing  1  How 
many  of  the  judges  of  the  land 
are  safe  against  lengthened  days 
and  protracted  assizes  1  To  fight 
against  such  occasional  demands 
for  overtime  is  to  contend  against 
the  law  of  human  life.  But  we 
own  that  we  look  with  no  friendly 
eye  on  overtime-work  as  an  ha- 
bitual practice.  We  think  that  the 
general  tendency  of  such  a  system 
is  the  depression,  not  only  of  the 
workmen's  happiness,  but  also  of 
his  permanent  condition.  There 
is  a  fatal  facility  in  converting  an 
occasional  practice  into  an  abiding 
habit.  It  is  much  easier,  too,  to 
consent  to  a  little  longer  exertion 
than  to  a  diminution  of  food  and 


comfort ;  and,  consequently,  the 
pressure  to  resist  deterioration  is 
much  more  quick  and  vigorous  in 
its  action  when  the  rate  of  wages  is 
attacked  than  when  the  day's  work 
is  lengthened  by  an  hour.  Suffer- 
ing there  must  inevitably  be  when 
the  means  of  remunerating  labour 
decay;  but,  in  the  long-run,  we 
are  persuaded  the  condition  of  the 
working  classes  will  be  more  effec- 
tually readjusted  by  a  fall  of  wages 
than  by  an  increase  of  the  hours  of 
labour.  A  population  settling  down 
into  acquiescence  with  an  aug- 
mented length  of  the  day's  work  is 
a  most  melancholy  and  most  unsat- 
isfactory spectacle.  It  will  right 
itself  sooner,  and  with  less  misery, 
if  it  finds  its  remuneration  in  food 
and  clothing  inadequate,  than  if  it 
learns  the  evil  custom  of  thinking 
a  long  day's  work  natural. 

We  have  not  yet  finished  the 
long  list  of  interferences  with 
the  supply  of  labour  dictated  by 
the  Unions,  and  which  breathe 
the  same  spirit  of  establishing  a 
monopoly  against  the  labourers 
themselves.  Thus  they  object  to 
the  employment  of  women,  not 
as  being  unsuited  to  their  sex  or 
injuring  the  domesticity  of  their 
homes,  but  as  creating  competition 
against  the  men,  and  thereby  re- 
ducing the  rates  of  wages.  So  also 
they  vigorously  endeavour  to  con- 
trol the  use  of  boys,  for  they  be- 
come formidable  rivals  of  the  men, 
and  often  are  capable  of  doing  the 
same  identical  work  as  men.  Then, 
again,  they  forbid  various  practices 
which  directly  tend  to  increase  the 
productiveness  of  the  labourer's 
energy,  and  thereby  obtain  for  him 
a  superior  remuneration  to  that 
accorded  to  his  fellows.  They  limit 
the  number  of  bricks  to  be  carried 
in  a  hod  ;  they  will  not  suffer  the 
mason  to  perform  any  of  the  func- 
tions which  they  choose  to  allot  to 
the  plasterer ;  they  interdict  the 
shaping  of  stones  at  the  quarry ; 
and  will  not  suffer  materials  to  be 
employed  which  proceed  from  la- 
bourers who  are  disobedient  to  their 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


753 


respective  Unions.  By  such  regu- 
lations they  wage  war  against  the 
masters  and  the  labourers  together. 
They  vexatiously  and  mischievous- 
ly interfere  with  the  free  action  of 
employers  in  directing  labour  to  its 
most  efficient  employment ;  whilst 
they  restrict  the  amount  of  work 
executed  by  the  labourer,  to  his  own 
injury  and  that  of  his  family,  to 
the  avowed  raising  of  wages  with- 
out increase  of  productiveness,-  and 
to  the  consequent  depression,  and 
perhaps  ruin,  of  those  of  their  own 
class  who  encounter  a  diminished 
demand  for  labour. 

Such  are  the  chief  economical 
doctrines  and  practices  now  advo- 
cated by  the  majority  of  Trade- 
Unions.  Their  quality  —  that  is, 
whether  they  are  true  or  false — 
is  obviously  a  matter  of  incalcul- 
able importance,  not  only  for  the 
masters  and  the  people  at  large,  but 
also  for  the  Unionists  themselves. 
And  this  importance  is  still  further 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  these  doc- 
trines not  only  constitute  the  prin- 
ciples which  guide  the  conduct  of 
the  Unions,  but  also  are  enforced  by 
coercion  and  violence  against  those 
who  dissent  from  them.  Union  men 
will  not  work  with  those  who  do  not 
join  the  Union  ;  and  if  employers 
venture  on  employing  the  latter,  a 
strike  swiftly  compels  compliance 
with  the  orders  of  the  Union.  If, 
then,  these  doctrines  offend  against 
the  principles  of  common-sense — 
if  they  contradict  the  laws  which 
patient  observation  have  discover- 
ed to  be  most  efficient  in  generating 
wealth  and  promoting  the  public 
good — the  thrust  in  them  by  force 
on  those  who  fail  to  perceive  their 
correctness  acquires  a  character  of 
exceedingly  great  gravity.  If  they 
are  erroneous — if  they  restrict  the 
general  prosperity — the  harshness, 
nay,  the  cruelty,  of  imposing  them 
on  dissentients  lays  the  heaviest 
responsibility  on  the  leaders  of 
Unions.  It  is  bad  enough  to  pre- 
scribe erroneous  and  impolitic  reg- 
ulations to  those  who  voluntarily 
consent  to  be  governed  by  them;  but 


to  exact  submission  to  a  mistaken 
policy,  and  to  deprive  free  men  of 
their  liberty  of  rejecting  it,  under 
pain  of  starvation  for  themselves  and 
their  families,  is  a  proceeding  which 
strikes  at  the  fundamental  princi- 
ples of  social  justice.  The  least 
that  might  be  expected  is,  that  men, 
before  embarking  on  measures  so 
full  of  coercion  for  others  as  well 
as  of  risk  to  themselves,  would  have 
taken  pains  to  explore  the  nature 
of  the  ground  they  stood  on,  would 
have  studied  the  counsels  of  expe- 
rience, and  would  have  endeavoured 
to  place  their  doctrines  on  the  sol- 
id basis  of  rational  investigation. 
But  no  such  love  of  truth,  no  such 
sense  of  responsibility,  is  to  be  dis- 
covered in  the  action  of  Trade- 
Unions.  As  against  the  masters, 
their  sole  expedient  is  a  mere  trial 
of  strength  :  as  respects  the  regu- 
lations which  they  frame  in  their 
own  supposed  interest,  we  find 
monopoly  for  themselves,  and  reck- 
less contempt  for  the  liberty,  the 
interests,  and  the  sufferings  of 
others.  They  abandon  them  to 
destitution,  or  at  least  they  tax 
them  in  the  shape  of  the  addi- 
tional cost  which  they  inflict  on 
production.  It  is  essential  to  ob- 
serve the  character  of  their  action 
on  this  vital  point.  Mr  Mill  and 
other  political  economists  have 
laid  down  that  wages  depended  on 
the  ratio  between  capital  and 
labour — that  is,  in  clearer  words, 
between  the  quantity  of  wealth 
applied  to  production  and  the  num- 
ber of  the  population  :  but  this 
formula  does  not  state  exactly  the 
whole  truth.  The  quantity  of 
capital — of  wealth — is  not  fixed  : 
the  determination  of  wages  is  not 
the  division  of  a  given  and  unalter- 
able sum.  Capital,  too,  and  labour 
may  vary  but  little,  and  yet  wages 
may  experience  a  great  and  perma- 
nent rise.  Thus  it  happens  that  the 
superior  productiveness  of  a  virgin 
soil  in  a  colony  may  yield  much 
larger  profits  and  much  ampler 
wages  at  the  same  time.  The  fruit- 
fulness  of  the  labour  is  a  most  in- 


754 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


fluential  factor  in  -this  problem. 
Now,  how  do  Trade-Unions  operate 
on  this  ground?  So  far  as  they 
inculcate  a  minimum  below  which 
no  man  shall  work,  they  come 
under  the  protection  of  a  natural 
principle — one  which  nature  will 
take  care  shall  be  obeyed,  but  one 
also  on  which  it  is  wise  to  forestall 
nature,  before  her  inexorable  might 
is  brought  into  play.  The  question 
here  is  simply  whether  the  machin- 
ery of  Trade-Unions  is  the  best 
•which  can  be  employed  for  such  a 
purpose.  But  it  is  otherwise  with 
those  many  regulations  which  in- 
crease the  cost  of  labour,  and  at 
the  same  time  diminish  its  pro- 
ductiveness. The  workman  is  to 
demand  a  higher  wage  from  his 
employer:  and  yet  he  is  ordered 
to  work  less  energetically,  not  to 
use  wheelbarrows  for  carrying  his 
bricks,  not  to  accept  piece-work, 
not  to  endure  the  assistance  of  ma- 
chinery. He  must  take  distinct 
pains'  to  produce  less  for  the  main- 
tenance he  receives  from  the  capi- 
talist, and  through  him  from  the 
consumer.  The  cost  of  production 
is  thus  raised :  goods,  if  bought  at 
all,  must  be  bought  at  a  dearer 
rate ;  and  thus  the  whole  com- 
munity —  Unionists,  non  -  Union- 
ists, and  the  whole  people  —  are 
impoverished  by  the  forced  in- 
efficiency and  unproductiveness  of 
labour.  Every  one  suffers,  for 
there  is  less  wealth  created,  less  to 
be  divided  amongst  all.  This  is 
true  even  where  the  number  of  the 
population  has  adjusted  itself  to 
the  quantity  of  employment  which 
can  be  procured  at  the  increased 
cost  of  production,  for  the  total 
earnings  of  the  whole  society  are 
diminished.  But  how  much  more 
certain  and  more  vast  is  the  suffer- 
ing where  the  Unions,  in  the  name 
of  their  political  economy,  issue  a 
new  code  of  wages !  Even  for  their 
own  members  they  seldom  can  suc- 
ceed in  maintaining  the  same  com- 
mand of  employment  as  before,  for 
increased  wages  mean  increased 
prices,  and  fewer  purchasers,  and 


less  demand  for  labour.  As  every 
one  buys  nominally  with  money — 
really,  with  the  goods  he  possesses 
— if  there  are  fewer  goods,  there 
must  be  less  to  buy  with  •  and  if, 
at  the  same  time,  those  that  are 
bought  must  be  procured  with  a 
larger  quantity  in  exchange,  pur- 
chases must  still  further  diminish, 
and  the  reward  for  labour  be  re- 
duced. But  what  becomes,  then,  of 
those  who  are  unable  to  procure 
work?  The  law  of  population  is 
allowed  by  the  Unions  to  act  upon 
them  with  its  full  force ;  nay,  by 
their  prohibition  of  all  extra  exer- 
tion, its  power  of  destroying  is  ag- 
gravated by  their  conduct.  But 
at  any  rate,  the  Unionists  reply,  we 
secure  good  wages  for  those  who 
are  employed.  That  is  possible, 
undoubtedly,  but  at  what  cost  1 — 
at  the  cost  of  retarding  progress,  of 
stopping  improvement,  of  arresting, 
by  the  prohibition  of  machinery 
and  similar  proceedings,  that  mul- 
tiplication of  wealth  which  is  the 
indispensable  condition  of  a  thriv- 
ing people. 

To  the  direct  effects  of  Unions 
we  must  add  an  indirect  one,  which 
ofttimes  works  enormous  evil.  The 
system  of  Unionism  places  it  in  the 
power  of  a  very  few  men  to  inflict 
great  suffering  and  severe  destitu- 
tion on  a  large  number  of  innocent 
persons.  The  refusal  of  those  en- 
gaged in  a  single  branch,  though 
small,  of  manufacture — such  as  the 
strike  of  ship  carpenters  a  short 
time  ago — may  bring  the  whole 
business  to  a  standstill,  and  strip 
multitudes  of  employment.  The 
small  band  of  that  particular  Union 
may  plead  that  their  labour  is  their 
property,  and  is  subject  to  their 
entire  discretion  ;  but  the  answer 
is  that  the  Union  is  a  combination, 
which  can  be  used  to  apply  coer- 
cion on  masters,  purely  because 
the  strike  of  the  men  of  a  single 
Union  creates  a  loss  far  more  exten- 
sive than  the  mere  cessation  of  their 
own  labour.  The  Unions  profess 
that  they  exist  for  the  purposes  of 
joint  action :  they  thereby  a  vow  that 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


755 


they  have  great  power  of  influencing 
the  fortunes  of  others  by  their  con- 
duct, and  thus  they  raise  a  question 
of  vast  public  interest,  and  which 
they  cannot  evade  by  the  plea  that 
they  may  dispose  as  they  please  of 
their  own  labour.  Actions  which 
are  perfectly  legitimate  when  per- 
formed by  men  individually,  may 
call  for  public  control  when  exe- 
cuted by  the  same  men  upon  a  con- 
joined plan  and  in  combination. 
Landlords,  tenants,  and  gamekeep- 
ers may  carry  arms  singly,  or  in 
small  parties  ;  a  union  of  all  these 
classes  in  a  county,  using  their 
guns  in  concert,  and  in  obedience 
to  a  central  authority,  would  be 
put  down  by  the  law  as  dangerous 
to  the  public  peace.  It  is  for  the 
Unions  to  show  that  this  power, 
wielded  by  a  Union,  small  in  num- 
bers, but  most  efficient  from  its 
position,  can  be,  and  ought  to  be, 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  a  single 
will. 

Nor  must  the  annoyance  given 
to  masters — the  interference  with 
their  liberty  to  act  freely  as  may 
best  suit  their  trade — the  uncer- 
tainty engendered  by  the  action  of 
the  Unions,  the  lock-out,  the  sus- 
pension of  business,  the  impedi- 
ments brought  against  the  most 
productive  employment  of  capital — 
be  left  out  of  the  long  catalogue  of 
the  progeny  of  Trade-Unions.  We 
speak  not  here  of  the  injury  done 
to  the  masters :  that  would  be  reck- 
oned of  little  moment  with  the 
Unionists  :  it  is  only  the  discom- 
fiture of  the  enemy.  We  wish  to 
point  out  rather  to  the  Unionists  the 
manifest  loss  which  the  crippling  of 
the  liberty  of  the  masters  creates  for 
themselves.  The  trade  is  impeded, 
its  growth  hampered,  its  continuance 
endangered,  its  produce  lessened 
for  all.  Surely  the  thought  ought 
to  come  home  to  the  minds  of  the 
Unionists,  whether  this  loss  is  wise- 
ly incurred — whether  the  benefits 
supposed  to  be  realised  by  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Unions  compensate 
for  the  injury — what  these  benefits 
are,  and  whether  they  are  capable  of 


being  clearly  and  intelligibly  stated. 
The  Unionists  cannot  contest  the 
fact,  that  the  planning  and  admin- 
istering of  the  business  lies  in  the 
hands  of  the  masters,  and  that  the 
results  of  the  common  labour  of 
masters  and  workmen  must  turn  on 
the  efficiency  of  his  administration. 
The  workmen  of  a  manufacturing 
town  must  depend  on  the  manage- 
ment of  the  masters  ;  and  if  it  is 
held  that  that  administration  ought 
to  be  checked,  the  capacity  of  the 
checking  force  to  judge  and  to  criti- 
cise intelligently  and  safely  ought 
to  be  clearly  established,  for  the 
sake  of  the  united  interests  of  all 
concerned.  Do  the  Unions  really 
pretend  that  incessant  and  uncer- 
tain regulations  about  the  length 
of  the  day's  work,  the  number  of 
apprentices,  the  carrying  of  bricks 
in  wheelbarrows,  and  the  like,  pro- 
duce good  that  is  more  than  an 
equivalent  for  the  anxiety  and  the 
uncertainty  brought  upon  the  em- 
ployers 1 

Such  are  the  economical  prin- 
ciples professed  by  the  leaders  of 
Trade-Unions.  ,  How  many  of  the 
working  classes  understand  and 
accept  these  doctrines  1  How  many 
of  the  Unionists  themselves?  It 
is  easy  to  persuade  a  workman  that 
if  he  join  with  his  fellow-labourers 
in  demanding  higher  wages,  the 
strength  of  the  combination  may 
extort  concessions  from  employers ; 
and  so  they  subscribe  their  weekly 
payments  for  the  chances  of  good 
which  the  struggle  may  bring. 
There  is  a  gambling,  lottery-like 
look  about  the  affair  which  is  intel- 
ligible and  attractive.  But  how 
many  of  them  have  counted  the 
cost  1  How  many,  still  more,  are 
able  to  weigh  the  problem  as  to  the 
ultimate  benefit  to  be  derived  from 
equal  wages  demanded  for  all,  from 
hostility  to  machinery,  from  war 
against  overtime  and  higher  wages 
accorded  to  skill  and  energy  ?  How 
many  have  gone  below  the  surface, 
beyond  the  apparent  and  visible 
gain  to  themselves  from  repelling 
machines  which,  no  doubt,  may 


756 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


bring  to  them  individual  loss  1  One 
thing  is  certain  :  multitudes  reject 
these  doctrines  and  the  practices 
founded  upon  them.  Multitudes 
are  found  who  are  ready  to  accept 
the  wages  offered  by  masters,  who 
are  eager  to  advance  themselves  in 
the  world  by  superior  effort  and 
aptitude,  who  shrink  from  the 
misery  brought  on  their  homes 
by  long- protracted  and  of  ten -de- 
feated strikes, — who,  in  a  word, 
prefer  liberty,  freedom  to  use  their 
ability,  both  of  mind  and  body,  in 
the  manner  which  they  may  think 
most  efficient.  Taking  the  whole 
country  through,  the  voice  of  the  lab- 
ouring classes  preponderates  in  con- 
demnation of  Unions  ;  and  no  one 
can  deny  that,  of  those  who  are  en- 
rolled on  their  lists,  thousands  are 
actuated  by  fear  and  not  by  convic- 
tion. And  what  say  the  Unions 
to  those  who  refuse  to  join  their 
ranks  1  How  do  they  respect  that 
liberty  to  do  as  they  like  in  others 
which  they  are  so  vehement  in  de- 
manding for  themselves  1  Let  the 
murders  of  Sheffield,  the  rattening 
of  Manchester,  the  picketing  of 
London,  the  rioting  of  Thorny- 
cliffe,  give  the  reply.  Let  the  an- 
swer be  sought  from  the  cowardly 
conspiracy  to  assassinate,  which  has 
recently  dishonoured  the  building 
trade  of  Manchester  and  attested 
the  fearful  demoralisation  of  Eng- 
lish workmen.  Where  are  the 
teachers  who  address  the  reason  of 
the  dissenting  workmen,  who  un- 
fold the  principles  of  Unionism, 
who  define  and  justify  its  action, 
and  who  convince  the  understand- 
ing by  the  demonstration  of  as- 
sured gain  1  We  see  little  of  such 
teaching.  But  compulsion,  vio- 
lence, destruction,  death  —  these 
are  the  hideous  instruments  by 
which  the  unconvinced  workmen 
are  taught  to  do  benefits  to  them- 
selves. If  the  advantages  of  Union- 
ism were  so  palpable  and  so  cer- 
tain, the  need  would  be  small  to 
preach  fraternity,  equality,  and  so- 
cial union  by  a  terrorism  which  de- 
rives its  precedent  from  the  con- 


verting processes  of  the  Frenchmen 
of  1793.  Yet  those  Frenchmen 
could  urge  with  truth  that,  at  any 
rate,  they  shook  off  the  fetters 
which  privilege  and  despotism  had 
fastened  upon  France.  But  here, 
in  England,  it  is  liberty  which 
Unionism  attacks  with  unceasing 
ferocity ;  it  is  the  free  exercise  of 
his  right  to  work  when  he  pleases, 
and  on  what  terms  he  pleases, 
which  is  hated  in  the  workman ; 
it  is  the  industrious,  uncombin- 
ing,  intelligent  artisan  whose  tools 
are  destroyed  and  whose  life  is 
taken  if  he  desires  to  be  free. 
Able  and  excellent  men  may  be 
carried  away  by  sympathy  for  the 
working  classes,  whose  minds  they 
know,  and  whose  hard  fate  they 
are  so  often  obliged  to  deplore. 
Intellectual  writers,  like  Mr  Mill, 
may,  in  a  glow  of  democratic  en- 
thusiasm, turn  their  backs  on  com- 
mon-sense, and  step  forth  as  the 
advocates  of  associations  which  seem 
to  protect  the  weak  against  the 
strong,  the  poor  against  the  rich  ; 
but  it  would  be  well  if  they  would 
reflect  on  which  side  respect  for  the 
greatest  of  all  the  poor  man's  rights 
— his  right  to  liberty  and  to  the 
free  command  of  his  own  labour — • 
reveals  its  beneficial  influence.  They 
might  spare  a  moment,  to  consider, 
not  only  whether  the  economical 
principles  on  which  Unions  proceed 
are  conformable  to  the  laws  which 
govern  human  industry,  but  still 
more,  whether  they  do  not  cast  the 
working  classes — their  labour,  their 
future,  their  material  and  moral 
wellbeing — at  the  feet  of  a  few  able, 
ambitious,  and  unscrupulous  men. 
A  child  can  see  how  arbitrary  the 
orders  of  the  Union  leaders  are, 
how  small  is  the  basis  of  fact 
they  go  upon,  how  capricious  are 
their  decisions,  and  how  tyrannical 
their  action  against  Unionists  and 
non-Unionists  alike.  Is  it  the  de- 
liberate opinion  of  Mr  Mill  that 
the  agency  of  these  men  is  the  best 
that  the  labouring  classes  can 
adopt  for  the  permanent  elevation 
of  wages'?  Will  he  undertake  to 


1870.] 


Trade-Unions. 


757 


declare  his  conviction  that  the  at- 
tainment of  adequate  wages  is  in 
real  honesty  the  main  object  of 
their  efforts  1  Will  he  assure  the 
country  that  their  aim  is  not  poli- 
tical and  democratical  1  Perhaps 
Mr  Mill  may  sympathise  with  them 
on  this  very  ground,  that  they 
unite  the  huge  mass  of  individual 
labourers  into  a  combined  political 
force.  Be  it  so  :  we  will  not  con- 
sider here  the  expediency  of  such 
a  policy ;  only  let  it  be  avowed. 
Let  every  member  of  a  Trade- 
Union  be  plainly  informed  that 
he  is  subscribing  his  money  to 
a  great  political  institution,  and 
that  he  must  look  for  compensation 
for  the  expensiveness  of  the  Union, 
and  the  misery  which  it  so  often 
brings  on  himself  and  his  family,  to 
the  political  gain  which  it  is  likely 
to  bring  him.  If  such  a  declara- 
tion of  the  principle  of  the  Union 
were  authoritatively  put  forth, 
then  there  would  be  no  need  for 
economical  argument ;  but  at  the 
same  time  there  would  be  an  end 
of  the  delusion  that  higher  wages 
were  obtained  by  a  machine  framed 
for  a  political  purpose.  But,  in- 
deed, Mr  Mill  and  other  defenders 
of  Trade-Unions  have  been  lately 
supplied  with  the  means  of  learn- 
ing what  the  political  economy  of 
Trade-Unions  may  become,  and  to 
what  end  strikes  may  be  directed. 
They  will  find  exceedingly  inter- 
esting information  on  these  points 
in  the  French  correspondence  of 
the  '  Pall  Mall '  of  April  20.  One  of 
the  chiefs  of  the  "Association  Inter- 
nationale des  Travailleurs/ ' — whose 
headquarters,  by  the  way,  are  in 
London — laid  down  with  delightful 
naivete  that  "  capital  should  bear 
no  interest."  What  does  Mr  Mill 
say  to  such  a  doctrine  1  No  one 
has  explained  with  greater  ability 
than  Mr  Mill  that  capital  is  the 
indispensable  condition  of  social  ex- 
istence, and  that  the  motive  for  its 
accumulation  is  the  profit  to  be 
derived  from  its  use.  Is  he  pre- 
pared to  rewrite  that  chapter  on 
political  economy,  or  to  denounce 


this  novel  language  as  the  ravings 
of  a  lunatic  1  But  if  the  new 
theory  is  owned,  is  there  not 
the^  further  question,  whether  insti- 
tutions which  foster  such  ideas 
deserve  to  be  encouraged  ?  Might 
not  a  word  of  seasonable  caution 
be  given  to  English  workmen  who 
might  be  tempted  by  the  exquisite 
notion  of  reducing  the  rich  to  sur- 
render by  a  universal  strike  of  all 
the  butchers  and  bakers  in  the 
world  1  The  words,  at  any  rate, 
of  the  active -minded  Frenchman 
were  outspoken;  he  confessed  that 
the  rules  of  the  International  Asso- 
ciation, as  also  of  other  Unions, 
were  to  follow  the  same  course, 
and  had  political  as  well  as  eco- 
nomical ends  in  view.  Be  it  so, 
we  again  repeat ;  only  let  them 
be  no  more  discussed  as  institu- 
tions for  raising  wages.  The  cre- 
ation of  "  a  society  of  working 
men,  which  is  to  have  the  right 
of  abolishing  private  property  in 
land,  and  making  the  soil  common 
property,"  is  not  a  measure  framed 
for  procuring  the  proper  wages  for 
the  Thornycliffe  colliers.  A  so- 
ciety which  declares  that  "  its  effort 
should  be  directed  against  the  eco- 
nomical, political,  judicial,  and  re- 
ligious orders,"  stands  on  ground 
of  a  wholly  different  kind  from 
the  relations  between  labour  and 
capital. 

We  now  meet  the  question,  What 
says  the  law  of  England  to  Trade- 
Unions?  Up  to  the  last  session 
of  Parliament,  Trade-Unions  were 
wholly  without  the  pale  of  the  law, 
with  one  exception.  "  Strikes  are 
unlawful  combinations  punishable 
at  common  law,  and  unions  for 
raising  funds  to  support  the  men 
engaged  in  such  strikes  are  un- 
lawful associations."  The  excep- 
tion was  made  by  6  George  IV., 
129,  which  allowed  workmen  to 
meet  for  consulting  upon  and  de- 
termining the  rate  of  wages  which 
the  persons  present  at  the  meeting, 
or  any  of  them,  should  demand  for 
their  work,  or  the  hours  during 
which  they  should  work.  The 


758 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


result  was  that  the  funds  of  Unions 
might  be  plundered  with  impunity 
by  their  officers,  for  the  law  re- 
fused to  recognise  the  existence  of 
Unions  :  in  the  eye  of  the  law  no 
one  had  been  robbed.  Last  year  the 
law  was  so  far  amended  that  the 
funds  of  Unions  cannot  be  plundered 
without  the  committal  of  a  crime  ; 
and  the  regulation  was  just,  for 
stealing  in  no  form  ought  to  be 
countenanced  by  the  law.  But  the 
general  legal  status  of  Unions  re- 
mains unaltered.  They  still  con- 
tinue to  be  illegal  societies,  as  being 
combinations  in  restraint  of  trade. 
The  term  is  of  wide  application, 
but  Sir  W.  Erie  describes  it  as  the 
violation  of  the  right  which  both  the 
public  and  each  private  person  has 
"  that  the  course  of  trade  should 
be  kept  free  from  unreasonable  ob- 
struction." Acts  of  coercion  which 
molest  or  injure  persons  who  refuse 
to  join  Unions,  or  work  for  masters 
on  terms  different  from  those  laid 
down  by  the  Unions,  are  manifestly 
unreasonable  obstructions  to  trade, 
and  indefensible  in  law  and  morals. 
But  the  Unions  may  reply  that 
these  acts  are  not  prescribed  by 
their  rules ;  they  are  the  deeds  of 
individual  persons.  But  the  same 
defence  will  not  be  valid  at  law  for 
those  who  induce  others  to  cease 
working  for  their  employers.  Money 
paid,  as  it  rules,  "  not  to  work," 
with  the  view  of  damaging  and 
coercing  the  employer,  is  an  illegal 
restraint  of  trade.  Several  com- 
bining to  perform  this  act  are  guilty 
of  a  crime.  Further,  persons  can- 
not combine  so  as  to  create  a  mutual 
obligation  which  would  be  bind- 
ing on  them  not  to  work  except 
on  terms  prescribed  by  the  combi- 
nation. Every  member  of  a  Un- 
ion, therefore,  is  entitled  to  with- 
draw from  any  such  regulation  ; 
and  if  he  is  punished  by  the  for- 
feiture of  past  subscriptions,  or  in 
any  way,  it  is  an  offence  at  law. 
The  general  principle  of  the  law  is 
the  expediency  of  free  competition 
both  for  employer  and  employed, 
and  for  the  interest  of  the  whole 


community ;  and  at  every  point  of 
their  action  the  Unions  obstruct 
free  competition  and  freely  expose 
themselves  to  the  penalties  of  con- 
spiracy. 

Ought  the  law  to  be  amended  1 
Ought  Trade-Unions  to  be  relieved 
from  these  disabilities]  These 
questions  bring  us  to  the  practical 
and  final  part  of  our  subject.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  the  right  of 
the  Unionists  to  combine  cannot 
turn  upon  the  goodness  or  badness 
of  their  political  economy.  Error 
of  opinion,  if  not  carried  out  into 
practical  action,  is  not  an  offence 
at  law ;  for  then  who  of  us  would 
escape  1  Error  must  be  combated 
by  education ;  this  is  the  only. legi- 
timate and  effectual  method  for  its 
correction.  It  is  not  as  an  economi- 
cal and  scientific  doctrine,  but  as  a 
practical  principle,  that  combination 
is  forbidden  by  the  law.  The  law 
proclaims  the  principle  of  free  com- 
petition. This  includes  the  free 
right  of  a  man  to  dispose  of  his 
time  and  labour  at  his  pleasure,  as 
a  portion  of  the  universal  political 
principle  of  liberty.  The  State  of 
England  has  liberty  for  its  founda- 
tion ;  and  where  liberty  is  curtail- 
ed, the  onus  always  lies  on  the  cur- 
tailer.  English  society  assumes 
always  that  liberty  is  the  best  state 
— best  for  wealth  or  for  happiness; 
and  when  its  law  condemns  Trade- 
Unions,  it  is  because  it  believes 
these  combinations  are  in  restraint, 
not  so  much  of  trade  as  of  liberty. 
Nevertheless  it  is  very  possible 
that  prohibitions  issued  in  the 
name  of  liberty  may  be  excessive 
— they  may  reach  farther  than  the 
object  aimed  at ;  and  it  is  a  per- 
fectly fair  question  whether  Trade- 
Unions  are  associations  so  essen- 
tially incompatible  with  freedom 
of  action  as  to  call  for  repression. 
Combination  is  not  necessarily 
wrong  or  impolitic.  There  are 
endless  combinations  for  a  mul- 
titude of  purposes  with  which  the 
law  does  not  interfere.  The  end 
pursued,  and  the  manner  of  the 
pursuit,  are  the  two  elements  which 


1870 


Trade-  Unions. 


759 


determine  the  justifiableness  of 
every  combination.  We  have  shown 
that  many  of  the  objects  sought 
by  Trade -Unions  wantonly  and 
cruelly  violate  the  freedom  of  every 
Englishman,  and  enormously  injure 
the  wellbeing  of  the  labourers  them- 
selves and  of  the  whole  nation. 
They  come  into  hurtful  and  sense- 
less collision  with  one  of  the  most 
fundamental  principles  of  the  pro- 
sperity of  a  people  —  the  increase 
of  production,  the  enlargement 
of  the  fruits  of  labour,  by  ren- 
dering it  more  efficient  and  more 
creative  of  wealth.  The  earnings 
of  the  whole  people,  the  stock  of 
wealth  to  be  divided,  are  directly 
lessened  by  many  of  the  regulations 
of  Trade  -  Unions.  If  they  had 
their  way  unchecked,  their  tendency 
would  be  to  secure  a  compara- 
tively high  rate  of  wages  for  a  por- 
tion of  the  people,  whilst  they 
drove  off  the  rest  into  emigration 
or  starvation.  We  have  seen,  too, 
that  they  place  the  control  of  the 
force  which  must  always  limit  pop- 
ulation in  the  hands  of  a  very  few 
persons  instead  of  the  collective 
action  of  men  working  individually 
under  the  influences  which  real  life 
brings  to  bear  upon  them.  These 
are  principles  which  violate  the 
laws  of  man's  social  existence,  if 
the  judgments  of  political  economy 
may  be  relied  upon  as  true  science, 
and  they  are  injurious  to  the  well- 
being  of  the  whole  community. 
We  do  not  say  that  men  ought  to 
be  restrained  in  their  liberty  of 
action  by  law  because  they  set 
themselves  in  hostility  to  science  ; 
but  we  assert  that  combinations 
involving  coercion,  much  more  vio- 
lence, are  the  avowed  enemies  of  so- 
ciety, and  justly  forfeit  the  protec- 
tion of  the  law.  Taking  our  stand 
on  this  principle,  we  readily  concede 
that  some  Trade-Unions  must  be 
acquitted  of  offence  against  law  or 
morality;  and  we  are  obliged  to  ad- 
mit further  that  this  distinctiion 
between  the  legitimate  and  the  ille- 
gitimate action  of  Trade-Unions  has 
taken  sufficient  hold  of  the  public 


mind  to  render  the  legalisation  of 
such  Unions  as  are  exempt  from  co- 
ercion probable.  The  presumption, 
in  our  day,  always  sets  strongly  in 
favour  of  freedom — though,  strange 
to  say,  in  this  case,  this  feeling  is 
applied  to  the  help  of  men  who  are 
glaring  offenders  against  liberty. 

Assuming,  then,  that  a  change 
is  inevitable,  the  inquiry  rises  to 
great  importance,  How  ought  the 
position  of  the  working  classes  in 
reference  to  associations  to  be  dealt 
with  practically  1  One  fact  in  that 
position  at  once  acquires  conspicu- 
ous prominence — the  violence,  the 
deeds  of  outrage  against  life  and 
property,  which  mark  the  path  of 
so  many  Unions.  The  Unions 
may  have  a  show  of  reason  in  de- 
manding that  the  labourers  shall 
be  freely  permitted  to  assist  one 
another  in  carrying  out  common 
ideas  respecting  the  conditions  on 
which  they  will  consent  to  work; 
but  the  Unions  themselves,  how- 
ever reasonable  their  general  claim 
may  seem  to  be,  are  out  of  the 
pale  of  sympathy,  nay,  of  consid- 
eration, so  long  as  they  combat 
with  Lynch  law  those  whose  views 
differ  from  their  own.  The  liberty 
of  the  non-Unionists  deserves  equal 
respect  with  their  own.  They  come 
into  court  with  unclean  hands; 
they  ask  to  be  free  at  the  very  time 
that  they  will  not  suffer  their  fel- 
lows to  have  freedom.  What  other 
class  of  men  in  the  kingdom,  ex- 
cept the  professional  criminal  class, 
assail  those  opposed  to  them  in 
opinion  with  the  ransacking  of 
houses,  destroying  of  tools,  with 
bio  wings -up  by  gunpowder,  with 
picketing,  and  every  conceivable 
kind  of  illegal  and  anarchical  coer- 
cion ?  Surely  it  is  only  the  bar- 
est reason,  the  smallest  satisfaction 
due  to  the  rights  of  every  work- 
man, that  nothing  shall  be  done  to 
concede  the  demand  of  the  Unions 
until  they  can  prove  by  their  own 
conduct  that  they  have  the  capa- 
city to  exercise  freedom.  The  pro- 
perty destroyed,  the  misery  in- 
flicted, the  bloodshed,  all  cry  out 


760 


Trade-  Unions. 


[June 


that  nothing  shall  be  done  in  favour 
of  men  who  contemn  and  with 
horrible  deeds  violate  the  law.  The 
time  for  concession  ought  not  to 
be  considered  as  arrived  until 
Unions  can  point  to  a  retrospect  of 
good  conduct — till  they  have  estab- 
lished their  own  capacity  to  obey 
the  laws  of  the  land  and  of  moral- 
ity. Assuredly  every  right-think- 
ing man  will  feel  that  the  conces- 
sion of  freedom  and  the  repression 
of  violence  ought  to  march  together. 
To  give  additional  advantages  to 
criminals,  and  to  bestow  no  protec- 
tion on  their  victims,  is  a  course  of 
legislation  which  even  the  most 
pronounced  Radicals  must  hesitate 
to  pursue. 

There  is  another  measure  which, 
in  our  judgment,  should  be  simul- 
taneous with  relaxation.  If  the 
men  choose  to  combine,  innocently 
as  regards  others,  in  carrying  out  a 
joint  plan  for  the  securing  of  proper 
wages,  let  the  contributions  and 
the  sacrifices  they  require  be  ex- 
acted avowedly  for  this  end.  The 
union,  on  the  contrary,  of  a  Benefit 
Club  with  a  Trade-Union  is  radically 
vicious  in  principle.  The  two  ends 
have  no  connection  whatever  with 
each  other.  The  oppression  which  it 
involves  for  many  of  the  Unions  is 
nothing  short  of  a  positive  crime. 
The  victims  here  are  the  Unionists 
themselves.  The  subscriptions  paid 
painfully  during  long  years  become 
a  pledge  for  unquestioning  obedi- 
ence to  the  will  of  the  Union 
chiefs.  They  assume  the  character 
of  a  stake  to  be  forfeited  on  the 
exercise  of  independent  action. 
They  furnish  the  materials  for 
those  terrible  fines  which  extort 
unresisting  submission.  How  can 
a  man  be  a  free  agent  when  the 
means  he  has  accumulated  from  past 
labour  for  assistance  in  sickness  or 
old  age,  are  lost  as  the  penalty  of 
disobedience?  Public  morality  is 
concerned  in  the  suppression  of 
such  a  wrong.  Some  ingenious 
persons  have  replied  that  the  sepa- 
ration of  the  benefit  fund  from  the 
contributions  for  acting  on  wages, 


would  act  as  an  incentive  to  in- 
creased violence  and  disorder,  in- 
asmuch as  the  fear  of  forfeiting  the 
benefit  secured  by  past  payment 
raises  a  feeling  of  resistance  to 
striking.  We  can  see  nothing  in 
this  objection.  On  the  contrary, 
we  are  persuaded  that  the  working 
of  the  division  of  the  two  funds 
would  take  the  opposite  direction. 
The  men  would  be  far  slower  to 
support  Unions  and  to  strike,  if 
separate  and  distinct  payments  had 
to  be  made  for  this  purpose.  They 
would  be  moved  to  reflect  whether 
the  end  justified  means  which  would 
certainly  be  painful.  The  benefit 
obtained  by  strikes  and  other  de- 
vices of  the  Union  leaders  would  be 
brought  into  direct  comparison  with 
the  cost  which  they  entail;  and  it 
cannot  be  doubtful  that  a  strong 
reluctance  to  such  an  expenditure 
would  be  developed.  The  vast  fund 
supplied  by  the  payments  made  for 
benefit  purposes  contributes  the 
vital  force  of  Unions,  and  we  repeat 
that  such  a  perversion  involves  in- 
justice towards  contributors,  and 
calls  for  suppression  by  law. 

These  three  measures — the  effec- 
tive repression  of  the  violence  prac- 
tised by  Unions  on  their  own  mem- 
bers and  non  -  Unionists,  the  ad- 
journment of  any  measure  of  legal 
recognition  until  the  Unionists  place 
themselves  on  a  level  of  good  con- 
duct with  the  rest  of  society,  and  a 
separation  of  the  funds  given  for 
benefit  objects  from  the  subscrip- 
tions applied  to  carrying  on  the 
struggle  for  wages  —  seem  to  us 
all  that  legislation  can  perform  in 
this  very  grave  matter.  There 
remain  the  remedies  which  flow 
from  voluntary  action  —  from 
methods  which  the  state  of  com- 
mercial civilisation  may  originate 
from  time  to  time.  First  amongst 
these  is  the  institution  of  courts  of 
conciliation  for  each  trade.  We 
have  shown  in  the  preceding  article 
that  they  are  exactly  adapted  to 
meet  the  uncertainties  which  beset 
English  trade — uncertainties  which 
press  alike  on  masters  and  workmen. 


1870.] 


Trade-  Unions. 


761 


If  the  labouring  classes  are  animated 
with  a  friendly  feeling  towards  their 
employers — and  when  undisturbed 
by  self-seeking  agitators  they  natur- 
ally fall  into  such  feeling  —  such 
meetings  of  the  representatives  of 
the  employers  and  the  employed 
are  peculiarly  fitted  for  an  investi- 
gation of  the  facts  of  the  situation 
in  common.  Masters  and  men 
would  then  both  look  the  actual 
state  of  the  trade  in  the  face,  and 
if  an  alteration  of  wages  is  de- 
manded, the  reasons  for  the  change 
could  be  debated  and  judged  in 
the  presence  of  all  the  interests  in- 
volved. Passions  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  accomplishment  of  this  great 
object ;  but  it  is  the  business  of 
civilisation  to  subjugate  passion 
to  reason.  Difficulties  incessantly 
raise  themselves  on  both  sides. 
The  Unions  inflame  the  men  against 
the  masters,  and  the  masters  re- 
sent with  anger  the  interference 
of  the  Unions.  There  remains  be- 
tween these  two  hostile  forces  the 
good  sense  of  Englishmen,  and  for- 
tunately that  is  strong  enough  to 
produce  the  work  desired  if  proper 
methods  were  taken  for  bringing 
it  into  play.  The  presence  of  men 
whose  characters  combine  sympathy 
with  intelligence  is  the  most  im- 
portant power  for  success ;  and 
there  is  no  lack  of  such  men  in 
England,  who  may  be  relied  upon 
for  rising  up  to  the  demands  of  the 
time  whenever  the  state  of  feeling 
around  summons  them  to  action. 

Another  method  for  counteract- 
ing the  mischievous  influence  of 
Unions  is  to  be  found  in  co-opera- 
tion. The  association  of  masters 
and  workmen  in  such  a  partner- 
ship as  shall  give  the  latter  a  share 
in  the  profits,  however  arranged,  is 
founded  on  principles  alike  conson- 
ant with  economical  science  and  the 
laws  of  human  nature.  The  com- 
munity of  interest  generates  real 
good  will  and  material  support.  It  is 
obvious,  however,  that  the  system 
of  co-operation,  from  its  very  nature, 
has  but  a  limited  range.  It  requires 
generally  a  large  business,  many 


workmen,  a  great  employment  of 
capital,  and  a  sphere  for  a  wide 
common  action.  In  manufacturing 
districts  it  probably  has  a  great 
future  before  it.  The  belief  is 
held  by  many  that  it  can  contend 
successfully  with  individual  com- 
petition in  the  retail  business  of 
large  towns  and  thickly-populated 
districts.  We  are  unable  to  feel  so 
great  a  hope.  Retail  business,  ex- 
cept in  localities  where  a  large  body 
of  working  people  form  a  natural 
association,  capable  of  easily  com- 
bining to  frequent  a  common  store, 
belongs,  we  think,  to  the  keen 
superintendence  of  the  concentrat- 
ed personal  interest  of  the  private 
shopkeeper.  However,  what  co- 
operation will  be  able  to  effect  can 
be  ascertained  only  by  actual  trial. 
Its  forms  may  be  most  numerous 
and  most  diverse  :  it  is  a  creation 
of  time  and  place  and  circumstan- 
ces. Practical  experience  alone  can 
discover  the  many  points  at  which 
it  may  make  its  entry  into  English 
trade.  - 

Finally,  we  must  call  into  play 
the  good  sense  and  the  intelligence 
of  the  working  classes  themselves. 
They  support  Trade-Unions  in  the 
belief  that  they  promote  their  in- 
terests ;  it  is  for  them  to  recognise 
the  nature  and  the  working  of  these 
associations.  It  is  certain  that  their 
maintenance  entails  a  heavy  bur- 
den on  their  means.  It  is  equally 
certain  that  the  instrument  which 
they  employ — the  strike — often  in- 
flicts cruel  misery  on  them,  on  their 
wives  and  their  families.  Are  they 
sure  that  they  get  an  equivalent 
for  these  sacrifices'?  In  the  long 
weeks  of  idleness  and  reduced  re- 
sources, have  they  meditated  on 
the  question  whether  their  suffer- 
ings and  their  losses  were  balanced 
by  a  clear  .acquisition  of  certain 
gain  1  Their  own  sense  of  equity 
and  fair-play,  so  natural  to  English- 
men, must  have  been  often  revolted 
by  the  sight  of  the  violence,  of  the 
deeds  of  outrage  and  murder,  which 
have  brought  dishonour  on  the  good 
name  of  the  workmen  of  England. 


Trade-Unions. 


[June 


Has  it  raised  in  them  the  doubt 
whether  a  policy  -which  requires 
such  means  for  its  support  can  be 
sound,  or  be  fitted  to  promote  their 
welfare?  They  must  know,  too, 
that  they,  the  labourers  of  England, 
possess  friends  of  the  sincerest 
loyalty  amongst  the  other  classes 
of  the  English  people.  Do  they 
reflect  on  the  shock  which  the 
working  of  these  institutions  inflicts 
on  their  goodwill  —  how  it  tends 
to  deaden  their  zeal,  leads  them  to 
despair  of  imparting  aid  by  their 
counsels  and  their  co-operation  — 
how  it  drives  them  to  abandon 
them  to  the  rule  of  Union 
leaders  1  They  may  for  a  mo- 
ment imagine  that  these  lead- 
ers, because  they  belong  to  the 
same  class  with  themselves,  may 
be  identified  with  their  interests; 
yet  every  Englishman  knows  well 
how  fatally  irresponsible  power, 
whether  vested  in  a  despot  or  a 
Union  chief,  works  for  those  who 
are  subjected  to  its  influence.  To 
be  told  that  they  are  striking  for 
better  wages  may  sound  pleasantly 
in  their  ears ;  but  have  they  a 
single  reason  for  believing  that 
they  can  extort  from  masters  wages 
which  these  masters,  from  the  com- 
petition amongst  themselves,  would 
not  have  granted  of  their  own  ac- 
cord ]  They  are  intelligent  enough 
to  understand  how  injurious  these 
interruptions  to  trade  must  be  to 
its  prosperity — how  difficult  and 
uncertain  they  render  the  task  of 
management  to  the  masters.  They 
can  perceive  how  likely  their  con- 


duct is  to  drive  off  the  trade  to  new 
localities,  or  even  to  foreign  coun- 
tries. Is  it  impossible  to  make 
them  comprehend  that  a  business 
requires  materials  and  wages  to  be 
provided  beforehand,  before  goods 
can  be  made  and  sold;  and  that  to 
harass  by  interruptions  and  out- 
rages those  who  own  this  capital 
is  not  only  to  diminish  its  produc- 
tiveness but  also  to  discourage  its 
accumulation,  and  thereby  to  pro- 
vide smaller  means  for  getting  em- 
ployment for  themselves  and  their 
children  1  If  they  are  too  dull — 
but  we  do  not  believe  the  imputa- 
tion— to  observe  and  reason  upon 
such  things  themselves,  the  higher 
sensibility  of  their  wives  may  yet 
be  powerful  enough  to  be  instruct- 
ed by  the  effects  produced  on  their 
families.  We  hear  much  in  these 
days  of  the  intelligence  and  the 
rights  of  women:  a  noble  oppor- 
tunity is  now  offered  to  the  women 
of  the  working  classes  to  exhibit  a 
proof  of  their  ability  by  gathering 
up  perceptions  which  their  hus- 
bands may  be  too  slow  to  notice. 
Let  them  put  a  few  plain  questions 
to  the  men,  and  insist  on  full  and 
direct  answers.  Let  them  ask 
simply  but  firmly  for  the  reasons 
which  govern  the  conduct  of  Trade- 
Unions,  and  enter  upon  a  rigorous 
account  of  the  good  and  the  evil 
which  they  generate.  Let  the 
women  of  the  English  labourers  ad- 
dress these  inquiries  to  their  mates, 
and  be  resolved  to  obtain  answers, 
and  we  shall  have  smaller  need  to 
write  about  the  Trade-Unions. 


1870.] 


The  Admiralty. 


763 


THE     ADMIEALTY. 


MUCH  unmerited  and  senseless 
abuse  has  been  heaped  on  the  old 
Admiralty  Board  as  an  institution, 
and  some  just  reflections  on  its 
shortcomings  have  occasionally  ap- 
peared. But  statesmen,  whose  cha- 
racters are  honoured  in  this  coun- 
try, deemed  the  old  Board  to 
be  admirably  constituted  for  the 
despatch  of  business,  and  for  in- 
suring a  full  consideration  of  the 
manifold  and  difficult  problems 
it  had  to  decide.  In  such  a  de- 
partment as  the  Admiralty  there 
must  be  distinct  branches,  which 
ought  to  work  with  a  mutual  and 
earnest  desire  to  assist  each  other 
in  a  common  purpose  and  for  a 
common  credit.  These  ends  were 
attained  by  the  branches  being  seve- 
rally allotted  to  different  members 
of  the  Board,  who  collectively  in 
council  determined  on  all  matters 
tending  to  change  any  established 
principle  of  the  Service,  as  well 
as  on  all  measures  of  importance. 
"Boards,"  as  these  meetings  were 
called,  were  held  daily,  or  very  fre- 
quently, during  each  week ;  and 
their  decisions,  which  were  at  once 
minuted,  were  paramount  in  every 
branch.  The  branches  being  su- 
perintended each  by  a  member  of 
the  Board,  measures  were  syste- 
matically undertaken,  unexpected 
hindrances  were  encountered,  and 
unexpected  facilities  were  improved 
by  a  corresponding  adjustment  of 
work.  Each  superintendent  of  a 
branch  being  a  party  to  the  deci- 
sions, an  individual  character  was 
as  certainly  imparted  to  the  results 
as  if  they  had  issued  from  one  person 
only.  But  setting  aside  theory,  un- 
doubtedly this  system,  approved  by 
such  Ministers  as  Sir  James  Graham, 
Sir  Francis  Baring,  Lord  Halifax, 
and  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  after 
each  had  enjoyed  many  years'  ex- 
perience of  Admiralty  business,  is 
likely  not  only  to  possess  merit,  but 
merit  of  the  highest  order. 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVT. 


The  question  may  be  plausibly 
asked,  Why,  if  the  Admiralty  was 
so  well  constituted,  did  it  some- 
times fail  to  work  in  a  satisfactory 
manner  1  The  reason  is,  that  al- 
though its  constitution  was  excel- 
lent, its  composition  has  been  some- 
times indifferent.  However  nearly 
perfect  the  organisation  of  a  de- 
partment may  be,  the  purpose  of 
the  organisation  may  be  utterly 
frustrated  by  bad  administrators, 
just  as  a  mechanical  construction, 
faultless  in  principle,  must  fail  if 
composed  of  faulty  material.  So, 
when  the  Admiralty  department  for- 
merly failed,  the  cause  was  bad 
management,  and  not  a  defective  or- 
ganisation. Cabinets  fail  under  cor- 
responding conditions,  yet  this  has 
never  been  advanced  as  a  reason 
for  their  organic  reconstruction. 
But  the  method  of  transacting 
business  has  undergone  a  change 
which  is  of  vital  importance. 
The  Board  meetings  have  now 
been  discontinued  in  any  proper 
sense,  and  most  important  measures 
have  been  acted  upon  by  some 
Lords,  of  which  other  Lords  have 
known  nothing.  A  notable  instance 
of  this  has  been  exposed  by  the 
members  of  the  Board  them- 
selves. Mr  Childers,  in  the  recent 
debate  on  his  Retirement  Scheme, 
asserted  that  the  scheme  was  sup- 
ported by  his  colleagues.  Evi- 
dently, from  what  passed  on  a  fol- 
lowing night  in  the  House,  the 
First  Lord  had  been  called  upon 
by  Admiral  Eobinson,  the  Second 
Naval  Member  of  the  Board,  to  re- 
tract the  assertion.  The  notorious 
result  of  the  altered  organisation  of 
the  Admiralty  is  an  absence  of  any 
common  principle  of  professional 
policy,  a  want  of  concert  among 
the  branches,  conflicting  regulations, 
and  ill-advised  orders.  In  short,  it 
is  admitted  by  those  who  are  compe- 
tent to  judge  of  the  manner  in  which 
Admiralty  business  is  conducted, 
3F 


764 


The  Admiralty. 


[June 


that  the  changes  in  the  constitution 
of  the  department  would  have  sub- 
verted its  administrative  powers, 
even  had  the  branches  been  under 
the  guidance  of  the  most  discreet 
and  the  wisest  men.  The  chaos  into 
which  the  Admiralty  is  plunged, 
shows  that  the  Lords  are  unequal 
to  their  work,  as  it  is  now  con- 
ducted ;  and  their  painful  sense  of 
inadequacy  creates  in  them,  among 
other  mischievous  consequences, 
an  irritation  which  is  manifested 
by  foolish  instructions,  and  by 
captious  unbecoming  answers  to 
unavoidable  requests  for  explana- 
tions. Thus  official  correspondence 
degenerates  into  wrangle,  which, 
however  amusing  it  may  be  at  the 
home  ports  and  on  foreign  stations, 
is  wholly  mischievous,  being  derog- 
atory to  one  party  and  unimprov- 
ing  to  the  other. 

This  disorganisation  of  the  Ad- 
miralty, its  discourtesy,  its  harsh 
treatment  of  civilians,  its  want  of 
sympathy  for  the  active  service, 
and  the  disdainful  extinction  of  the 
naval  element  at  the  Board,  have 
destroyed  feelings  the  loss  of  which 
is  deplorable.  The  professional 
love  which  has  hitherto  sustained 
the  efficiency  of  the  Navy  has  re- 
ceived a  severe  shock.  If  this  feel- 
ing be  destroyed  efficiency  must  be 
lost,  though  the  simple  restoration 
of  the  feeling,  if  long  absent,  will 
not  at  once  restore  efficiency.  That 
can  be  secured  only  by  sedulous 
training.  Lukewarm  officers  will 
not  qualify  themselves  for  duties 
which  may  be  remote,  nor  will  they 
excite  in  the  men  a  desire  to  excel 
as  sailors.  Professional  zeal  must 
be  a  sustained  feeling,  if  a  navy  is 
to  be  kept  in  a  fitting  condition  to 
deal  with  an  enemy  in  whom  the 
feeling  has  never  slumbered.  How- 
ever difficult  it  may  be  to  the  First 
Lord  and  the  Secretary  of  the  Admi- 
ralty to  realise  the  fact,  there  is  no 
way  in  which  the  safety  of  the  coun- 
try can  be  more  endangered  than 
by  extinguishing  this  sentiment  of 
devotion  in  the  Navy. 

The  dangerous  theory  that  the 


Navy  should  be  ruled  absolutely  by 
a  Minister,  in  the  sense  that  his  pro- 
fessional advisers  shall  be  released 
from  responsibility,  is  avowedly 
brought  into  practice  at  the  Ad- 
miralty. ^  If  the  naval  advisers  of 
the  Minister  are  to  be  absolved 
from  direct  official  responsibility  to 
Parliament,  a  great  national  danger 
is  evidently  incurred.  Whether 
they  are  to  be  his  colleagues  or 
chiefs  of  branches  only,  it  is  of 
vital  importance  to  the  safety  of 
the  country  that  they  should  be 
accountable  for  the  acts  that  ema- 
nate from  the  department.  A  civi- 
lian placed  over  the  navy  will  cer- 
tainly be  unable  rightly  to  decide  on 
many  professional  questions,  and  the 
responsibility  should  rest  with  those 
who  are  competent  to  the  task.  A 
naval  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  is  not 
an  executive,  like  an  officer  in  com- 
mission, nor  is  he  a  clerk ;  and  if 
he  is  not  an  administrator,  he  is  a 
nonentity.  He  owes  to  the  Navy 
a  similar  protection  to  that  which 
the  Army  receives  from  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief.  The  men  of  the 
highest  reputation  in  the  Navy 
have  held,  and  their  opinion  is 
obviously  just,  that  the  especial 
duty  of  the  senior  naval  Lord  is 
to  maintain  the  discipline  and  the 
sufficiency  of  the  fleet.  They  have 
insisted  that,  when  these  vital 
points  are  threatened,  his  bounden 
duty  is  to  protect  them  ;  and  if  he 
should  be  unheeded  on  matters  so 
infinitely  important,  and  still  retain 
his  seat,  he  is  an  abettor  in  produc- 
ing the  national  mischief  he  fore- 
sees. 

The  Secretary  of  the  Admiralty 
has  taunted  the  civil  branches  of  the 
naval  administration  with  a  want  of 
ability  for  the  conduct  of  business. 
He,  and  men  of  his  class,  forsooth, 
are  to  endow  these  branches  with 
"  commercial "  acumen !  Assuming 
the  taunt  to  be  just,  though  only 
for  argument's  sake,  people  will 
still  ask  what  advantages  their  ser- 
vices will  entail.  In  such  an  in- 
quiry as  his  challenge  provokes, 
the  remarkable  commercial  history 


1870.] 


The  Admiralty. 


765 


of  England  during  the  last  four 
years  must  unavoidably  be  an  ele- 
ment. A  reference  to  the  daily 
papers  during  that  period  proves 
that  scandalous  commercial  events 
have  happened  so  frequently,  and 
have  been  marked  by  so  much  vice, 
or  so  much  folly,  as  seriously  to 
affect  the  prospects  of  the  country. 
The  pauperism  of  some  classes, 
the  ruin  of  others,  and  the  de- 
pression of  commerce,  are  conse- 
quences brought  about  by  com- 
mercial men,  and  those  who  fol- 
lowed in  their  wake.  Nothing  has 
more  frequently  damaged  the  re- 
pute of  British  manufacturers  in 
foreign  countries,  than  the  de- 
tection in  their  goods  of  a  frau- 
dulent debasement  of  quality  and 
deficiency  of  quantity.  Of  course 
there  are  thousands  of  merchants 
who  do  honour  to  their  country; 
but  never  was  there  a  bolder  de- 
mand on  public  credulity,  after  all 
we  have  suffered,  than  for  a  mer- 
chant of  1869  to  require  that  a  spe- 
cial confidence  should  be  reposed 
in  his  class.  Moreover,  can  the 
Secretary  suppose  we  have  forgotten 
the  prodigious  sums  which  ship- 
owners received  for  transport  ser- 
vice during  the  old  French  war, 
and  in  the  recent  Kussian  war;  and 
the  exactions  insisted  on  for  ex- 
tending the  periods  for  which  ships 
were  hired  ?  Would  he  have  us 
forget  the  shameful  violation  of 
contract  in  the  supply  of  preserved 
meats ;  or  the  numerous  instances  of 
wretched  material  and  "scamped" 
work  in  the  gunboats  built  by  con- 
tract during  the  Russian  war  1 

Take,  again,  examples  from  the 
United  States  of  commercial  cupid- 
ity. The  Northern  States,  during 
their  recent  civil  war,  were  plun- 
dered to  such  an  extent  by  private 
dealers  as  to  add  seriously  to  their 
national  debt.  Whatever  these 
dealers  could  extort  from  the  na- 
tion, by  appealing  to  its  hopes  or 
its  fears,  was  inexorably  demanded. 

From  all  this  we  should  be  led 
to  a  conclusion  the  reverse  of  that 
which  the  Secretary  has  so  offen- 


sively thrown  as  his  own  in  the 
faces  of  Government  officials. 

In  discussing  the  expediency  of 
employing  in  a  public  capacity  men 
who  have  commercial  interests  con- 
nected with  warlike  resources,  we 
must  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
their  being  corrupted  by  an  enemy. 
For  instance,  shipbuilders  may  de- 
rive a  larger  gain  merely  by  delay- 
ing or  withholding  assistance  from 
their  own  Government  than  can 
be  earned  by  duly  supplying  it. 
All  our  laws  assume  that  among 
tempted  men  the  integrity  of  some 
may  fail.  Even  in  our  Naval  and 
Military  Discipline  Acts  there  are 
clauses  which  contemplate  that 
officers  and  men  may  be  suborned 
by  an  enemy  ;  and  the  risk  of  com- 
mercial treason  can  be  no  more 
discarded  from  consideration  than 
the  clauses  referred  to  can  be  ex- 
punged from  the  Discipline  Acts. 
This  general  conclusion,  therefore, 
attaches  to  the  whole  question. 
In  all  mattters  which  affect  the 
safety  of  the  country,  do  not  dis- 
card resources  which  you  control 
absolutely  for  those  which  are  be- 
yond your  control,  even  if  the  cost 
of  the  former  should  be  somewhat 
the  greater  of  the  two. 

Among  other  considerations,  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind,  that  in 
this  great  commercial  country, 
where  the  highest  official  emolu- 
ments are  small  as  compared  with 
the  profits  of  successful  merchants, 
we  should,  if  we  seek  for  merch- 
ants to  fill  high  office,  only  obtain 
third-rate  or  broken-down  men. 

Strenuous  efforts  have  been  made 
by  interested  people  to  decry  the 
Dockyards.  Every  isolated  case 
that  appeared  against  them  was 
perpetually  thrust  into  notice ; 
whilst  the  many  advantages  they 
have  secured  for  the  country  have 
seldom  been  represented.  The  ob- 
ject of  the  efforts  to  disparage  the 
dockyard  establishments  has  been 
to  throw  the  work  hitherto  per- 
formed by  them  into  the  hands  of 
great  private  firms.  Arrangements 
already  made,  or  in  progress,  un- 


766 


The  Admiralty. 


[June 


mistakably  show  that  these  firms 
must  virtually  consider  themselves 
subsidised  by  the  certainty  of  in- 
heriting future  Government  work, 
for  obviously  the  reduction  of  the 
dockyards  is  a  prospective  benefit 
to  them.  The  disposition  to  de- 
pend less  upon  the  dockyards  than 
it  has  been  our  policy  to  do,  is  not 
warranted  by  any  just  economical 
considerations,  nor  by  any  sound 
consideration  respecting  our  pre- 
parations for  war.  The  price  of 
work  executed  in  them  as  compared 
with  the  work  done  in  private 
yards,  is  a  favourite  topic  for  the 
interested  detractors  of  the  dock- 
yards to  dwell  upon.  But  the  work 
in  dockyards  is  the  cheaper,  if  its 
superior  fitness  for  its  purpose  be 
rightly  estimated.  Durability  is 
a  quality  in  every  estimate  of  the 
sort ;  in  ships  of  war  and  their 
equipment,  durability  and  strength 
are  of  all  qualities  the  most  essen- 
tial ;  and  in  these,  no  private  ship- 
builder would  venture  to  compare 
his  work  with  that  done  in  a  royal 
dockyard. 

Hitherto  a  spirit  has  prevailed 
in  the  dockyard  establishments 
which  has  made  them  thoroughly 
reliable.  When  great  efforts  were 
required  of  them,  they  never  dis- 
appointed the  Government,  nor 
thought  of  giving  only  a  "  fair  day's 
work  for  a  fair  day's  pay."  What- 
ever could  be  done  by  men,  was 
cheerfully  done  by  them,  and  the 
amount  of  work  they  accomplished 
was  acknowledged  by  all  candid 
witnesses  to  be  prodigious.  The 
existence  of  this  admirable  spirit 
cannot  be  disputed  ;  and  to  dis- 
card the  extraordinary  reserve- 
strength  to  be  derived  from  it  is 
unworthy  of  officials  who  compre- 
hend the  vital  necessities  of  Eng- 
land, and  have  no  other  end  in 
view  than  her  continued  prosper- 
ity. A  vast  number  of  the  men 
who  were  animated  by  this  spirit 
have  been  discharged  under  very 
afflicting  circumstances ;  and  the 
tradition  of  their  wrongs  will  im- 
press dockyard  men  with  entire 


distrust  of  Admiralty  justice,  and 
render  them  resentful  for  years  to 
come.     The   temper  provoked   by 
this  treatment  of  their  fellow-work- 
men   may   influence    them    when 
their  cordial  efforts  are  again  be- 
sought to   avert  a  threatened  war 
by  a  speedy  preparation  for  it,  or 
to  bring  an  existing  war  to  a  suc- 
cessful   end.     We   shall   have    no 
compensation    for  this   loss  from 
the  private  builders,  who  will  ex- 
act from  the  nation  whatever  its 
exigencies  compel  it  to  pay.    When 
threatened  by  a  foreign  combina- 
tion,  or   stricken  by  some   catas- 
trophe in  the  progress  of  a  war, 
a    Government  which    has   relied 
upon  private  firms  must  succumb 
to   their   demands,  however  enor- 
mous    those     demands    may    be. 
Therefore  no  English  Government 
with  a  due  sense  of  the  difficulties 
which  from  time  to  time  may  hence- 
forth, as  they  have  hitherto,  beset 
the  country,  would  ever  venture,  by 
crippling  the   dockyards,  to  place 
private  firms  in  a  position  to  add 
to  the   distresses  of  the   country. 
If    beguiled    into    relying    princi- 
pally upon  these  private  establish- 
ments, the    country,  in    the    day 
of    her    extreme    need,  will   hold 
the  same  relation  to  them  as  the 
owners  of  a  derelict  ship  hold  to 
exacting    volunteer   salvors.      Be- 
sides the  inefficiency  and  eventual 
extravagance    that    will   be    occa- 
sioned by  impairing  the  capabilities 
of  the  dockyards,  and  by  fostering 
at  their  expense  the  private  ship- 
builders, there   are  other   reasons 
why  such  a  policy  would  be  most 
hazardous.     There  have  been  occa- 
sions when  the  Government  deemed 
it  necessary  to  prepare  for  rapidly 
arming,  without  indicating  to  the 
world  their  impression  of  such  a 
necessity ;    and    doubtless    many 
occasions  will  again  arise  for  simi- 
larly-concealed preparations.      The 
gravest  consequences  may  in  such 
cases  turn  upon  betraying  no  ap- 
pearance of  menace  or  of   alarm. 
Whilst  the  Government  control  ef- 
ficient dockyards,  unnoticed  mea- 


1870.] 


The  Admiralty. 


767 


sures  may  be  so  advanced  that  at 
the  proper  time  an  armament  may 
be  developed  with  a  rapidity  that 
can  be  produced  only  by  well-con- 
sidered arrangements,  imparted  to 
none  but  trustworthy  public  ser- 
vants. By  acting  on  this  principle 
of  preparation  and  of  concert  with 
reliable  officers,  Prussia  heaped 
upon  Austria  the  humiliation,  dis- 
aster, and  debt  which,  had  the 
principle  been  neglected,  it  might 
have  been  her  own  lot  to  incur. 
The  principle  is  as  suitable  to  mari- 
time as  to  military  States  ;  and  by 
its  application  or  the  neglect  of  it, 
the  wisdom  or  the  folly  of  an  Ad- 
miralty may  be  measured.  If  we 
depend  in  a  great  degree  upon  pri- 
vate builders  for  the  first  effort, 
progress  towards  armament  cannot 
be  made  without  attracting  the 
notice  of  foreign  Governments,  and 
plans  cannot  be  matured  secretly 
for  the  prompt  equipment  and 
combination  of  ships.  Of  course 
the  first  effort  may  not  be  success- 
ful, however  well  made;  but  it  may 
be  disastrous  if  ill  made,  as  in 
the  case  of  Austria.  At  any  rate, 
it  will  affect  the  succeeding  events 
of  a  war.  Now,  for  England  to 
commence  a  war  with  advantage, 
and  during  its  progress  to  remedy 
disasters  and  to  pursue  successes 
with  rapidity,  she  must,  as  a  base 
of  operations,  have  well -placed 
arsenals  with  numerous  readily-ac- 
cessible docks,  and  with  an  ample 
complement  of  trained  artificers ; 
and  these  arsenals  must,  as  already 
shown,  be  under  the  control  of  the 
Admiralty. 

Portsmouth  and  Plymouth  fulfil 
these  conditions.  They  are  admir- 
able as  places  of  refuge  for  disabled 
ships,  and  they  are  equally  good 
as  places  of  departure  for  refitted 
squadrons  ;  they  are  controlled  by 
the  Admiralty ;  and  as  regards 
deep  docks,  basins,  factories,  and 
plant,  they  are,  or  shortly  might  be 
made,  equal  to  what  would  be  re- 
quired of  them  during  an  active 
war.  There  is  yet  another  essen- 
tial for  establishments  which  this 


island  should  ever  have  ready,  as 
the  primary  movers  when  she  is 
required  suddenly  to  arm.  They 
must  be  kept  vitalised  by  fitting 
complements  of  artificers,  for  their 
fullest  powers  cannot  be  speedily 
elicited  by  adding  artificers  .  not 
specially  trained  to  naval  dockyard 
work,  even  if  such  imperfectly- 
trained  men  could  be  at  once  found. 
It  is  therefore  indispensable  for  the 
instruction  of  the  men  we  must  de- 
pend upon,  that  the  dockyards  dur- 
ing peace  should  undertake,  in  all 
but  rare  cases,  the  building,  repair- 
ing, and  fitting  of  our  ships.  Hav- 
ing a  nucleus  of  highly-trained  ar- 
tificers, as  many  temporary  hands 
may  be  added  as  can  be  advantage- 
ously employed. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  means 
and  positions  of  private  yards  for  fit- 
ting out  and  for  sustaining  fleets  in 
a  serviceable  condition,  with  the 
least  possible  detention  of  the  ships 
from  active  service.  No  one  of 
them  is  an  easy  refuge  for  dis- 
tressed ships  from  a  probable  scene 
of  action,  nor  could  ships  refitted 
in  any  one  of  them  readily  resume 
positions  in  which  they  are  most 
likely  to  be  required.  They  are 
all  approached  by  long  channels, 
that  are  dangerous  for  crippled 
ships ;  in  them  ships  of  war  can 
be  served  only  in  turn  with  other 
customers;  and  their  docks  and 
basins  are  far  inferior  to  those  of 
naval  yards  for  ships  of  war.  More- 
over, the  resources  of  private  yards, 
considerable  as  they  may  be,  are  not 
"  reserve ;;  resources  ;  nor  can  they, 
at  a  "  word  of  command,"  be  trans- 
ferred from  one  work  to  another. 
The  power  of  each  such  yard  is 
measured  by  the  wants  of  its  ordi- 
nary customers,  and  it  is  commonly 
fully  occupied  with  work  which  it 
is  bound  to  complete  within  a  given 
time  ;  whereas  in  a  Queen's  yard, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  its  whole 
strength  may  be  applied  to  accom- 
plish whatever  may  be  the  most 
urgent  of  the  ever-varying  require- 
ments incidental  to  a  state  of  war. 

Undoubtedly  the  private  yards 


768 


Tlie  Admiralty. 


[June 


are  important  auxiliaries,  and  in 
material  resources  they  should  be 
to  the  Queen's  yards  what  the  men 
of  the  "  Naval  Reserve  "  are  to  the 
men  of  the  Navy.  To  say  that  no 
intention  of  abolishing  the  dock- 
yards exists,  is  very  short  of  being 
a  satisfactory  reply.  The  temper 
of  these  establishments,  and  the 
scale  upon  which  their  skilled  ar- 
tificers are  maintained,  essentially 
affect  our  power  of  dealing  with 
any  threat  of  war.  The  arsenals  of 
France  confront  at  short  distances 
the  vital  parts  of  our  coast,  and 
flank  the  English  and  Irish  Chan- 
nels. This  fact,  and  the  knowledge 
of  the  consummate  warlike  energy 
of  the  French,  make  it  evident 
that  our  arsenals  should  be  so 
maintained  that,  when  needful, 
work  may  be  accomplished  in  them 
with  unsurpassable  celerity.  As  a 
matter  of  economy,  no  less  than 
of  national  safety,  the  power  to 
command  this  celerity  of  work  is 
of  exceeding  importance.  It  en- 
ables a  fleet  to  perform  an  amount 
of  service  which  would  otherwise 
require  a  much  larger  fleet.  In- 
deed ships  detained  in  port  for 
repairs,  when  they  are  wanted 
at  sea,  are  less  useful  than  block- 
aded ships,  for  these  at  least  detain 
an  equal  force  of  the  enemy  to 
watch  them. 

Even  if,  in  the  qualities  of  gal- 
lantry, seamanship,  gunnery,  and 
discipline,  we  were  matchless,  still 
while  our  enemies  can  equip  and 
refit  fleets  more  rapidly,  and  there- 
fore have  their  services  more  con- 
stantly, we  cannot  command  the 
seas.  Let  England,  depending  for 
food  and  revenue  upon  sea-borne 
commerce,  remember  that,  for  her, 
blockaded  ports  would  represent 
famine,  pestilence,  and  bankruptcy. 
If  her  whole  population  were  under 
arms,  and  directed  by  a  Wellington, 
it  would  be  of  no  avail ;  for  under 
the  supposed  conditions  she  would 
be  strangled  by  an  enemy  she  can- 
not reach. 

The  full  cost  of  the  reckless  re- 
duction in  the  dockyards  cannot  be 


now  estimated.  It  may  be  known 
after  some  experience  of  an  un- 
looked-for war,  during  which  we 
shall  have  been  subjected  to  extor- 
tionate prices,  paid  by  money  bor- 
rowed at  extravagant  interest. 
Probably  in  that  day  disgrace  and 
disaster  may  quicken  our  apprehen- 
sion as  to  the  magnitude  of  the 
crime  which  is  committed  by  in- 
adequately preparing  for  the  expan- 
sion of  our  national  forces.  We 
have  had  marvellous  instances  in 
this  country  of  a  reckless  disregard 
of  preparation,  and  of  the  penalties 
we  have  endured  in  purse  and  in 
reputation  as  consequences  of  our 
neglect. 

The  disgraceful  impotence  we  ex- 
hibited at  the  commencement  of  the 
Russian  war  made  us  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  world.  And  it  might 
have  been  presumed  that  the  penal- 
ties we  then  endured  in  loss  of  life, 
treasure,  and  reputation,  and  in 
dismay,  would  have  been  an  in- 
delible warning  for  the  future.  Al- 
though then  dealing  with  an  ene- 
my unable  to  cope  at  sea  with  the 
combined  fleets  of  France  and  Great 
Britain,  our  naval  resources  were 
taxed  to  the  utmost.  Had  France 
and  Russia  united  against  us,  the 
consequences  would  inevitably  have 
been  very  disastrous.  Considered 
merely  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view, 
the  panics  which  have  resulted 
from  apprehended  war,  by  affecting 
commerce  and  the  Funds,  and  the 
preparation  for  actual  war  under  the 
extravagant  conditions  inevitably 
attendant  upon  an  armament,  have 
cost  more  by  millions  than  would 
have  been  paid  for  maintaining 
during  peace  the  proper  nucleus  of 
a  war  establishment. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  may  point 
to  instances  of  vast  expenditures 
of  life  and  treasure  having  been 
avoided  by  possessing  the  means 
of  promptly  arming.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, the  wonderful  rapidity  with 
which  the  fleet  was  fitted  out  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Spanish  armament 
in  1790.  It  inspired  the  people 
of  Great  Britain  with  confidence; 


1870.] 


The  Admiralty. 


769 


whilst  the  Continental  nations — 
which  secretly  encouraged  the  ag- 
gressions of  Spain  towards  us — 
were  filled  with  dismay.  France, 
ostensibly  neutral,  had  commenced 
an  extensive  armament,  under  pre- 
text of  guarding  her  own  interests, 
but  in  reality  to  support  Spain. 
When,  however,  it  was  seen  how 
Great  Britain  was  prepared  to  crush 
any  efforts  made  against  her,  the 
threat  of  war  ceased.  And  it  is 
well  known  what  weight  the  prompt 
and  formidable  manifestation  of  the 
naval  strength  of  Britain  gave  to 
Lord  St  Helens,  our  Minister  at 
Madrid,  in  his  demands  for  the 
restitution  of  the  places  seized  by 
Spain,  and  in  dictating  the  apology 
to  be  offered  to  the  British  nation. 
The  armament  of  the  following 
year  produced  a  similar  result.  At 
that  time  Great  Britain  held  the 
highest  rank  among  nations,  on 
account  of  the  rapidity,  often  ex- 
perienced, with  which  she  could 
bring  her  fleet  into  activity.  But 
what  now  is  the  comparative  weight 
of  a  British  Minister  at  any  capital 
in  Europe  or  America  1 

The  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty, 
in  his  reply  to  "friendly"  questions, 
has  failed  to  free  himself  from  the 
reproach  of  having  improperly  dis- 
charged 1361  workmen,  and  thereby 
inflicted  an  unnecessary  calamity 
upon  them  and  their  families  ;  and 
from  a  charge  also  of  having  com- 
mitted a  gross  political  blunder,  by 
the  reduction  he  has  made  in  the 
aggregate  strength  of  the  dock- 
yards. No  doubt  previous  Gov- 
ernments had  determined  that 
Woolwich  Dockyard  should  at  a 
proper  time  be  closed ;  but  this 
measure  was  not  intended  to  be 
carried  into  effect  until  the  basins 
and  factories  at  Chatham  were 
much  further  advanced  than  they 
are.  We  have  now  parted  with 
Woolwich,  while  Chatham  yard  is 
unequal  to  what  would  be  required 
from  it  in  the  event  of  an  arma- 
ment, and  especially  in  the  event 
of  a  North  Sea  war,  in  which  the 
formidable  and  newly- created  Ger- 


man navy  would  take  a  part.  See- 
ing that  we  exist  by  naval  supre- 
macy, is  it  not  amazing  that  whilst 
this  foreign  maritime  power  is  be- 
ing developed  close  to  our  eastern 
coast,  we  should  reduce  our  means 
of  conducting  a  North  Sea  war  ] 
To  talk  of  our  present  satisfactory 
relations  with  Prussia  as  any  justi- 
fication of  inertness  with  regard 
to  permanent  preparation,  is  ab- 
surd. Are  not  her  relations  with 
Russia  satisfactory  1  It  is  a  maxim 
of  international  policy  at  least  to 
consider  friends  as  possible  ene- 
mies, and  the  maxim  is  as  sedu- 
lously obeyed  by  Prussia  in  her 
naval  as  it  has  been  in  her  military 
affairs,  with  so  remarkable  a  proof 
of  wisdom. 

Ten  years  ago  the  German  desire 
for  a  fleet  was  derided  in  England. 
Nevertheless  the  desire  has,  within 
that  short  period,  advanced  so  far 
towards  accomplishment,  that  in- 
stead of  being  a  subject  of  derision, 
the  German  fleet  must  be  an  ele- 
ment in  the  political  considerations 
of  the  future,  that  may  exceedingly 
perplex  British  statesmen.  The  ef- 
forts of  Prussia  to  become  a  great 
naval  power  cannot  be  concealed. 
She  has  already  formed  a  consider- 
able fleet  of  modern  construction, 
and  her  capabilities  for  equipping 
ships  are  rapidly  increasing  ;  whilst 
by  her  recent  conquests  and  vast 
extension  of  coasts,  she  possesses 
Baltic  and  North  Sea  harbours. 
And  let  it  be  remembered  that  in 
her  commercial  marine,  Confeder- 
ated North  Germany  has  an  ample 
nursery  for  seamen. 

Her  means,  therefore,  of  creating 
and  sustaining  a  navy,  are  commen- 
surate with  her  maritime  ambition. 
To  what  purpose  may  she  apply 
this  prodigious  power  }  The  canal 
which  is  on  the  eve  of  being  con- 
structed between  the  Baltic  and 
the  North  Sea  will  enable  Prussia 
to  move  her  fleet  from  the  one  sea 
to  the  other  without  the  risk  of  a 
dangerous  navigation,  and  without 
encountering  strong  works  and  tor- 
pedoes in  the  Sound  and  Belt. 


770 


The  Admiralty. 


[June 


It  is  evident,  from  a  considera- 
tion of  her  warlike  means  and  re- 
sources, and  from  her  strategic  posi- 
tion, that  she  must  soon  have  an 
exceeding  influence  over  the  desti- 
nies of  Europe,  and  over  our  own 
destiny  in  particular.  And  concur- 
rently with  the  progress  of  the 
Prussian  canal,  the  military  rail- 
ways of  Russia  will  be  in  course  of 
rapid  construction  ;  so  that,  by  a 
combination  of  these  Powers,  an 
overwhelming  naval  and  military 
force  might  be  launched  against 
unprepared  England,  and  be  sus- 
tained from  a  base  very  near  to  our 
coasts.  Thus  the  attitude  she  is 
assuming  may  threaten  the  safety 
of  England,  and  the  Government 
may  prove  to  have  committed  a 
grievous  error  in  discarding  Wool- 
wich whilst  Chatham  Dockyard  is 
yet  incomplete.  Instead  of  the  artifi- 
cers being  discharged,  they  should 
have  been  employed  to  make  good 
any  deficiency  in  the  fleet,  which  it 
is  highly  improvident  to  allow  to 
exist.  Looking  to  the  strength  of 
foreign  navies,  it  is  obvious  that  we 
are  right  in  adding  to  our  force  of 
those  heavily  armed  and  armoured 
ships,  which  for  the  future  must 
do  the  pounding  work  that  has 
hitherto  been  done  by  ships  of  the 
line.  By  them  we  must  preserve 
our  supremacy  at  sea,  but  they  are 
not  fit  for  cruisers.  Unfortunately 
we  are  nearly  destitute  of  ships  of 
this  class  ;  and  without  cruisers  of 
great  speed,  a  contemptible  Central 
American  State  may  commit  such 
ravages  upon  our  commercial  marine 
as  that  of  the  Northern  American 
States  suffered  in  their  late  war  by 
the  depredations  of  the  swift  Con- 
federate cruisers.  This  want  is 
especially  to  be  heeded,  since  the 
late  American  war  has  shown  how 
easily  a  belligerent  without  ships 
can  be  provided  with  them  ;  and 
since  also  a  desire  exists  on  the  part 
of  America  to  retort  upon  us  our 
imputed  complicity  with  the  inflic- 
tions she  suffered.  To  this  retort 
we  shall  be  exposed  sooner  or  later, 
by  persistence  in  the  false  econ- 
omy of  the  Admiralty.  Yet  the 


men  wanted  in  the  dockyards  for 
this  important  work  were  dis- 
charged, to  add  to  the  crowd  of 
starving  mechanics  in  our  streets ; 
and  Government  timber,  with  which 
the  needed  ships  ought  to  have 
been  built,  was  sold  at  a  loss  in 
a  glutted  market.  Mr  Childers 
retorts  upon  his  predecessors  the 
charge  of  having  improperly  re- 
duced the  artificers  by  asserting 
that  they  had  discharged  many 
others  before  he  came  into  office. 
He  is,  however,  convicted  by  his 
own  defence.  That  his  predeces- 
sors had  recently  reduced  the  arti- 
ficers should  have  been  a  caution 
to  him  to  be  exceedingly  circum- 
spect before  he  made  further  re- 
ductions, instead  of  being  a  lure  to 
him  to  pass  the  limit  which  others, 
willing  to  make  all  safe  reductions, 
had  drawn.  If  he  were  justified  by 
the  reduction  made  by  his  prede- 
cessors, so  his  successors  might  be 
justified  in  making  still  further  re- 
ductions. And  so  the  country  suf- 
fers by  the  importunity  for  office. 

There  has  been  an  intention  to 
abolish  the  office  of  Naval  Super- 
intendents of  Dockyards,  and  this 
mischievous  project  may  be  revived. 
Should  it  be  carried  into  effect  in 
the  great  outfitting  ports,  the  link 
will  be  wanting  which  has  hitherto 
connected  the  dockyards  with  the 
fleet,  and  by  means  of  which  the 
incessant  business  in  which  both 
must  co-operate  has  been  so  advan- 
tageously conducted.  The  result 
will  be,  that  when  some  consider- 
able pressure  of  work  is  thrust  upon 
the  dockyards,  they  will  be  in  a 
state  of  utter  confusion  and  insub- 
ordination. The  Government  ex- 
pectations of  progress  in  the  work 
will  on  some  emergency  be  disap- 
pointed, and  the  blame  which 
should  rest  upon  mischievous  ad- 
ministrators will  be  heaped  upon 
those  who  are  the  unhappy  execu- 
tives in  disorganised  departments. 
Whilst  work  is  hindered,  and  time 
lost  in  accusations  mutually  ban- 
died between  a  frightened  Govern- 
ment and  indignant  officers  strug- 
gling to  expedite  an  armament 


1870.] 


The  Admiralty. 


771 


under  an  impracticable  system,  the 
enemy's  fleet  may  be  sweeping  the 
Channel.  The  principle  of  having 
a  naval  chief  in  the  dockyards  had 
worked  so  well  previously  to  Sir  J. 
Graham's  administration,  and  had 
produced  such  good  results  under 
the  most  trying  conditions  to  which 
this  country  had  ever  been  sub- 
jected, that  he  carried  the  principle 
still  further,  and  for  the  Commis- 
sioner, who  was  a  naval  officer  hold- 
ing a  civil  office,  he  substituted  a 
Superintendent,  with  his  flag  flying. 
The  proposed  scheme  must  have 
emanated  from  a  brain  wholly  un- 
informed as  to  the  necessities  of 
the  Service. 

A  very  objectionable  change  has 
just  been  made  in  the  dockyard 
administration,  by  abolishing  the 
Storekeepers,  and  transferring  their 
departments,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
Engineers,  to  the  Master  Ship- 
wright. This  will  increase  a  pre- 
viously-existing evil,  for  the  Master 
Shipwright  has  been  so  much  con- 
fined to  his  office  that  he  could 
not  sufficiently  supervise  the  build- 
ing and  equipping  of  ships. 

It  is,  moreover,  fatal  to  the  im- 
portant principle  (so  essential  for 
any  effectual  control  of  expendi- 
ture), that  the  person  issuing  stores 
ought  not  to  be  he  who  expends 
them.  The  Master  Shipwright  may 
henceforth  charge  stores  to  any 
work  upon  which  he  may  be  em- 
ployed ;  and  certainly  the  effect  of 
this  cannot  be  to  furnish  the  House 
of  Commons  with  more  lucid  or 
more  reliable  accounts. 

It  has  been  attempted  to  make 
official  capital  by  contrasting  the 
vigilance  of  the  present  Admir- 
alty with  the  negligence  of  their 
predecessors.  A  keen  desire  to 
serve  such  a  purpose  was  exhibited 
by  the  false  colouring  given  to  two 
cases  of  Admiralty  subordinates 
having  taken  bribes.  The  attempt, 
however,  failed  to  show  that  these 
dishonest  men  had,  or  could  have 


had,  any  influence  prejudicial  to 
the  public  interests.  The  fact  is, 
they  attempted  to  defraud  a  mer- 
chant, not  the  public,  by  leading 
him  to  believe  they  could  cause  his 
tender  to  be  accepted.  The  crime 
of  these  two  worthless  men  was 
that  of  obtaining  money  under  false 
pretences.  So  far  as  integrity  is 
concerned,  the  point  to  be  remem- 
bered is,  that  in  all  cases  of  actual 
corruption,  the  contractor,  if  not 
primarily  the  corrupter,  is  a  parti- 
cipator in  the  corruption. 

When  the  dockyards  and  other 
establishments  shall  have  been 
abolished  or  reduced  to  skeletons, 
there  will  be  free  commercial  com- 
petition for  Government  orders. 
Let  Mr  Bright,  the  chief  of  the 
Board  of  Trade,  and  a  representative 
commercial  man,  explain  the  prin- 
ciple upon  which  the  country  may 
thus  be  served.  He  has  candidly 
informed  us  that  infamous  frauds 
were  simply  too  often  "  ordinary 
effects  of  competition  in  trade." 

From  the  time  of  the  preposter- 
ous assumption  of  the  command  of 
a  fleet  by  a  Civil  First  Lord,  de- 
fended by  imputing  jealousy  to  the 
admirals  commanding  the  squad- 
rons about  to  be  combined,  until 
the  monstrous  proposal  to  subject 
officers  on  half-pay  to  the  "  Disci- 
pline Act,"  the  Admiralty  have 
made  a  series  of  blunders  which 
could  not  have  occurred  when  the 
Civil  First  Lord  had  responsible 
professional  advisers.  More,  no 
doubt,  might  easily  be  said,  but 
enough  has  been  advanced  to  show 
the  danger  to  our  Naval  Service 
into  which  the  country  is  drift- 
ing. However  vain  the  hope  may 
be  that  these  observations  will 
effect  their  purpose,*  still  the  con- 
victions of  the  writer  prompt  him 
to  make  an  effort  to  avert  the  mis- 
chief that  must  result  from  a  per- 
sistence in  the  course  that  has  been 
inaugurated  by  the  present  Ad- 
miralty. 


*  The  official  experience  of  the  writer  entitles  his  opinions  to  great  weight.— 
ED.  B.  M. 


772  The  Problem  Solved.  [June 


THE  PROBLEM   SOLVED. 


HOOKAH  !  we  have  found  out  the  secret  at  last, 

And  our  old  Irish  troubles  are  over  and  past : 

We  have  solved  the  hard  problem  that  proved  so  bewildering, 

And  discovered  that  Ireland's — a  country  of  children  ! 

Poor  innocent  babes  !  they've  been  sadly  misused: 
We've  indulged  them  in  freedoms  we  should  have  refused. 
What  could  we  expect  but  a  train  of  disasters, 
When  we  suffered  mere  children  to  be  their  own  masters'? 

We've  allowed  them  to  bid  and  to  bargain  for  farms  ; 
To  vote  at  elections,  and  carry  firearms ; 
They've  been  suffered  and  summoned  to  sit  upon  juries, 
And,  of  course,  they  have  acted  like  fools  or  like  furies. 

In  England  we  watch  o'er  the  helpless  and  young, 
To  take  care  that  their  elders  shall  do  them  no  wrong ; 
But  a  much  wider  circuit  our  care  must  engage, 
When  a  whole  population  is  found  under  age. 

All  our  plans  must  be  changed  :  we  must  now  take  in  hand 
Every  contract  that's  made  about  labour  or  land. 
Every  man  that's  removed,  though  with  no  right  to  stay, 
Must  be  paid  something  handsome  for  going  away. 

Then  as  Ireland  has  long  baen  a  mere  rabbit-warren, 
And  there's  no  way  to  make  early  marriages  barren, 
We  must  next,  if  the  good  of  these  minors  is  meant, 
Forbid  them  to  marry  without  our  consent. 

O  Erin  mavourneen  !  och  cushla  mo  chree  ! 

First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gem  of  the  sea  ! 

With  what  Irish  ideas  your  English  abettors 

Are  now  making  you  free  by  these  newly-found  fetters  ! 


Not?. — Is  the  way-going  payment  in  question  a  revival  of  the  old  Celtic  usage 
of  Deoch-an-dorais—ihe  door-drink,  or  stirrup-cup,  that  was  due  to  every  part- 
ing guest  ? 


1S70.] 


Lothair. 


773 


LOTHAIR. 


THIS  is  the  most  elaborate  jest 
which  the  sportive  author  has 
ever  played  off  upon  an  amiable 
and  confiding  public.  Addressing 
the  novel-reading  portion  of  that 
public  in  his  own  mind,  he  has 
evidently  said  :  "  You  have  been 
this  long  while  prating  of  purity  of 
style,  truth  to  nature,  probability, 
and  adherence  to  the  rules  of  art. 
You  have  been  condemning  sensa- 
tional novels,  and  false  effects,  and 
didactic  prosings,  and  slipshod  com- 
position. Well,  I  will  write  some- 
thing which  shall  be  more  extrava- 
gant than  the  romances  of  the 
*  London  Journal,'  more  inflated  in 
expression  and  false  in  grammar 
than  the  exercises  of  an  aspiring 
schoolboy  of  the  fifth  form,  more 
foreign  to  life  and  reality  than  the 
hysteric  fancies  of  a  convent-bred 
girl,  and,  in  point  of  art,  on  a  level 
with  the  drop-scene  of  a  provincial 
theatre.  My  pictures  of  high  life 
shall  resemble  the  gin -inspired 
dreams  of  the  assistant  of  some 
fashionable  haberdasher,  who  enjoys 
glimpses  of  great  houses  and  great 
people  when  he  goes  out  with  the 
goods.  I  will  not  even  infuse  any 
humour  into  this  performance,  the 
extravagance  of  which  shall  be  only 
equalled  by  its  dulness.  And  yet 
many  of  you  who  instruct  others 
on  questions  of  taste  shall  accept 
the  book  in  all  seriousness,  while 
those  who  see  through  the  jest  will 
still  be  compelled  to  applaud  its 
success.  If  the  youngest  son  of 
any  of  my  laudatory  critics,  at  home 
for  the  holidays,  had  shown  his 
father  the  composition  in  manu- 
script and  confessed  himself  the 
author,  the  parent,  in  the  righteous 
exercise  of  his  authority,  would 
have  put  the  sheets  promptly  in 
the  fire  and  lectured  the  young 
scribbler  on  his  absurdity  ;  and  the 


jest  lies  in  the  extorting  the  praise 
of  these  critics  by  putting  the 
name  of  the  Eight  Honourable  B. 
Disraeli  on  the  title-page.  Many 
authors  have  taken  foolish  young 
men  for  their  heroes,  and  have  been 
censured  accordingly;  but  I  will 
not  even  take  a  foolish  young  man 
for  mine — he  shall  not  be  a  young 
man  at  all — I  will  get  him  direct 
from  Madame  Tussaud.  My  char- 
acters shall  have  that  kind  of 
resemblance  to  real  people  which 
distinguishes  the  portraits  of  em- 
bryo artists — a  prominent  feature 
only  shall  be  like,  or  the  portrai- 
ture of  the  cravats  and  coats  of  the 
sitters  shall  be  faithful ;  or,  failing 
even  that  slight  exercise  of  art,  I 
will  affix  such  a  name  as  shall  at 
once  suggest  the  original,  and 
my  readers,  as  they  guess,  shall 
be  delighted  with  their  own  per- 
spicacity. A  great  humorist  once 
caricatured  a  work  of  mine,  but  I 
will  out  -  Codlingsby  Codlingsby. 
The  public  thinks  itself  knowing ; 
so  do  the  bumpkins  at  a  fair  who 
grin  applause  on  the  jackpudding, 
and,  as  I  shall  show,  with  equal 
reason."  And  this  sardonic  pleas- 
antry has  been  amply  justified  by 
the  result.  The  shaking  of  the  cap- 
and-bells  has  been  watched  with 
all  the  gravity  due  to  Jupiter's 
nod. 

It  is  evident  that  a  work  con- 
structed on  this  plan  need  not  de- 
mand much  invention,  and  that  old 
materials  will  be  as  good  as,  or  bet- 
ter than,  new.  When,  therefore,  it 
appears  that  the  wealth  of  the  hero 
is  unbounded ;  that  he  talks  of 
building  cathedrals  with  the  sav- 
ings of  his  minority ;  that  his  family 
seat  is  vaster  and  more  gorgeous 
than  the  palace  of  Aladdin  ;  that 
there  are  among  his  friends  dukes 
possessing  enormous  wealth  and  in- 


Lothair.     By  the  Right  Honourable  B.  Disraeli.    In  three  volumes.    London  : 
Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.:  1870. 


74 


Lothair. 


[June 


fluence,  a  pushing  lady  who  makes 
up  by  tact  for  want  of  breeding, 
obscure  adventurers  who  shake 
kingdoms,  and  a  marvellous  in- 
triguing female  who  can  do  every- 
thing and  rules  everybody, — the 
reader,  fancying  he  has  seen  some- 
thing of  all  this  well-worn  finery 
before,  will  perhaps  mutter  under 
his  breath,  "  Old  clo'  !  "  The  cos- 
tumes are  of  the  chaste  kind  sup- 
plied to  amateur  actors  by  Messrs 
Nathan  at  so  much  per  night ;  the 
jewellery,  in  splendour  and  taste, 
resembles  the  workmanship  of  the 
celebrated  lapidaries  of  Birming- 
ham. 

Lothair,  whose  rank  and  parent- 
age are  carefully  concealed  through- 
out the  book,  but  whose  descent, 
at  least  on  the  mother's  side,  is 
known  to  us  (he  being,  as  we  have 
already  said,  the  legitimate  off- 
spring of  Madame  Tussaud),  comes 
on  the  stage  some  time  before  he 
attains  the  majority  which  will  give 
the  Legislature  the  advantage  of  his 
presence  in  the  Upper  House.  We 
are  all  familiar  with  the  satirical 
views  of  modern  society,  which  re- 
present men  and  women  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions  as  the  abject 
adorers  of  wealth ;  but  nothing 
more  cynical  has  ever  been  achieved 
in  this  way  than  the  description 
of  the  struggles  of  the  leaders  of 
society  —  beautiful  women,  states- 
men, and  dignitaries  of  rival  priest- 
hoods— for  the  control  of  this  young 
money-bag.  "  London/'  we  are 
told,  "was  at  Lothair's  feet.J>  Like 
Mrs  Jarley,  he  was  the  delight  of 
the  nobility  and  gentry.  No  ball, 
no  dinner-party,  is  considered  com- 
plete without  the  presence  of  the 
gilded  youth.  Potent,  grave,  and 
reverend  signiors  exercise  the  most 
astute  diplomacy  in  approaching 
him,  and  gravely  discuss  with  him 
the  most  momentous  questions,  dis- 
playing the  deference,  the  cunning, 
and  the  perseverance  which  might 
be  appropriate  in  gaining  over  some 
great  potentate  who  carried  the 
destinies  of  a  nation  in  his  pocket, 
but  which  seem  ludicrously  dispro- 


portioned  to  their  singularly  feeble 
object.  It  is  true  that  they  talk 
terrible  nonsense  and  terrible 
twaddle — still  it  appears  to  be  the 
best  they  have  ;  and  their  rivalry, 
though  more  decorous,  is  hardly 
more  respectable,  and  much  less 
amusing,  than  that  of  a  crowd  of 
Moors  whom  we  once  saw  in  Tan- 
gier tearing  each  other's  beards 
and  pulling  off  each  other's  turbans 
in  a  mad  struggle  for  a  fourpenny- 
piece  which  an  English  stranger 
had  dropped  from  a  balcony. 
Whether  Lothair  shall  ultimately 
be  labelled  Protestant  or  Roman 
Catholic  is  absolutely  represented 
to  be  a  matter  of  considerable  im- 
portance to  others  than  himself ; 
and  there  are  some  female  Danaes 
of  irreproachable  morals,  each  of 
whom,  it  is  evident,  will  have  her 
young  affections  crushed  and  her 
soft  -heart  broken  if  the  golden 
shower  should  fall  into  any  lap  but 
hers.  One  of  these  disappointed 
fair  ones,  indeed,  hides  her  anguish 
in  a  convent,  unable  to  endure  the 
hollow  world  when  a  rival  is  to 
have  the  prize.  If  the  reader  will 
only  consider  what  chance  any  of 
the  youths  of  his  acquaintance  just 
turned  of  twenty  would  have  of 
obtaining  all  this  homage  on  the 
score  of  his  own  unassisted  merits, 
he  will  the  better  appreciate  the 
stinging  satire  of  the  description  of 
Lothair's  social  successes. 

The  first  volume  is  taken  up  with 
the  appearance  of  most  of  the  char- 
acters on  the  stage,  and  the  plan  is 
adopted  (which  we  do  not,  how- 
ever, recommend  to  less  experienced 
authors)  of  devoting  one  chapter 
or  more  to  each  separate  group, 
without  regard  to  the  insignificant 
fact  that  they  are  scarcely  more 
connected  with  each  other  than  the 
different  shoots  in  an  asparagus- 
bed.  First  Lothair  visits  the  ducal 
seat  of  Brentham,  the  owner  of 
which  suffered  to  a  degree  unusu- 
ally severe  from  the  embarras  de 
rickesses  : — 

''His  Grace  was  accustomed  to  pay 
that  he  had  only  one  misfortune,  aud  it 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


775 


was  a  great  one ;  he  had  no  home.  His 
family  had  married  so  many  heiress- 
es, and  he  consequently  possessed  so 
many  halls  and  castles,  at  all  of  which, 
periodically,  he  wished,  from  a  right 
feeling,  to  reside,  that  there  was  no 
sacred  spot  identified  with  his  life  in 
which  his  heart,  in  the  bustle  and  tu- 
mult of  existence,  could  take  refuge." 

His  metropolitan  mansion  was 
on  the  same  magnificent  scale. 
"  The  Duke  was  one  of  the  few 
gentlemen  in  London  who  lived  in 
a  palace."  This  fortunate  peer 
had  several  daughters,  each  more 
beautiful  than  the  other.  Two  of 
these  are  married,  and  one  son-in- 
law,  St  Aidegonde,  not  yet  a  duke, 
but  a  duke's  heir,  and  evidently  a 
great  favourite  with  the  author,  is 
an  execrable  ruffian,  as  we  shall 
see,  who  would  never  have  been 
tolerated  for  an  hour  in  any  decent 
house,  but  whose  brutal  eccentrici- 
ties are  detailed  with  affectionate 
approbation.  This  patrician  is 
humoured  to  such  a  degree  by  his 
wife,  that  we  are  told,  "  when  he 
cried  for  the  moon  it  was  promised 
him  immediately."  He  smokes 
"  Manilla  cheroots  of  enormous 
length  ; "  but  the  other  son-in-law, 
Lord  Montairy,  was  differently 
minded,  for  of  him  it  is  recorded 
that  "  he  was  so  distractedly  fond 
of  Lady  Montairy  that  he  would 
only  smoke  cigarettes,"  and  the  do- 
mesticity of  his  tastes  is  further 
evinced  thus  : — 

"  Lord  Montairy  was  passionately 
devoted  to  croquet.  He  flattered  him- 
self that  he  was  the  most  accomplished 
male  performer  existing.  He  would  have 
thought  absolutely  the  most  accom- 
plished, were  it  not  for  the  unrivalled 
feats  of  Lady  Montairy.  She  was  the 
queen  of  croquSt.  Her  sisters  also 
used  the  mallet  with  admirable  skill, 
but  not  like  Georgina.  Lord  Mon- 
tairy always  looked  forward  to  his 
summer  croquet  at  Brentham.  It  was 
a  great  croquet  family,  the  Brentham 
family ;  even  listless  Lord  St  Aide- 
gonde would  sometimes  play,  with  a 
cigar  never  out  of  his  mouth.  They 
did  not  object  to  his  smoking  in  the 
air.  On  the  contrary,  '  they  rather 
liked  it.' " 


But  the  gem  of  the  household  is 
the  youngest  daughter,  not  at  all 
original  or  amusing,  or  differing 
in  any  way  from  the  ordinary  silly 
young  lady  of  slight  novels,  except 
in  her  name,  which  displays  the 
author's  invention  and  research  to 
great  advantage,  for  she  is  called 
Lady  Corisande,  and  to  all  the 
beauty  of  her  sisters  she  adds  a 
refined  expression  peculiar  to  her- 
self. What  the  father  of  these 
divinities  was  like  we  may  partly 
guess  from  that  remarkable  noble- 
man's own  estimate  of  himself  and 
of  them  :  "  Every  day  when  he 
looked  into  the  glass,  and  gave  the 
last  touch  to  his  consummate  toil- 
ette, he  offered  his  grateful  thanks 
to  Providence  that  his  family  was 
not  unworthy  of  him." 

The  first  time  that  Lothair  hears 
Corisande  sing,  he  thus  accosts 
that  siren  : — 

"'Your  singing,'  he  said,  'is  the 
finest  thing  I  ever  heard.  I  am  so 
happy  that  I  am  not  going  to  leave 
Brentham  to-morrow.  There  is  no 
place  in  the  world  that  I  think  equal 
to  Brentham.' 

"  '  And  I  love  it  too,  and  no  other 
place,'  she  replied;  'and  I  should  be 
quite  happy  if  I  never  left  it.'  " 

Nor  is  this  remarkable  identity 
of  tastes  the  only  link  between 
these  innocent  beings.  "  Lothair's 
vast  inheritance  was  in  many 
counties  and  in  more  than  one 
kingdom.  .  .  .  Lothair  was  the 
possessor  of  as  many  palaces  and 
castles  as  the  Duke  himself."  A 
few  more  such  proprietors,  and  all 
the  rest  of  our  county  families 
would  be  forced  to  go  into  lodgings. 
Thus  naturally  fitted  to  be  the 
Duke's  son-in-law,  Lothair  signifies 
a  wish  to  stand  in  that  relation  to 
the  illustrious  peer.  The  Duchess, 
however,  to  whom  he  imparts  his 
desire,  thinks  he  had  better  wait, 
and  Lothair  accepts  the  advice 
with  exemplary  docility.  He  had 
previously  told  her  of  his  intention 
to  build  on  his  estates,  as  soon  as 
he  should  be  master  of  them,  no 
less  than  two  thousand  cottages,  a 


•76 


Lothair. 


[June 


number  which,  if  collected  in  rows, 
would  have  made  an  average 
county  town,  and  which  thus  at- 
tests the  magnificence  of  Lothair's 
disposition. 

All  this  time  he  has  been  sur- 
rounded by  a  highly  Protestant 
atmosphere  —  indeed  Lady  Cori- 
sande  is  remarkable  for  nothing  so 
much,  next  to  her  name,  as  for  the 
stanchness  of  her  Protestantism. 
But  now  another  element  comes 
into  play,  for  we  are  introduced  to 
Cardinal  Grandison.  This  prelate, 
one  of  Lothair's  guardians,  is  a 
highly-influential  member  of  the 
Romish  Church.  He  is  very  tall, 
extraordinarily  thin,  and  entirely 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  the  Pa- 
pacy \  and  being  better  acquainted 
than  most  people  with  the  extent  of 
his  ward's  worldly  possessions,  it  na- 
turally occurs  to  him  that  so  rich  a 
young  man,  with  a  cardinal  for  his 
guardian,  ought,  by  a  little  judicious 
management,  to  be  brought,  along 
with  his  property,  within  the  fold 
of  the  true  Church.  Accordingly 
the  worthy  ecclesiastic,  in  his  very 
first  interview  with  the  hero,  sets 
about  this  politic  design,  though 
the  style  of  his  conversation  is  so 
insupportably  tedious  that  any  or- 
dinarily-constituted youth  thus  ex- 
posed to  it  would  have  fled  the 
neighbourhood  at  all  hazards,  never 
returning  during  the  Cardinal's  life- 
time. His  uncommon  thinness  is 
fully  accounted  for  by  the  manner 
in  which  we  find  him  receiving  an 
invitation  to  dinner:  "'I  never  eat 
and  I  never  drink,'  said  the  Cardi- 
nal ;  '  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot '  " 
— a  degree  of  involuntary  abstemi- 
ousness which  must  have  been  very 
convenient  and  exemplary  during 
fasts  of  the  Church,  and  which  ren- 
ders any  extreme  of  emaciation 
credible. 

The  next  group  we  are  intro- 
duced to  is  that  which  surrounds 
Mr  and  Mrs  Putney  Giles.  Mr 
Giles  is  a  solicitor,  but,  neverthe- 
less, is  not  without  claim  to  a  place 
in  the  high  society  in  which  we 
find  him,  since  we  are  assured  that 


"  many  of  his  clients  were  among 
the  most  distinguished  personages 
of  the  realm."  Mrs  Giles  is  a  lady 
with  the  weakness, not  unfrequently 
depicted  in  novels,  of  desiring  to 
get  into  a  class  higher  than  her  own. 
Lothair  dines  with  this  pair,  and  we 
subjoin  a  short  specimen  of  the 
table-talk.  Somebody  has  mention- 
ed the  Gulf  Stream : — 

"'And  are  you  afraid  of  the  Gulf 
Stream?'  inquired  I^othair  of  his  calmer 
neighbour. 

"  '  I  think  we  want  more  evidence  of 
a  change.  The  Vice-Chancellor  and 
myself  went  down  to  a  place  we  have 
near  town  on  Saturday,  where  there  is 
a  very  nice  piece  of  water;  indeed 
some  people  call  it  a  lake  •  but  it  was 
quite  frozen,  and  my  boys  wanted  to 
skate,  but  that  I  would  not  permit. ' 

"  *  You  believe  in  the  Gulf  Stream  to 
that  extent,'  said  Lothair, — 'no  skat- 
ing.'" 

At  this  dinner  Lothair  encounters 
a  very  singular  lady,  who  is  destined 
to  exercise  great  control  over  his 
fate.  She  is  described  as  "  a  matron 
of  not  many  summers."  Her  face 
strikes  him,  and  he  asks  who  she  is. 
She  is  called  Theodora,  is  married 
to  a  friend  of  Garibaldi,  her  birth 
is  unknown,  she  speaks  every  lan- 
guage, is  ultra-cosmopolitan,  and 
"  has  invented  a  new  religion."  An 
introduction  to  her  is  offered  by  his 
informant,  but  that  is  reserved  to 
be  effected  in  a  much  more  informal 
and  impressive  way  than  by  a  cou- 
ple of  bows  in  a  drawing-room. 

The  next  personages  whose  ac- 
quaintance we  make  are  Lord  and 
Lady  St  Jerome,  "  who  resided  in 
one  of  the  noblest  mansions  of  St 
James's  Square."  As  the  Duke's 
family  represent  the  Protestant  in- 
fluence directed  on  the  hero,  so  the 
St  Jeromes  throw  their  own  weight 
and  that  of  their  family  mansion 
into  the  Romanist  scale.  The  lady 
was  "  the  daughter  of  a  Protestant 
house,  but  during  a  residence  at 
Rome  after  her  marriage,  she  had 
reverted  to  the  ancient  faith,  which 
she  professed  with  the  enthusiastic 
convictions  of  a  convert.  .  .  .  All 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


777 


Lady  St  Jerome's  family  connec- 
tions were  persons  of  much  fashion ; 
.  .  .  her  saloons  were  always  at- 
tended, and  by  *  nice  people.'  "  Lo- 
thair  dines  at  their  noble  mansion. 
"  It  was  a  lively  dinner,"  we  are 
told.  "  Lord  St  Jerome  loved  con- 
versation, though  he  never  con- 
versed. 4  There  must  be  an  audi- 
ence/ he  would  say,  *  and  I  am  the 
audience.'  "  There  was  a  Monsig- 
nore  Berwick,  who  must  have  been 
a  kind  of  ecclesiastical  firework,  for 
it  seems  that,  when  necessary,  he 
"  could  sparkle  with  anecdote  or 
blaze  with  repartee  ; "  and 

"  all  the  chaplains  who  abounded  in 
this  house  were  men  of  bright  abilities, 
not  merely  men  of  reading,  but  of  the 
world,  learned  in  the  world's  ways,  and 
trained  to  govern  mankind  by  the  ver- 
satility of  their  sympathies.  It  was  a 
dinner  where  there  could  not  be  two 
conversations  going  on,  and  where  even 
the  silent  take  their  share  in  the  talk 
by  their  sympathy." 

Now  it  is  unlucky  that  none  of 
the  conversation  of  this  lively  din- 
ner is  preserved.  Mr  Disraeli  treats 
us  only  to  a  Barmecide's  feast  of 
wit.  But  the  Monsignore  subse- 
quently indulges  in  such  utterances 
as  the  following :  "  Before  a  few 
years  have  elapsed,  every  country 
in  Europe  will  be  atheistical  except 
France.  .  .  .  Let  Christendom 
give  us  her  prayers  for  the  next  few 
years,  and  Pio  Nono  will  become 
the  most  powerful  monarch  in  Eu- 
rope, perhaps  the  only  one."  After 
these  specimens  of  the  table-talk  of 
this  sagacious  though  desponding 
prelate,  the  reader  will  perhaps 
agree  with  us  in  doubting  whether 
he  could,  in  his  most  combustible 
moments,  sparkle  with  anecdote 
or  blaze  with  repartee ;  or  whether, 
even  with  the  assistance  of  the  bril- 
liant and  abundant  chaplains,  his 
conversational  abilities  could  have 
rendered  the  dinner  in  any  degree 
more  lively  than  if  he  had  followed 
the  judicious  example  of  Lord  St 
Jerome.  However,  Lothair  is  of  a 
nature  to  be  easily  satisfied  in  the 
matter  of  wit.  and  is  much  im- 


pressed by  his  new  acquaintances  ; 
nevertheless,  even  with  the  enthu- 
siastic hostess,  the  silently  appre- 
ciative host,  the  sparkling  and  blaz- 
ing Monsignore,  and  the  abundant 
chaplains,  there  is  still  an  influence 
wanting  to  balance  that  of  Lady 
Corisande,  and  that  is  supplied  by 
Lord  St  Jerome's  niece,  Miss  Arun- 
del, who  is  graphically  and  power- 
fully described  as  "a  beautiful 
young  lady,"  and  the  sole  ob- 
ject of  whose  bright  existence  is 
to  further  the  interests  of  the  Pa- 
pacy. Her  cheerful  frame  of  mind 
is  thus  exhibited  : — 

"  One  day  he  ventured  to  express  to 
Miss  Arundel  a  somewhat  hopeful  view 
of  the  future,  but  Miss  Arundel  shook 
her  head. 

"  '  I  do  not  agree  with  my  aunt,  at 
least  as  regards  this  country,'  said  Miss 
Arundel ;  '  I  think  our  sins  are  too 
great.  We  left  His  Church,  and  God 
is  now  leaving  us.'  " 

The  atmosphere  of  high  life  in 
which  we  have  been  revelling  now 
suddenly  changes  for  that  of  an 
obscure  coffee-room,  frequented  by 
shabby  foreigners  in  London.  The 
waiter, described  as  "ever- vigilant," 
is  addressed  by  a  mysterious  per- 
son, who  is  known  as  the  General, 
and  who  demands  to  see  the  land- 
lord, by  whom  he  is  obsequiously 
received,  and  conducted  to  a  room 
filled  with  conspirators,  including  a 
Head-Centre :  "  The  Standing  Com- 
mittee of  the  Holy  Alliance  of  Peo- 
ples all  rose  "  (superfluous,  it  may 
be  thought,  in  a  standing  commit- 
tee), "  although  they  were  extreme 
Republicans,  when  the  General  en- 
tered. Such  is  the  magical  influ- 
ence of  a  man  of  action  over  men 
of  the  pen  and  tongue."  No- 
thing comes,  however,  of  this  for- 
midable meeting — the  talk  of  the 
men  of  the  tongue  being  quite 
as  trivial  and  absurd  as  if  they  had 
all  been  monsignores  and  cardinals ; 
and  it  is  rather  a  relief  to  get  back 
from  the  seedy  and  stupid  scoun- 
drels to  the  peerage  and  baronet- 
age at  Vauxe,  the  family  seat  of 
the  St  Jeromes.  Lothair  arrives 


778 


Lothair. 


[June 


there  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  when 
some  fascinating  Popish  ceremonies, 
called  "  Tenebrae,"  are  in  progress. 
The  ingenuous  youth  is  easily  in- 
duced to  assist  at  these,  and  a  pro- 
found impression  is  produced  on 
him,  when,  at  the  end  of  the  last 
of  them,  as  he  rose,  "  Miss  Arundel 
passed  him  with  streaming  eyes." 
At  a  picnic  next  day  the  hostess  is 
more  charming  than  ever  :  "  Never 
was  such  gay  and  graceful  hospi- 
tality. Lothair  was  quite  fasci- 
nated as  she  thrust  a  paper  of 
lobster-sandwiches  into  his  hand, 
and  enjoined  Monsignore  Catesby 
to  fill  his  tumbler  with  chablis." 
Thus  fed  and  fascinated,  and  ex- 
posed to  the  spells  of  Miss  Arundel 
while  revelling  on  lobster  -  sand- 
wiches, the  Protestantism  of  Lo- 
thair is  evidently  in  imminent  dan- 
ger ;  and  this  is  presently  increased 
by  the  arrival  of  the  Cardinal,  who 
is  thus  welcomed :  "  His  Emi- 
nence was  received  with  much  cere- 
mony. The  marshalled  household, 
ranged  in  lines,  fell  on  their  knees 
at  his  approach  ;  and  Lady  St  Jer- 
ome, Miss  Arundel,  and  some  other 
ladies  scarcely  less  choice  and  fair, 
with  the  lowest  obeisance,  touched, 
with  their  honoured  lips,  his  prince- 
ly hand." 

The  Cardinal,  the  hostess,  and 
the  beautiful  young  lady,  now  all 
concentrate  their  efforts  on  the 
proselytising  of  Lothair.  Of  Miss 
Arundel  we  learn  that  "  in  her  so- 
ciety every  day  he  took  a  strange 
and  deeper  interest : " — 

"  'I  wonder  what  will  be  her  lot,' 
he  exclaimed. 

"  '  It  seems  to  me  to  be  settled,'  said 
Father  Coleman.  '  She  will  be  the 
bride  of  the  Church. ' 

"  'Indeed!'  and  he  started,  and 
even  changed  colour. 

"  'She  deems  it  her  vocation,'  said 
Father  Coleman. 

"  'And  yet,  with  such  gifts,  to  be 
immured  in  a  convent, '  said  Lothair. 

"  'That  would  not  necessarily  fol- 
low,' replied  Father  Coleman.  '  Miss 
Arundel  may  occupy  a  position  in  which 
she  may  exercise  much  influence  for  the 
great  cause  which  absorbs  her  being.' 


"  '  There  is  a  divine  energy  about 
her,'  said  Lothair,  almost  speaking  to 
himself.  '  It  could  not  have  been  given 
for  little  ends.' 

"  'If  Miss  Arundel  could  meet  with 
a  spirit  as  exalted  and  as  energetic  as 
her  own,'  said  Father  Coleman,  '  her 
fate  might  be  different.  She  has  no 
thoughts  which  are  not  great,  and  no 
purposes  which  are  not  sublime.  But 
for  the  companion  of  her  life  she  would 
require  no  less  than  a  Godfrey  de 
Bouillon.'  " 

But  his  speculations  were  not  all 
confined  to  the  lot  of  Miss  Arun- 
del, for  "  Lothair  began  to  medi- 
tate on  two  great  ideas — the  recon- 
ciliation of  Christendom,  and  the 
influence  of  architecture  on  reli- 
gion. "  Whether  the  former  of  these 
great  ideas  was  to  be  accomplished, 
according  to  the  previsions  of  Mon- 
signore Berwick,  by  the  union  of 
all  nations  under  the  sovereignty 
of  Pio  Nono  (whose  longevity  will 
in  that  case  be  miraculous),  we  are 
not  informed ;  but  Lothair  sets  about 
the  latter  at  once  in  the  most  practi- 
cal manner,  by  resolving  to  devote 
£200,000  to  the  building  of  a  cathe- 
dral, instead  of  to  the  construction 
of  cottages,  and  causes  an  architect 
to  make  plans  for  the  purpose. 
These  designs  are  sent  to  him  in 
a  style  totally  different  from  that 
which  would  have  sufficed  for  an 
ordinary  commoner: — 

"  The  door  opened,  and  servants  came 
in  bearing  a  large  and  magnificent  port- 
folio. It  was  of  morocco  and  of  prela- 
tial  purple,  with  broad  bands  of  gold 
and  alternate  ornaments  of  a  cross  and 
a  coronet.  A  servant  handed  to  Lo- 
thair a-  letter,  which  enclosed  the  key 
that  opened  its  lock.  The  portfolio 
contained  the  plans  and  drawings  of 
the  cathedral." 

Whether  this  cathedral  would  be 
Anglican  or  Romish,  Lothair  did 
not  know  himself.  It  depended 
a  good  deal  on  the  comparative 
warmth  and  influence  of  the  smiles 
of  Miss  Arundel  and  of  Lady  Cori- 
sande.  But  just  now  "it  seemed 
to  Lothair  that  nothing  could  inte- 
rest him  in  life  that  was  not  sym- 
bolical of  divine  truths  and  an 


1870.] 


Lotliair. 


779 


adumbration  of  the  celestial  here- 
after." On  the  one  hand,  he  was 
fortified  "by  a  conviction  of  the 
apostolical  succession  of  the  Eng- 
lish bishops,  which  no  Act  of  Par- 
liament could  alter  or  affect."  But 
on  the  other,  he  "  was  haunted  by 
a  feeling  that  the  relations  of  his 
communion  with  the  Blessed  Virgin 
were  not  satisfactory,"  and  in  fact 
seems  to  have  been  a  bore  and  prig 
of  very  singular  promise. 

"  '  To  whom  is  your  cathedral  to  be 
inscribed?'  asks  Miss  Clare  Arundel. 

"  '  To  a  saint  in  heaven  and  in  earth,' 
said  Lothair,  blushing ;  '  to  St  Clare.' " 

After  this  we  learn  that  "  he  was 
meditating  if  he  should  say  more." 

Before  quitting  Vauxe  we  will 
quote  two  of  the  most  important 
facts  concerning  the  establishment 
there.  One  is,  that  after  dinner 
the  nobility  and  gentry  "left  the 
room  with  the  ladies,  in  the  Conti- 
nental manner."  The  other  is,  that 
"it  was  the  sacred  hour  of  two 
when  Lothair  arrived,  and  they 
were  summoned  to  luncheon  almost 
immediately"  —  though  why  the 
hour  of  two  should  be  sacred  we 
know  no  more  than  Mr  Disraeli. 
We  will  also  give  a  short  specimen 
of  the  conversation  that  prevailed, 
both  as  illustrating  the  manners  of 
high  life,  and  as  relieving  Lord  St 
Jerome  from  the  stigma  of  being 
unable  to  converse  : — 

" '  These  are  for  you,  dear  uncle,'  said 
Clare  Arundel,  as  she  gave  him  a  rich 
cluster  of  violets.  '  Just  now  the 
woods  are  more  fragrant  than  the  gar- 
dens, and  these  are  the  produce  of  our 
morning  walk.  I  could  have  brought 
you  some  primroses,  but  I  do  not  like 
to  mix  violets  with  anything.' 

"  '  They  say  primroses  make  a  capital 
salad, '  said  Lord  St  Jerome. 

"  '  Barbarian  ! '  exclaimed  Lady  St 
Jerome.  '  I  see  you  want  luncheon  ; 
it  must  be  ready ; '  and  she  took  Lo- 
thair's  arm.  '  I  will  show  you  a  por- 
trait of  one  of  your  ancestors/  she  said  ; 
'  he  married  an  Arundel.' " 

Evidently  it  is  now  high  time  for 
the  Protestant  faction  to  interfere, 

VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVI. 


unless  they  wish  Lothair  to  go 
straight  to  Rome  and  kiss  the 
Pope's  toe.  Accordingly  he  is  hur- 
ried away  to  the  Duke's  house  in 
London.  Lady  Corisande  has  just 
been  presented.  "  From  the  mo- 
ment her  fair  cheek  was  sealed  by 
the  gracious  approbation  of  Majesty, 
all  the  critics  of  the  Court  at  once 
recognised  her  as  the  Cynosure  of 
the  Empyrean." 

In  describing  a  dinner-party  at 
the  Duke's,  at  which  a  Lord  Caris- 
brooke  was  present,  "  a  young  man 
of  distinguished  air  and  appear- 
ance," the  author,  accustomed  as 
we  are  to  his  eccentricities,  never- 
theless greatly  startled  us  by  the 
abrupt  announcement  that  "  Lord 
Carisbrooke  was  breeding."  He 
was  only  breeding  horses,  however. 
Afterwards  there  was  a  ball,  at 
which  poor  Miss  Arundel,  with 
nothing  but  the  odour  of  sanctity 
to  make  her  agreeable,  stood  a  very 
poor  chance  with  the  Cynosure  of 
the  Empyrean,  bearing  the  seal  of 
majesty  on  her  cheek  :  "  A  prince 
of  the  blood  was  dancing  with 
Lady  Corisande.  Lothair  was  there 
vis-ci-vis  with  Miss  Arundel.  .  .  . 
Lothair  had  to  advance  and  meet 
Lady  Corisande.  Her  approaching 
mien  was  full  of  grace  and  majesty." 
We  should  think  so,  considering 
what  was  on  her  cheek.  We  have 
often  heard  from  young  men  ad- 
dicted to  slang  phraseology  that  the 
most  remarkable  feature  of  the  girls 
of  the  rising  generation  is  their 
"  cheek,"  but  all  must  yield  in  this 
particular  to  the  Lady  Corisande. 
As  incidental  bits  of  high  life,  we 
may  note  that  they  had  dined  "  in 
the  Chinese  saloon "  (we  hope  on 
birds' -nest  soup  and  puppy- dog 
pie),  and  that  the  supper  was  con- 
ducted in  this  way  : — 

"Royalty,  followed  by  the  imperial 

Cence  of  ambassadors,  and  escorted 
»  group   of  dazzling  duchesses  and 
paladins  of  high  degree,  was  ushered 
with  courteous   pomp  by  the  host  and 
hostess  into  a  choice  saloon,  hung  with 
rose-coloured  tapestry  and  illumined  by 
chandeliers  of  crystal,  where  they  were 
3G 


780 


Lothair. 


[June 


served  from  gold  plate.  But  the  thou- 
sand less  favoured  were  not  badly  off, 
when  they  found  themselves  in  the 
more  capacious  chambers,  into  which 
they  rushed  with  an  eagerness  hardly 
in  keeping  with  the  splendid  nonchal- 
ance of  the  preceding  hours. 

' ' '  What  a  perfect  family ! '  exclaimed 
Hugo  Boh n n,  as  he  extracted  a  couple 
of  fat  little  birds  from  their  bed  of  as- 
pic jelly.  '  Everything  they  do  in  such 
perfect  taste.  How  safe  you  were  here 
to  have  ortolans  for  supper  ! ' 

"  All  the  little  round  tables,  though 
their  number  was  infinite,  were  full. 
Male  groups  hung  about ;  some  in  at- 
tendance on  fair  dames,  some  foraging 
for  themselves,  some  thoughtful  and 
more  patient  and  awaiting  a  satisfac- 
tory future.  Never  was  such  an  elegant 
clatter." 

Lothair  now  resolves  to  return 
to  Oxford  (where  he  had  before  en- 
tered the  University,  and  where 
he  had  a  considerable  establish- 
ment of  horses).  Driving  out  his 
drag,  he  finds  in  the  road  a  lady 
with  a  broken-down  carriage.  This 
was  Theodora.  Lothair  gallantly 
offers  assistance,  and  Theodora, 
while  thanking  him,  introduces 
him  to  her  husband,  Colonel  Cam- 
pian,  a  Southern  American.  Lo- 
thair sends  them  home  in  his  drag, 
which  was  drawn  by  a  remarkable 
team.  "  They  were  four  roans 
highly  bred,  with  black  manes  and 
tails.  They  had  the  Arab  eye,  with 
arched  necks,  and  seemed  proud  of 
themselves  and  their  master."  The 
grateful  Campians  invite  Lothair 
to  dinner.  The  lady's  attractions 
are  thus  described  :  "  The  counte- 
nance was  Olympian  ;  a  Phidian 
face,  with  large  grey  eyes  and  dark 
lashes ;  wonderful  hair,  abounding 
without  art,  and  gathered  together 
by  Grecian  fillets."  Next  day  they 
all  go  to  Blenheim ;  the  weather  is 
beautiful,  the  scene  enchanting,  the 
Colonel  the  most  accommodating 
of  men  ;  and  the  naughty  hero,  who, 
before  he  is  of  age,  has  proposed 
for  one  girl,  and  been  on  the  ex- 
treme verge  of  proposing  for  an- 
other, now  makes  ardent  love  to 
the  lady  with  the  Olympian  coun- 
tenance and  Phidian  face.  Even 


the  most  rigid  moralists  will,  how- 
ever, be  disposed  to  excuse  his  pas- 
sion, in  consideration  of  the  mental 
as  well  as  personal  attractions  of 
the  lady.  Here  are  a  few  senti- 
ments selected  at  hazard  from  her 
conversation : — 

"  'I  live  only  for  climate  and  the 
affections. ' 

1 ' '  I  am  a  great  foe  to  dinners,  and 
indeed  to  all  meals.  I  think  when  the 
good  time  comes  we  shall  give  up  eat- 
ing in  public,  except,  perhaps,  fruit,  on 
a  green  bank,  with  music. ' 

"  '  Railways  have  elevated  and  soft- 
ened the  lot  of  man. ' 

' ' '  I  require  in  all  things  sympathy. ' " 

Evidently  to  know  such  a  woman 
was  to  love  her.  Lothair  returns 
to  London,  but  the  visit  to  Blen- 
heim had  quite  untuned  him  for 
the  society  of  people  who  live  for 
other  objects  than  climate  and  the 
affections.  He  is  engaged  to  dine 
with  the  Montairys,  but  he  un- 
scrupulously resolves  to  throw 
them  over.  It  is  fortunate  that  he 
does,  for  fate  leads  him  into  much 
less  commonplace  company.  He 
calls  a  cab,  and  as  he  gets  into  it, 
naturally  remarks,  as  any  other 
young  man  would,  "  ;Tis  the  gon- 
dola of  London ; "  just  as,  when  in 
Venice,  he  probably  remarks  of  the 
gondola,  "'Tis  the  hansom  of  the 
Adriatic."  The  judicious  order 
which  he  gives  to  the  cabman  is, 
"  Drive  on  till  I  tell  you  to  stop." 
He  is  driven  about,  accordingly,  as 
passengers  so  often  are,  at  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  cabman,  till,  in  some 
unknown  suburb,  a  procession  in 
the  road  arrests  the  progress  of  the 
vehicle.  Lothair  gets  out,  and 
being  probably  confused  as  to  fares 
by  the  new  cab  regulations,  and 
being,  moreover,  as  we  know,  the 
weakest  of  young  men,  gives  the 
driver  a  sovereign.  The  cabman 
thereupon,  "staring  with  delight 
at  the  sovereign  in  his  astonished 
palm,"  promptly  and  inevitably  re- 
cognises in  him  "  a  real  gentleman," 
and  in  gratitude  tells  him  that  the 
procession  is  on  its  way  to  a  Fenian 
meeting,  that  he  has  a  ticket  of  ad- 


1870.] 


Lotliair. 


781 


mission,  and  that  he  will  transfer 
that  ticket  to  Lothair.  Thus,  by 
the  most  natural  sequence  of  events 
in  the  world,  Lothair,  instead  of 
dining  with  the  Montairys,  attends 
a  Fenian  meeting.  The  reason  why 
he  is  taken  there  by  the  author  is 
that  he  may  make  the  acquaintance 
of  the  conspirator  known  as  the 
General.  When  the  hat  is  taken 
round,  as  is  customary  at  Fenian 
meetings,  Lothair  declines  to  con- 
tribute, possibly  because  he  had 
given  all  his  money  to  the  cabman. 
He  is  thereupon  denounced  as  a 
non-subscriber,  and  consequently  a 
spy ;  and  the  aggrieved  Fenians  are 
about  to  set  upon  him,  when  the 
General  interposes,  threatens  two 
or  three  hundred  of  the  assailants 
with  his  pistol,  gives  his  name  pri- 
vately to  the  leader  of  the  Fenian 
Lodge,  on  whom  it  acts  like  a  talis- 
man ;  and  after  seeing  Lothair 
safely  out  of  this  "lodge  in  some 
vast  wilderness,"  declines  to  receive 
any  thanks,  or  even  to  reveal  his 
name.  We  need  hardly  say  that 
the  General  is  a  friend  of  Theodora, 
and  that  he  gives  that  wonderful 
woman  in  politics  what  she  re- 
quires in  all  things — namely,  sym- 
pathy. 

Next  day,  Lothair,  after  winning 
the  prize  at  a  pigeon  match,  goes  to 
dine  with  a  Mr  Brancepeth,  an  un- 
happy person,  whose  life  is  spent 
in  giving  exquisite  dinners  to  people 
of  distinction,  and  who  "  had  at- 
tained the  highest  celebrity  in  his 
peculiar  career."  "  Royalty,"  we 
are  told,  "  had  consecrated  his  ban- 
quets " — no  wonder  that  "  to  dine 
with  Mr  Brancepeth  was  a  social  in- 
cident that  was  mentioned."  How- 
ever, we  should  not  have  paused 
over  Mr  Brancepeth's  banquet  if  it 
had  not  happened  to  illustrate  the 
refined  and  pleasing  manners  of  St 
Aldegonde,  who  is  intended  by  the 
author  for  an  agreeable  character, 
calculated  to  leave  a  pleasing  im- 
pression on  the  reader.  That  noble- 
man, when  riding  with  Mr  Brance- 
peth in  the  morning,  had  politely 
mentioned,  "  as  was  his  general 


custom  with  his  companions,  that 
he  was  bored  to  very  extinction." 
Mr  Brancepeth  resents  the  imputa- 
tion of  being  a  bore  so  little  that 
he  takes  great  pains  to  get  the  cour- 
teous speaker  to  dine  with  him. 
One  Pinto,  for  whom  St  Aldegonde 
has  a  depraved  admiration,  is  a 
guest  at  this  dinner,  and  during  the 
meal  the  noble  lord,  "  with  his  back 
turned  to  his  other  neighbour,  hung 
upon  the  accents  of  Mr  Pinto." 
But  all  this  time  he  ate  nothing, 
which  naturally  distressed  his  host. 

"He  did  not  care  so  much  for  his 
occasionally  leaning  on  the  table  with 
both  his  elbows,  but  that  he  should 
pass  by  every  dish  was  distressing.  So 
Mr  Brancepeth  whispered  to  his  own 
valet — a  fine  gentleman,  who  stood  by 
his  master's  chair  and  attended  on  no 
one  else,  except,  when  requisite,  his 
master's  immediate  neighbour — and  de- 
sired him  to  suggest  to  St  Aldegonde 
whether  the  side  table  might  not  pro- 
vide, under  the  difficulties,  some  suste- 
nance. St  Aldegonde  seemed  quite  gra- 
tified by  the  attention,  and  said  he 
should  like  to  have  some  cold  meat. 
Now  that  was  the  only  thing  the  side 
table,  bounteous  as  was  its  disposition, 
could  not  provide.  All  the  joints  of 
the  season  were  named  in  vain,  and  pies 
and  preparations  of  many  climes.  But 
nothing  would  satisfy  St  Aldegonde  but 
cold  meat." 

Then  Lothair  goes  to-a  ball  given 
for  Miss  Arundel,  where  "  he  yield- 
ed to  the  magic  of  the  flowing  hour. 
.  .  .  As  he  fed  her  with  cates 
as  delicate  as  her  lips,  and  manu- 
factured for  her  dainty  beverages 
which  would  not  outrage  their  pur- 
ity, Lothair  at  last  could  not  refrain 
from  intimating  his  sense  of  ,her 
unusual  but  charming  joyousness." 
After  this  remarkable  union  of  cates 
and  compliments,  and  ere  the  flow- 
ing hour  was  well  stagnant,  we  are 
sorry  to  have  to  record  that  when  he 
jumped  into  his  brougham  at  break 
of  day,  he  exclaimed,  "  Thank  hea- 
vens, it  is  at  last  Friday ! "  and 
the  reason  why  he  thanked  heavens 
that  it  was  Friday  was,  that  on  that 
day  he,  Lothario  Lothair,  was  go- 
ing to  visit  Mrs  Campian  of  the 
Olympian  countenance  at  her  coun- 


782 


Lothair. 


[June 


try  seat  of  Belmont.  He  rode 
thither  upon  "  a  dark  chestnut 
barb,  which,  proud  of  its  resplend- 
ent form,  curveted  with  joy  when 
it  reached  a  green  common."  Bel- 
mont was  "a  stately  mansion  of 
hewn  stone,  with  wings,  and  a  por- 
tico of  Corinthian  columns/'  and 
consequently  was  in  complete  har- 
mony with  the  inmate's  countenance 
and  face.  Here  Lothair  meets  an 
artist  with  the  commonplace  name 
of  Mr  Gaston  Phoebus,  who  it  seems 
was  "  the  most  successful,  not  to 
say  the  most  eminent,  painter  of 
the  age."  It  will  be  interesting  to 
artists,  therefore,  to  read  the  follow- 
ing exposition  of  the  principles  on 
which  the  illustrious  painter  work- 
ed, and  we  wish  they  may  under- 
stand them  better  than  we  do: — 

"  '  ARYAN  principles,'  said  Mr  Phoe- 
bus ;  '  not  merely  the  study  of  nature, 
but  of  beautiful  nature  ;  the  art  of  de- 
sign in  a  country  inhabited  by  a  first- 
rate  race,  and  where  the  laws,  the 
manners,  the  customs,  are  calculated  to 
maintain  the  health  and  beauty  of  a 
first-rate  race.  In  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree, these  conditions  obtained  from 
the  age  of  Pericles  to  the  age  of  Hadrian 
in  pure  Aryan  communities,  but  Senii- 
tism  began  then  to  prevail,  and  ulti- 
mately triumphed.  Semitism  has  de- 
stroyed art ;  it  taught  man  to  despise 
his  own  body,  and  the  essence  of  art  is 
to  honour  the  human  frame.' 

"'I  am  afraid  I  ought  not  to  talk 
about  such  things, '  said  Lothair ;  '  but 
if  by  Semitism  you  mean  religion,  sure- 
ly the  Italian  painters  inspired  by 
Semitism  did  something.' 

'"Great  things,'  said  Mr  Phoebus; 
'  some  of  the  greatest.  Semitism  gave 
them  subjects,  but  the  Renaissance  gave 
them  Aryan  art,  and  it  gave  that  art 
to  a  purely  Aryan  race.  But  Semitism 
rallied  in  the  shape  of  the  Reformation, 
and  swept  all  away.  "When  Leo  the 
Tenth  was  Pope,  Popery  was  pagan; 
Popery  is  now  Christian  and  art  is  ex- 
tinct.' " 

Unluckily  we  are  unable  to  throw 
any  light  whatever  on  the  foregoing 
passage,  and  all  that  we  have  been 
able  to  understand  of  Mr  Phcebus's 
utterances  (and  for  which  we  greatly 
commend  him)  is,  that  he  expresses 
high  admiration  of  Mr  Story's 


statues.  He  concludes  his  oracles 
in  this  way,  "  But  nothing  can  be 
done  until  the  Aryan  races  are  ex- 
tricated from  Semitism ;"  notwith- 
standing which,  and  many  similar 
remarks,  and  although  he  has 
friends  who  ought  to  have  taken 
care  of  him,  he  is  suffered  to  go  at 
large  all  through  the  book.  We 
shudder  to  think  that  the  un- 
happy gentleman  may  be  still 
at  liberty,  and  that  we  might 
chance  to  meet  him  without  a 
keeper.  After  listening  to  all  this, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  "  Lothair  re- 
turned to  town  in  a  not  altogether 
satisfactory  state  of  mind."  He 
went  to  the  opera,  where  he  saw  Mr 
Gaston  Phoebus  in  Mrs  Campian's 
box,  and  grew  jealous  of  them. 
"  After  that  he  had  no  real  sleep, 
but  a  sort  of  occasional  and  feverish 
doze  with  intervals  of  infinite  dis- 
tress, waking  always  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  inexpressible  mortification 
and  despair."  In  the  morning  after 
this  troubled  night  he  is  naturally 
late  abed,  and  several  emissaries 
from  the  Cardinal  call  upon  him 
before  he  is  up.  The  Cardinal  is 
about  to  inaugurate  a  great  ecclesi- 
astical function  for  the  restoration 
of  Christendom,  and  is  of  course 
anxious  to  obtain  for  this  simple 
and  intelligible  design  the  valuable 
support  of  Lothair,  who  has  indeed 
almost  promised  to  attend.  But 
in  his  present  humour  these  ideas 
are  distasteful  to  him — he  is  occu- 
pied with  his  jealousy  of  Mrs 
Campian — besides, 

"he  could  not  bring  himself  without 
a  pang  to  contemplate  a  secession  from 
the  Church  of  his  fathers.  He  took 
refuge  in  the  wild  but  beautiful  thought 
of  a  reconciliation  between  Rome  and 
England.  If  the  consecration  of  the 
whole  of  his  fortune  to  that  end  could 
assist  in  effecting  the  purpose,  he  would 
cheerfully  make  the  sacrifice.  He  would 
then  go  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  and  probably  conclude  his 
days  in  a  hermitage  on  Mount  Athos. " 

He  falls  into  a  reverie  in  an  easy- 
chair,  "with  a  hair-brush  in  each 
hand,"  and  possibly  a  tooth-brubh 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


783 


in  his  mouth,  in  which  attitude  he 
would  have  made  an  excellent 
study  for  a  portrait,  to  be  painted 
on  Aryan  principles  by  Mr  Gaston 
Phoebus.  To  him,  thus  seated,  the 
Monsignore  enters,  and  presses  him 
hard  to  attend  the  function  for  the 
restoration  of  Christendom.  Bat 
what  with  this  grand  design  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  recollection  of 
Mrs  Campian's  Olympian  counte- 
nance on  the  other,  the  poor  young 
nobleman,  pacing  the  room  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  is  reduced 
to  exclaim,  "  I  wish  I  had  been 
born  in  the  middle  ages,  or  on  the 
shores  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  or  in 
some  other  planet ;  anywhere,  or 
at  any  time,  but  in  this  country 
and  in  this  age  !  " 

"  That  thought  is  not  worthy  of 
you,  my  Lord,"  said  Catesby. 
Catesby  was  wrong,  however ;  it 
was  an  idiotic  thought,  idiotically 
expressed,  and  quite  worthy  of  the 
speaker.  The  Monsignore  being 
still  urgent,  Lothair  gives  him  to 
believe  that  he  will  attend  the 
function;  and  using  the  freedom 
that  gentlemen  are  entitled  to  em- 
ploy in  their  intercourse  with  pre- 
lates of  high  degree,  desires  him  to 
order  his  (Lothair's)  brougham  for 
eight  that  evening — the  hour  when 
he  is  invited  to  accompany  the 
Cardinal.  His  visitor  gone,  he  re- 
mained in  a  most  troubled  state 
all  the  morning,  "and  often  he 
sighed."  We  are  glad  to  find, 
however,  that  at  5.30  P.M.  he  was 
able  to  take  some  breakfast,  con- 
sisting of  a  little  soup,  a  cutlet, 
and  a  glass  or  two  of  claret.  At 
eight  he  started  as  from  a  dream, 
— classically  exclaimed,  "Jacta  est 
alea  !  " — which  is  much  finer  than 
saying  "the  die  is  cast" — and,  false 
alike  to  the  Cardinal,  the  Mon- 
signore, and  his  obligations  to 
Christendom,  ordered  the  brougham 
to  drive — to  Belmont ! 

At  this  joyous  mansion  a/efe,  as 
usual,  was  in  progress,  and  many 
people  of  the  highest  consideration 
were  assembled.  In  deference,  per- 
haps, to  the  sad  disorder  of  Mr 


Gaston  Phoebus,  whose  lunacy  was 
of.  a  character  that  did  not  admit  of 
any  lucid  intervals,  the  conversa- 
tion was  in  the  Aryan-Semitic  key. 
The  supper,  in  anticipation  of  the 
good  time  expected  by  Mrs  Cam- 
pian,  consisted  of  fruit  on  a  green 
bank,  with  music.  Mrs  Gaston 
Phoebus,  described  as  of  extraordi- 
nary beauty  and  voluptuous  sym- 
metry, played  the  piano.  Among 
the  company  there  was  also  a  sister 
of  Mrs  Phcebus,  whose  simple  name 
was  Euphrosyne  Cantacuzene,  and 
whose  agreeable  expression  of  face 
was  mockery  mingled  with  Ionian 
splendour  ;  there  was  also  a  Prin- 
cess of  Tivoli,  and  a  maniac  of  the 
name  of  Gozelius,  invited  perhaps 
as  an  appropriate  companion  for 
Mr  Gaston  Phcebus.  Dr  Forbes 
Winslow  was  probably  in  attend- 
ance somewhere  about  the  grounds, 
though  the  author  does  not  men- 
tion him.  At  the  end  of  the  even- 
ing, Lothair,  whose  intellect  and 
powers  of  reflection  had  no  doubt 
been  stimulated  by  the  mental 
atmosphere  around  him,  exclaimed, 
as  he  threw  himself  into  his 
brougham,  "  I  perceive  that  life  is 
not  so  simple  an  affair  as  I  once 
supposed;"  which  profound  dis- 
covery almost  reconciles  us  to  the 
postponement  of  the  restoration  of 
Christendom. 

All  this  time  we  have  been  en- 
gaged with  the  first  only  of  the 
three  volumes.  But  lest  the  justly- 
alarmed  reader  should  suppose  that 
we  are  going  to  enter  at  equal 
length  into  the  other  two,  we  will 
at  once  assuage  his  fears  by  explain- 
ing that  our  future  extracts  and 
comments  will  be  much  less  copious, 
— first,  because  Mr  Disraeli  has  put 
most  of  his  plums  into  the  earlier 
portion  of  his  pudding,  while  the 
remainder  is  composed  chiefly  of 
very  indigestible  dough ;  and 
secondly,  because  all  the  chief 
movers  of  the  plot,  except  the 
Fenians  and  the  cabman,  are  now 
brought  together,  and  may  there- 
fore be  compendiously  dealt  with. 
But  first  we  must  note  two  circum- 


784' 


Lot  hair. 


[June 


stances  which  preceded  the  assem- 
blage of  the  characters.  The  one 
is,  that  Lothair  purchased  from  a 
jeweller  of  the  name  of  Mr  Ruby, 
for  four  thousand  pounds,  a  rope  of 
(not  onions,  but)  pearls,  worthy  to 
be  worn  by  the  Queen  of  Cyprus, 
and  formerly  owned  by  the  Doge  of 
Venice,  which  he  sent  anonymously 
to  the  divine  Theodora ;  and  that 
lady,  in  provoking  ignorance  of  the 
donor,  sealed  them  up  and  confided 
them  to  the  care  of  the  discomfited 
Lothair.  The  other  is,  that  the 
hero  pays  a  visit  to  Mr  Gaston 
Phoebus  at  his  own  abode.  "His 
residence,"  we  are  told,  "  was  con- 
venient and  agreeable,  and  in 
situation  not  unlike  that  of  Bel- 
mont,  being  sylvan  and  seques- 
tered " — in  fact,  to  impart  a  secret 
to  the  reader,  it  was  not  far  from 
Colney- Hatch.  The  occasion  of 
the  visit  was  the  exhibition  of 
a  picture  which  the  gifted,  though 
unhappily  insane,  artist  had  painted 
expressly  for  the  Emperor  of  Russia. 
The  guests  were  received  by  Mrs 
Phcebus  and  her  sister  Euphrosyne 
Cantacuzene  in  a  very  singular  cos- 
tume, which  is,  unfortunately,  only 
vaguely  described  :  "  '  They  are 
habited  as  sylvans,'  the  great  artist 
deigned  to  observe,  if  any  of  his 
guests  could  not  refrain  from  ad- 
miring the  dresses  which  he  had 
himself  devised."  What  kind  of 
vestment  was  likely  to  be  devised 
in  the  brain  of  Mr  Phcebus  we  must 
leave  to  the  more  or  less  sane  ima- 
gination of  the  reader ;  but  the  hint 
about  sylvans  justifies  us  in  con- 
cluding that  it  consisted  mainly  of 
leaves,  though  we  believe  that  it 
was  partly  composed  of  flowers 
also,  since  it  is  recorded  that  Mrs 
Phcebus  presented  a  venerable 
patron  of  art  in  Britain,  who  was 
one  of  the  guests,  with  a  beautiful 
flower,  which  probably  formed  an 
important  part  of  her  dress.  The 
subject  of  Mr  Phoebus's  picture 
was  not  entirely  new,  being  "  Hero 
and  Leander  ;"  but  we  are  assured 
that  it  was  "  touched  by  the  hand 
of  a  master  who  had  never  failed," 


and  that  "  the  applause  was  a  genu- 
ine verdict."  We  trust,  therefore, 
that  its  absence  from  the  Royal 
Academy  has  not  been  caused  by 
the  imprudent  rejection  of  the  com- 
mittee. Part  of  the  guests  remain- 
ed to  admire  the  picture,  and  Mr 
Phoebus,  coming  with  the  same  ob- 
ject, stole  upon  them  unawares. 
"  His  air  was  elate,  and  was  re- 
deemed only  from  arrogance  by 
the  intellect  of  his  brow.  'To- 
morrow,' he  said,  '  the  critics  will 
commence.  You  know  who  the 
critics  are?  The  men  who  have 
failed  in  literature  and  art.'  "  Now 
the  most  notorious  art-critic  of  the 
day  is  Mr  Ruskin,  and  though 
many  do  call  him  quack,  yet  that 
is  no  reason  why  Mr  Disraeli  should 
deny  his  success.  In  literature  the 
names  of  Macaulay,  Sidney  Smith, 
Wilson,  and  Lockhart,  who  were  all 
critics,  stand  much  higher  than  Mr 
Disraeli's.  Yet  the  attempt  to  dis- 
arm the  critics  is  ingenious,  and,  to 
judge  from  the  reviews,  successful 
— indeed  we  are  ourselves  an  in- 
stance of  its  success ;  for  though  we 
had  at  first  entertained  an  irrever- 
ent idea  of  making  fun  of  *  Lothair,' 
we  were  so  terrified  at  the  thought 
of  being  branded  as  a  man  who  had 
failed  in  literature,  that  in  sheer 
consternation  we  have  given  a 
much  more  favourable  idea  of  the 
work  than  it  deserves. 

The  stage  on  which  the  char- 
acters are  brought  together  is 
Muriel  Towers,  one  of  Lothair's 
many  castles.  On  his  first  visit 
to  the  princely  abode  he  was 
met  by  five  hundred  horsemen 
well  mounted,  and  some  of  them 
gentlemen  of  high  degree,  who  in- 
sisted on  accompanying  him  to  the 
gates,  but  who  fortunately  did  not 
ask  to  come  in.  The  whole  house- 
hold were  arrayed,  and  arranged  in 
groups  on  the  steps  of  the  chief 
entrance.  A  complete  list  of  these 
is  given,  copied  apparently  from 
the  county  papers.  The  steward 
of  the  estates  was  "the  leading 
spirit."  There  was  a  house-steward, 
a  chief  butler  (the  chief  baker  is 


1370.] 


Lothair. 


785 


by  an  error  of  the  press  omitted), 
a  head-gardener,  a  chief  of  the 
kitchen,  a  head-keeper,  head-for- 
ester, and  grooms  of  the  stud  and 
of  the  chambers.  The  coat  of  the 
groom  of  the  chambers  was  made  in 
Savile  Row.  They  were  all  mo- 
destly drawn  up  behind  the  house- 
keeper, "  a  grave  and  distinguished- 
looking  female  "  (in  fact  we  have 
reason  to  believe  that  she  was  of 
noble  though  decayed  family),  and 
who  "  curtsied  like  the  old  court/' 
though  from  what  old  court  she  had 
learnt  her  curtsies  is  not  specified. 
There  were  also  "  half-a-dozen  pow- 
dered gentlemen  glowing  in  crim- 
son liveries,  who  indicated  the  pres- 
ence of  my  lord's  footmen  "  (that 
is,  who  indicated  their  own  pres- 
ence), "  while  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold, considerable  in  numbers,  were 
arranged  in  two  groups,  according 
to  their  sex,  and  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance." Lothair  was  ushered  into 
"  his  armoury,"  a  gallery  two  hun- 
dred feet  long  ;  and  was  quite  as- 
tonished, as  well  he  might  be, 
"  with  the  number  of  courts  and 
quadrangles  in  the  castle,  all  of 
bright  and  fantastic  architecture, 
and  each  of  which  was  a  garden 
glowing  with  brilliant  colours,  and 
gay  with  the  voice  of  fountains  or 
the  forms  of  gorgeous  birds." 

There  was  one  feature  in  this  re- 
markable abode  which  deserves  a 
separate  paragraph.  It  was  the 
tomb  of  Lothair's  grandfather, 
situated  in  a  large  and  lofty  octa- 
gonal chamber.  He  had  raised  it 
in  his  lifetime.  The  tomb  was  of 
alabaster,  surrounded  by  a  railing 
of  pure  gold.  We  understand  also 
(though  the  author  omits  to  men- 
tion it)  that  the  old  gentleman's 
shroud  was  a  magnificent  piece  of 
tapestry  which  had  once  belonged 
to  the  Queen  of  Sheba  ;  and  that 
his  coffin  was  of  mother-of-pearl 
with  agate  handles,  and  the  name, 
age,  and  date  of  his  lamented  de- 
cease inscribed  thereon  in  rows  of 
sapphires  and  brilliants.  May  he 
rest  in  peace  ! — though  we  hardly 
expect  it. 


In  this  extraordinary  mansion 
Lothair  now  assembled  his  friends, 
in  order  to  celebrate  his  coming  of 
age.  With  more  hospitality  than 
prudence  he  brought  together  all 
the  ladies  he  had  been  making  love 
to.  The  divine  Theodora  was  there 
with  a  star  on  her  brow,  the  Cyno- 
sure of  the  Empyrean  with  the  seal 
of  majesty  on  her  cheek,  and  the 
fair  Miss  Arundel  with  her  young 
heart  palpitating  with  love  for  the 
venerable  Pope.  There  were  the 
St  Jeromes  and  the  Montairys, 
and  the  gentlemanly  dog  St  Alde- 
gonde  with  his  adoring  wife.  There 
was  Hugo  Bohun,  whose  name  is 
that  of  an  ancient  Crusader,  but 
whose  sentiments  are  of  the  feeblest 
kind.  Carisbrooke  had  also  left  off 
breeding  to  come,  and  a  bishop  with 
his  chaplain  and  a  trusty  archdeacon 
had  been  invited  to  meet  the  Car- 
dinal and  the  Monsignores.  The 
mysterious  General  arrived  on  a 
political  mission  to  the  divine 
Theodora.  Lord  Culloden  had 
brought  his  two  daughters,  and 
there  were  Mr  and  Mrs  Putney 
Giles,  and  some  others  whom  Mr 
Disraeli  mentions,  as  well  as  some 
whom  he  does  not  enumerate,  in- 
cluding Codlingsby  and  Rafael 
Mendoza. 

What  took  place  while  this  illus- 
trious gathering  lasted  may  be 
briefly  described.  There  was  a  suc- 
cession of  the  most  brilliant  en- 
tertainments. The  Bishop  was  par- 
ticularly playful,  and  is  said  to 
have  showed  relentless  gaiety  in 
tumbling  over  the  Monsignores, 
though  we  are  not  indulged  with 
any  specimen  of  the ,  Episcopal 
humour.  The  divine  Theodora 
developed  some  new  peculiari- 
ties. She  is  described  as  having 
"an  Athenian  eye,"  and  as  both 
her  eyes  are  subsequently  cha- 
racterised as  "  Hellenic,"  we  are 
permitted  to  indulge  the  hope  that 
both  may  have  been  Athenian.  She 
is  also  strangely  afflicted  with  "  a 
tumult  of  the  brow,"  which  may 
perhaps  have  been  the  result  of  a 
jeunesse  orageuse,  since  we  learn  that 


786 


Lothair. 


[June 


at  one  period  of  her  life  she  was  in 
the  habit  of  sleeping  on  door-steps 
in  Paris  with  a  tambourine  for  a 
pillow.  St  Aldegonde  continued 
to  behave  with  characteristic  bru- 
tality. It  is  recorded  that  he  prided 
himself  when  he  did  laugh,  which 
was  rare,  on  laughing  loud.  Want- 
ing to  speak  to  his  wife,  he  sends  a 
friend  to  fetch  her  thus  :  "  '  Hugo,7 
said  St  Aldegonde  to  Mr  Bohun, 
*  I  wish  you  would  tell  Bertha  to 
come  to  me.  I  want  her.  She  is 
talking  to  a  lot  of  women  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  if  I  go 
to  her  I  am  afraid  they  will  get 
hold  of  me.'  "  The  same  gentle- 
man asking  him  if  he  were  going 
to  Church, 

"  St  Aldegonde  would  not  answer  ; 
he  gave  a  snort  and  glanced  at  Hugo 
with  the  eye  of  a  gladiator.  .  .  .  The 
Bishop  was  standing  near  the  mantel- 
piece talking  to  the  ladies,  who  were 
clustered  round  him;  the  Archdeacon 
and  the  Chaplain  and  some  other  clergy 
a  little  in  the  background;  Lord  St 
Aldegonde,  who,  whether  there  were  a 
fire  or  not,  always  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fireplace  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  moved  discourteously  among 
them,  assumed  his  usual  position,  and 
listened,  as  it  were  grimly,  for  a  few 
moments  to  their  talk ;  then  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  and 
with  the  groan  of  a  rebellious  Titan, 
'  How  I  hate  Sunday  ! ' 

"  'Granville!'  exclaimed  Lady  St 
Aldegonde,  turning  pale.  There  was  a 
general  shudder. 

"  '  I  mean  in  a  country-house,'  said 
Lord  St  Aldegonde.  '  Of  course  I  mean 
in  a  country-house.  I  do  not  dislike  it 
when  alone,  and  I  do  not  dislike  it  in 
London.  But  Sunday  in  a  country-house 
is  infernal.' 

"  '  I  think  it  is  now  time  for  us  to 
go,'  said  the  Bishop,  walking  away  with 
dignified  reserve;  and  they  all  dis- 


The  feasts  of  every  day  at  Muriel 
are  faithfully  chronicled.  On  one 
occasion  the  party  was  so  consider- 
able that  they  dined  in  the  great 
hall,  and  "  when  it  was  announced 
to  Lothair  that  his  lordship's  din- 
ner was  served,  and  he  offered  his 
arm  to  his  destined  companion,  he 
looked  around,  and  then,  in  an 


audible  voice  and  with  a  stateliness 
becoming  such  an  incident,  called 
upon  the  High  Sheriff  to  lead  the 
Duchess  to  the  table."  On  the  day 
when  the  illustrious  host  came  of 
age  he  dined  again  "  in  his  great 
hall  with  two  hundred  guests,  at  a 
banquet  where  all  the  resources  of 
nature  and  art  seemed  called  upon 
to  contribute  to  its  luxury  and 
splendour/'  Then  they  embarked 
in  fanciful  barges  and  gondolas  on 
a  lake,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  an 
island  with  a  pavilion  containing  a 
repast  of  "  coffee  and  ices  and  whim- 
sical drinks,"  with  music  and  magni- 
ficent fireworks.  Mr  Disraeli  is  as 
great  in  coloured  fire  as  in  theatri- 
cal upholstery ;  and  the  spectacle  on 
the  lake  is  so  like  the  transforma- 
tion-scene in  a  pantomime,  that  at 
the  end  of  it  we  expected  to  find 
Lothair  and  the  Duke  reappearing 
as  harlequins,  Lady  Corisande  and 
Miss  Arundel  as  columbines,  and 
the  Cardinal  and  the  Bishop  as 
rival  pantaloons,  while  St  Alde- 
gonde would  have  made  a  capital 
clown. 

All  this  time,  however,  much 
more  serious  business  has  been  in 
progress.  A  war  of  mines  and 
ambushes  is  waged  by  the  Car- 
dinal and  Monsignores  on  one  side, 
the  Bishop,  Chaplain,  and  Arch- 
deacon on  the  other,  for  the  right 
to  control  the  spiritual  interests  of 
Lothair.  In  fact  their  intended 
prey  led  such  a  life  of  it  that  the 
moral  is  obvious — namely,  if  you 
are  the  heir  to  many  castles  and 
parks,  do  not  invite  a  bishop  and  a 
cardinal  together  to  assist  you  in 
celebrating  the  attainment  of  your 
majority.  First  the  Monsignores 
tried  to  have  the  household  drawn 
up  to  receive  the  Cardinal  on  their 
knees.  Then  they  put  a  notice  in 
the  papers  that  Lothair  was  about 
to  celebrate  high  mass.  The  Bishop 
retaliated  by  persuading  Lothair  to 
receive  the  sacrament  in  his  own 
chapel  on  the  morning  of  his  birth- 
day, in  the  most  distinguished  com- 
pany ;  and  a  diocesan  deputation, 
consisting  of  archdeacons  and  rural 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


787 


deans,  presented  to  him  a  richly- 
bound  Bible  and  prayer-book  on  a 
cushion  of  velvet.  No  wonder  that 
"  the  habitual  pallor  of  the  Car- 
dinal's countenance  became  unusu- 
ally wan,"  that  "  the  cheek  of  Clare 
Arundel  was  a  crimson  flush,"  and 
"  that  Monsignore  Catesby  bit  his 
lip,"  on  witnessing  this  bold  man- 
oeuvre of  the  wily  Protestant  cham- 
pion. The  ladies  took  part  in  the 
warfare  with  their  accustomed  zeal. 
Lady  Corisande  whispered  in  Loth- 
air's  ear  that  one  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  her  life  was  eight  o'clock  that 
morning.  Clare  Arundel,  discomfit- 
ed but  not  defeated,  solemnly  sum- 
moned him  to  meet  Her  at  Rome. 
And  yet,  after  all  Lothair' s  aspi- 
rations for  one  Church  and  the 
restoration  of  Christendom,  and 
for  more  satisfactory  relations  with 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  Pagan  in- 
fluence, represented  by  the  Olym- 
pian countenance  and  Athenian  eye 
of  the  divine  Theodora,  prevails ; 
and  before  the  party  at  Muriel 
breaks  up,  he  is  so  far  from  think- 
ing of  building  cathedrals,  that  he 
thanks  her  for  saving  him  from 
lavishing  his  money  on  "  an  eccle- 
siastical toy/'  and  expresses  his 
resolution  to  devote  to  her  his  for- 
tune and  his  life. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  think 
that  Mrs  Campian  could  not  very 
well  avail  herself  of  this  splendid 
offer,  at  any  rate  in  the  lifetime  of 
the  Colonel ;  but  thereby  hangs 
a  great  part  of  the  tale.  It  is 
the  profound  conviction  of  many 
characters  in  the  book  that  two 
powerful  elements,  whose  antag- 
onism will  produce  a  moral  earth- 
quake, must  shortly  come  into  col- 
lision, and  that  one  or  other  of 
them  must  ultimately  prevail ;  and 
as  one  of  these  is  Popery,  and  the 
other  consists  of  secret  societies 
of  assassins  and  atheists,  the  pros- 
pects of  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
not  cheering.  All  society,  it  seems, 
is  honeycombed  by  the  lodges  of  a 
villanous  freemasonry,  whose  pri- 
mary, but  by  no  means  ultimate, 
object  is  the  destruction  of  the 


Papacy.  These  amiable  brother- 
hoods are  distinguished  by  ridicu- 
lous names,,  as  "  Mary  Anne  "  and 
"  Madre  Natura,"  and  'they  are 
always  plotting  outbreaks  which 
luckily  very  seldom  take  place. 
They  constantly  hold  secret  meet- 
ings— they  have  emissaries  going 
about  like  so  many  Guy  Fawkeses 
always  ready  with  the  dagger  or 
the  lucifer-match — they  have  pass- 
words, and  false  names,  and  dis- 
guises, and  dark-lanterns,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  melodramatic  ma- 
chinery which  has  such  an  irre- 
sistible fascination  for  our  author. 
This  appalling  picture  has  not  been 
without  its  effect  on  the  readers  of 
*  Lothair ' — indeed  we  know  of  one 
old  lady  who  has  been  terribly 
frightened,  and  who  never  goes  to 
bed  now  (especially  after  eating 
muffins  with  her  tea)  without 
dreaming  that  she  is  blown  up  by 
conspirators,  or  forcibly  converted 
by  the  Pope.  Well,  the  divine 
Theodora  is  not  merely  an  agent  of 
the  secret  societies,  but  has  appa- 
rently given  a  name  to  one  of  them 
(for  she  is  popularly  known  to  the 
assassins  and  atheists  as  Mary 
Anne),  and  is  a  prime  mover  in  all 
the  plots  which  alarm  the  despots 
of  Europe.  When  the  General 
visited  her  at  Muriel  they  were 
hatching  the  insurrectionary  move- 
ment on  Rome  which  ended  at 
Mentone ;  and  the  enthusiastic 
young  devotee  who  had  been  very 
near  marrying  Miss  Arundel  and 
building  a  Roman  Catholic  cathe- 
dral, is  now  enrolled  among  the 
Italian  Republicans  who  are  going 
to  make  war  on  the  successor 
of  St  Peter.  It  is  in  this 
novel  and  unexpected  situation 
that  we  find  him  when  the  scene 
shifts.  He  is  now  "  Captain 
Muriel"  of  the  Republican  army 
assembled  in  the  mountains  near 
Viterbo,  under  the  General  whom 
we  have  before  encountered,  and 
who,  it  seems,  is  the  most  consum- 
mate soldier  in  Europe,  though  his 
illustrious  name  is  never  disclosed 
to  us.  As  Lothair,  besides  serving 


788 


Lothair. 


[June 


in  the  army,  has  contributed  the 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds  with 
which  he  had  intended  to  build  a 
cathedral,  towards  the  expenses  of 
the  campaign,  it  is  not  so  surprising 
as  it  otherwise  might  be,  that  the 
consummate  soldier  confides  all  his 
plans  unreservedly  to  the  young 
recruit  and  admits  him  to  all  his 
councils.  Colonel  Campian  was  an 
old  adherent  of  the  cause,  and  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  he  should  hold 
a  high  position  on  the  staff;  but 
there  is  another  old  acquaintance 
in  a  position  of  trust  whom  we  were 
not  equally  prepared  to  find  there. 
The  General's  military  secretary  is — 
the  divine  Theodora !  "  She  moved 
among  them,"  says  Mr  Disraeli, 
"  like  the  spirit  of  some  other  world : ' 
— which  is  the  more  surprising  as 
he  tells  us  "  she  was  clothed  in  male 
attire/7  and  we  have  never  heard  of 
any  spirit-world  the  inhabitants  of 
which  are  dressed  in  the  uniform 
of  military  secretaries.  One  day 
the  camp  is  visited  by  a  lancer  of 
the  Royal  Guard  who  has  been  sent 
to  announce  the  arrest  of  Garibaldi. 
This  he  does  by  slowly  lowering  his 
tall  weapon  and  offering  the  Gene- 
ral the  despatch  which  was  fastened 
to  the  head  of  his  spear.  We  hope 
this  mode  of  delivering  military 
messages  will  not  become  common, 
as  an  incautious  or  inebriated  orderly 
might  easily  poke  out  a  general's 
eye.  Besides  the  information  about 
Garibaldi,  he  also  brings  a  private 
despatch  to  Theodora,  containing 
the  appalling  intelligence  that  "  the 
Mary  Anne  Societies  are  not  strong 
enough  for  the  situation,  and  that 
;tis  an  affair  of  the  Madre  Natura." 
In  order  that  the  reader  may  appre- 
ciate the  force  of  this  announce- 
ment, a  chapter  is  devoted  to  an 
account  of  the  last  -  mentioned  re- 
markable fraternity ;  but  as  it  might 
have  been  written  by  Mr  Gaston 
Phoebus  in  one  of  his  worst  par- 
oxysms, we  shall  say  nothing  more 
about  it.  But  by-and-by  they  hear 
worse  and  much  more  intelligible 
news,  to  the  effect  that  the  French 
troops  are  embarking  to  defend 


Rome.  This  causes  the  divine 
Theodora  to  retire  to  her  tent  in 
great  agony;  her  Hellenic  eyes  brim 
over  with  the  Attic  salt  of  her 
Castalian  tears,  till  they  run  down 
her  Phidian  nose,  and  channel  her 
Olympian  cheeks.  Nevertheless 
the  Republicans  resolve  to  advance 
and  try  to  get  into  the  city  before 
the  French.  They  find  the  enemy 
strongly  posted — they  make  attacks 
which  are  repulsed — but  the  divine 
Theodora,  a  sword  in  one  hand,  the 
banner  of  the  Republic  in  the  other, 
rallies  them,  and  the  enemy  is  rout- 
ed. At  this  moment  a  random  shot 
strikes  the  heroine,  who  is  borne 
by  Lothair  bleeding  into  Viterbo. 
At  first  she  seems  to  be  getting  on 
pretty  well,  but  the  thunder  of  the 
guns,  which  tell  that  the  French 
have  disembarked,  produces  an  un- 
favourable effect  upon  her  mind 
and  her  wound.  Colonel  Campian 
— whose  connubial  relations  with 
this  admirable  woman  must  have 
been  a  good  deal  interrupted  in  time 
of  peace  by  her  visits  to  the  chiefs  of 
the  secret  societies,  and  in  war  by 
her  duties  as  a  military  secretary — 
comes  to  summon  Lothair  to  her 
deathbed  and  then  leaves  them, 
apparently  going  away  to  enjoy  a 
quiet  cigar.  Lothair  addresses  her 
as  "Adored  being"  —  she  exacts 
from  him  a  promise  that  he  will 
never  enter  the  Church  of  Rome. 
"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  embrace 
me,  for  I  wish  that  your  spirit 
should  be  upon  me  as  mine  de- 
parts." 

The  scene  now  shifts  to  Rome, 
where  we  meet  more  old  friends. 
Lady  St  Jerome  looks  after  the 
spiritual  interests  of  the  English- 
men in  the  Papal  army;  and  Miss 
Arundel,  now  the  superior  of  a 
sisterhood  of  mercy,  scrapes  lint 
for  the  wounded  soldiers.  The  bat- 
tle of  Mentone  is  fought,  and  the 
Republicans,  in  the  absence  of 
their  military  secretary,  are  defeat- 
ed. A  young  man,  severely  wound- 
ed, is  found  in  an  ambulance;  he 
is  brought  to  Miss  Arundel,  and  she 
recognises — Lothair. 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


789 


The  reader  will  perhaps  wonder 
what  sort  of  a  reception  the  wound- 
ed Lothair  may  meet  with  from  the 
Monsignores  and  Miss  Arundel,  af- 
ter fighting  against  the  Pope,  under 
a  general  whose  declared  object  it 
was  to  blow  up  St  Peter's.  No- 
thing could  exceed  the  care  and 
kindness  of  these  charitable  peo- 
ple, and  they  take  advantage  of  his 
bodily  weakness  to  renew  their 
efforts  for  his  conversion.  But  it 
is  certainly  puzzling  to  find  that 
Miss  Arundel  calls  this  comrade  of 
the  assassins  and  atheists  "  the 
most  favoured  of  men "  —  that 
Lady  St  Jerome  receives  him 
"  with  an  expression  of  personal 
devotion  which  was  distressing  to 
him" — that  "  the  Princess  Tarpeia- 
Cinque  Cento,  the  greatest  lady 
in  Rome,  in  whose  veins,  it  was 
said,  flowed  both  consular  and 
pontifical  blood  of  the  rarest  tint," 
tells  him  they  will  never  forget 
what  he  had  done  for  them — and 
that  Monsignore  Berwick,  now  a 
cardinal,  hailed  him  "  as  his  com- 
rade in  the  great  struggle."  The 
astonishment  of  the  reader  would 
probably  be  complete  (had  Mr  Dis- 
raeli's previous  feats  left  in  him  any 
capacity  for  surprise)  at  finding  that 
a  grand  service  is  given  in  the  Jes- 
uit Church  of  St  George  of  Cappa- 
docia,  to  celebrate  Lothair's  re- 
covery, and  that  at  its  conclusion 
"  many  asked  a  blessing  from  Lo- 
thair, and  some  rushed  forward  to 
kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment."  The 
hero  of  these  attentions  is  unable 
to  account  for  them  himself,  till 
he  reads  in  a  Roman  newspaper 
an  account  of  the  event,  in  which 
he  is  represented  to  have  fought 
at  Mentone  on  the  side  of  the 
Pope,  and  to  have  been  given  up 
for  lost,  till  Miss  Arundel  was  di- 
rected by  a  most  beautiful  woman, 
who  suddenly  and  mysteriously  ap- 
peared to  her,  to  go  to  a  certain 
hospital  where  she  would  find  a 
young  Englishman  in  an  ambulance; 
and  that  on  doing  as  she  was  bid 
she  found  Lothair.  The  beautiful 
woman  is  variously  represented  to 


be  a  tailor's  wife  and  the  Virgin 
Mary ;  but  as  she  was  proved  to 
have  had  a  halo  round  her  head, 
and  to  have  given  to  some  children 
miraculous  flowers,  it  is  clear  that 
no  tailor  could  ever  have  pressed 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  the  alterna- 
tive is  inevitable.  When  Lothair 
represents  the  incorrectness  of  this 
version  of  the  story  to  Cardinal 
Grandison,  his  Eminence  calmly 
insinuates  that  he  is  still  suffering 
from  illness,  and  labours  under  an 
hallucination ;  and  as  Lothair  is 
satisfied  with  this  explanation  we 
hope  the  reader  will  not  be  more 
exacting,  and  we  recommend  the 
incident  and  the  explanation  to  the 
attention  of  Mr  Burnand  for  his 
next  burlesque.  Not  content  with 
this  remarkable  achievement,  the 
Cardinal,  striking  while  the  iron  is 
hot,  informs  him  that  the  very  next 
day  the  Pope  will,  as  a  special  favour, 
receive  the  bewildered  hero  into 
the  bosom  of  the  Church  of  which 
his  Holiness  is  the  divine  head.  In 
this  terrible  predicament  the  only 
relief  that  occurs  to  the  helpless 
and  perfectly  imbecile  victim  is 
death.  In  deep  despair  he  wanders 
into  the  Colosseum.  Now  we  had 
forgotten  to  apprise  the  reader  that 
the  divine  Theodora  had  made  a 
compact  with  Lothair  that  if  pos- 
sible she  would  revisit  him  after 
she  had  quitted  this  world.  Ac- 
cordingly she  now  comes  back  to 
remind  him  of  his  promise  never  to 
go  over  to  Rome.  Her  apparition 
is  seen  by  him  in  the  moonbeams, 
her  voice  warns  him,  he  falls  down 
insensible,  and  is  picked  up  in  such 
a  state  as  to  be  altogether  unpre- 
sentable to  the  Holy  Father;  and 
the  doctor,  who  is  called  in,  starts 
him  off  for  change  of  air  to  Palermo. 
By  this  admirable  device  is  the 
wretched  Lothair  extricated  from 
his  perplexities,  and  from  the  Car- 
dinal's clutches. 

From  Palermo  he  goes  to  Malta, 
where  he  meets  our  old  friend  Mr 
Phoebus,  who  has  come  there  in 
his  yacht  Pan.  That  gentleman, 
having  given  our  Commissioners 


790 


Lothair. 


[June 


in  Lunacy  the  slip,  was  on  his 
way  home  to  an  island  which  he 
now  inhabited  "near  the  Asian 
coast  of  the  ^Egean  Sea/'  and  where 
he  lived  in  great  splendour,  as  "  by 
his  genius  and  fame  he  commanded 
a  large  income."  "  It  was  impos- 
sible," our  author  very  justly  re- 
marks, "  for  Lothair  in  his  present 
condition  to  have  fallen  upon  a 
more  suitable  companion  than  Mr 
Phoebus."  Madame  Phoebus  and 
her  sister  Euphrosyne  were  both 
at  Malta,  and  "  welcomed  Lothair 
in  maritime  costumes,  which  were 
absolutely  bewitching."  They  all 
sailed  away  to  Mr  Phcebus's  island, 
when  the  artist  welcomed  his  guest 
to  "an  Aryan  clime,  an  Aryan 
landscape,  and  an  Aryan  race" — 
and  where  they  frequently  went 
hunting,  on  which  occasions  Mr 
Phoebus  wore  green  velvet  boots. 
Afterwards  they  all  went  to  the 
Holy  Land,  where  Euphrosyne 
"sniffed  with  her  almond-shaped 
nostrils  the  all  -  pervading  frag- 
rance," and  Mr  Phoebus  "scatter- 
ed his  gold  like  a  great  Seigneur 
of  Gascony."  Here  they  met  St 
Aldegonde  and  Bertram,  Cori- 
sande's  brother,  who  fell  in  love 
with  Euphrosyne;  and  a  most  ex- 
traordinary person,  a  Syrian  named 
Paraclete,  who  was  perhaps  the 
only  man  living  competent  to  hold  a 
discourse  with  Mr  Phoebus  on  the 
Aryan-Semitic  question.  Taking 
a  ride  one  day  with  Mr  Paraclete, 
Lothair  meets  his  former  com- 
mander, the  most  consummate  sol- 
dier in  Europe,  who  is  now  in  the 
service  of  the  Porte ;  and  then  sud- 
denly our  hero  arrives  at  his  own 
house  in  London.  The  first  thing 
he  did  the*re  was  to  summon  Mr 
Ruby  the  jeweller,  and  to  order  him 
to  make  a  crucifix  with  a  figure  of 
pure  gold  and  a  cross  of  choice 
emeralds,  which  he  intends  to  offer 
to  Miss  Arundel  as  a  wedding-pre- 
sent on  her  becoming  the  bride 
of  the  Church.  How  he  again 
met  with  Corisande,  who  was  be- 
lieved to  be  engaged  to  the  Duke 
of  Brecon,  though  she  was  not — 


how  he  saw  Miss  Arundel's  picture 
in  the  Royal  Academy — how  he  and 
Cardinal  Grandison  talked  the 
most  astonishing  theological  non- 
sense together — how  the  Cardinal 
wanted  him  to  attend  the  (Ecu- 
menical Council — how  Miss  Arun- 
del took  the  veil, — all  this  need  not 
detain  us  from  the  final  incident, 
which  is,  of  course,  the  betrothal  of 
Lothair  to  the  Cynosure  of  the 
Empyrean.  When  it  happened,  he 
behaved  in  the  following  unaccount- 
able manner  :  "  He  soothed  and 
sustained  her  agitated  frame,  and 
sealed  with  an  embrace  her  speech- 
less form."  We  believe  that  a 
Mormon  lady  is  said  to  be  "  sealed" 
to  Brigham  Young  when  that  pat- 
riarch announces  his  intention  of 
adding  her  to  his  seraglio  ;  but 
whether  any  notion  of  this  sort 
was  in  Lothair's  mind,  or  whether 
he  was  merely  performing  on  her 
speechless  form  the  same  operation 
which  her  cheek  had  formerly  un- 
dergone, we  know  no  more  than 
we  do  why  her  frame  was  agitated 
while  her  form  was  speechless. 

We  will  now  cull  a  few  more 
specimens  from  the  wilderness  of 
sweets  which  Mr  Disraeli,  as  the 
reader  of  our  extracts  will  already 
have  perceived,  has  planted  on  the 
tomb  of  Lindley  Murray. 

The  ladies  are  very  loose  in  their 
grammar : — 

"Who  should  lead  her  out  on 
such  an  occasion  than  the  nearest 
relation  she  has  in  the  world?" 
asks  Lady  St  Jerome. 

Lady  Corisande  has  "  every  con- 
fidence in  Bertram." 

"  You  have  not  suffered,  I  hope," 
says  Lothair  to  Mrs  Campian. 

"Very  little,  and  through  your 
kindness,"  is  the  ambiguous  reply. 

"Except  mamma,  this  is  our 
first  visit,"  said  the  Duchess. 

Of  Miss  Arundel  it  is  recorded 
that  "  Lothair  danced  with  her, 
and  never  admired  her  more" — 
meaning  not  that  he  thenceforward 
admired  her  no  more,  but  that  his 
admiration  had  never  been  greater. 

We  hereby  offer  as  a  prize  our 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


791 


copy  of  'Lothair'  to  any  candidate 
who  has  passed  the  Civil  Service 
examination,  and  who  will  parse 
for  us  the  following  sentence: — 

"  For  though  being  a  violent  Protest- 
ant and  of  extreme  Conservative  opin- 
ions, her  anti- Papal  antipathies  and 
her  Italian  predilections  frequently  in- 
volved her  with  acquaintances  not  so 
distinguished,  as  she  deemed  herself, 
for  devotion  to  the  cause  of  order  and 
orthodoxy." 

We  hope  the  reader  will  like  this 
next  sentence  also  for  its  fine  meta- 
phorical ending : — 

"All  the  ladies  of  the  house  were 
fond  and  fine  horsewomen.  The  mount 
of  one  of  these  riding  parties  was  magi- 
cal. The  dames  and  damsels  vaulted  on 
their  barbs,  and  genets,  and  thorough- 
bred hacks,  with  such  airy  majesty  ; 
they  were  absolutely  overwhelming 
with  their  bewildering  habits  and  their 
bewitching  hats." 

But,  next  to  the  unrivalled  pas- 
sage about  the  speechless  form,  we, 
on  the  whole,  prefer  the  follow- 
ing : — 

"  The  Favonian  breeze  played  on  the 
brow  of  this  beautiful  hill ;  and  the  ex- 
quisite palm-trees,  while  they  bowed 
their  rustling  heads,  answered  in  re- 
sponsive chorus  to  the  antiphon  of  na- 
ture." 

Hooray  !  Three  cheers  for  the 
right  honourable  speaker  !  These 
extracts  scarcely  look  as  if  they 
had  been  taken  from  a  book,  every 
sentence  of  which,  as  an  enthusi- 
astic reviewer  assures  us,  is  worth 
studying.  They  look  rather  as  if 
the  author  had  not  found  time  to 
read  over  what  he  had  written.  To 
be  sure,  there  may  be  reasons,  be- 
sides want  of  time,  why  Mr  Dis- 
raeli should  not  greatly  care  to  re- 
peruse  his  own  work. 

We  think  the  reader  of  our  ar- 
ticle will  admit,  that  in  this  novel 
Mr  Disraeli  appears  to  be  in  very 
gracious  fooling.  Some  eulogist 
has  compared  it  to  a  fairy  tale  :  it 
is  such  a  fairy  tale  as  might  be 
composed  by  a  madman  in  plush 
breeches.  Why  a  once  successful 
novelist  and  veteran  political  leader 


should  have  employed  his  time  in 
writing  it,  is  a  problem  of  which  we 
can  offer  no  other  solution  than  that 
suggested  at  the  beginning  of  this 
paper. 

It  is   unnecessary  to   point  out 
to      those     who      remember     the 
singular  theories   broached  in  Mr 
Disraeli's  former  novels,  that  the 
adventures  of  Lothair  can  scarcely 
be    expected    to     end    with     the 
present    third    volume.       It    will 
easily     be     anticipated     that     a 
sequel  still  more  remarkable  than 
the  commencement  of  that  noble- 
man's  history  is   in   progress — in 
fact  we  may  whisper  that  the  same 
assistants   have   been   secured  for 
the  future  as  for  the  present  work 
— namely,  the  writer  of  the  Drury 
Lane  pantomimes,  a  gentleman  on 
the  staff  of  the  'Court  Journal,' 
and  a  celebrated  mad-doctor  who 
is  in  the  habit  of  making  copious 
notes  of  the  conversation   of   his 
patients.    Nothing  whatever  is  said 
in  Lothair  about  the  pre-eminence 
of  the  Jewish  race,  which  formed  so 
prominent  a  feature  in   a  former 
work.     In  that  preceding  novel,  it 
was  shown  that  most  of  the  illustri- 
ous people  at  that  time  existing  were 
of  Hebrew  blood.      But  a  whole 
generation  of  celebrities  has  sprung 
into  distinction  since.     Mr  Disraeli 
is   not   a   man   who  abandons  his 
ideas,  and  it  still  remains  for  him 
to   do  justice  to  those  which  he 
most  fondly  cherishes.     According- 
ly, in  the  continuation  of  Lothair 
a  great  many  eminent   persons  of 
this  time — such  as  Count  Bismark, 
President  Lopez,  Generals  Lee  and 
Sherman,  Messrs  Blondin  and  Leo- 
tard, Herr  Joachim,  Madame  Patti, 
M.  Lesseps,  and  Mr  Fechter — will 
be    all    proved   to    belong  to  the 
most  illustrious   of   the   tribes   of 
Israel.        The     Emperor     of     the 
French,  though   a   Jew,  can   only 
claim     affinity    with     an    inferior 
tribe;  and  Mr  Gladstone,  if  a  Jew 
at  all,  is  of  the  posterity  of  Shimei 
who  reviled   David.     The  descent 
of     the      Rothschilds     from     the 
wealthy  Israelite  who  supplied  the 


792 


Lothair. 


[June 


materials  for  the  golden  calf,  is 
briefly  but  clearly  traced  through 
the  money-changers  who  were 
driven  out  of  the  Temple.  All 
this,  however,  is  merely  episodical 
to  the  continuation  of  Lothair's 
history.  The  struggle  between 
the  Protestant  and  Catholic  friends 
of  that  hero  for  the  possession  of  so 
important  a  proselyte  which  occurs 
in  the  present  work,  is  only  introduc- 
tory to  the  far  more  important  con- 
test that  is  to  take  place  in  the  sequel. 
The  active  and  inquiring  mind  of 
Lothair  has  long  occupied  itself 
with  the  mysteries  of  the  Jewish 
faith,  and  the  Chief  Rabbi  is  now 
his  familiar  friend.  The  Bishop, 
with  his  chaplain  and  trusty  arch- 
deacon, brings  a  strong  counter- 
influence  to  work.  And  as  when 
two  of  rival  parties  contest  a  seat, 
a  candidate  hostile  to  both  may 
sometimes  carry  the  election,  so  the 
astute  Cardinal,  ever  on  the  watch, 
bears  down  at  the  head  of  his 
Monsignores  on  the  devoted  Lo- 
thair, who  has  already  begun  to 
talk  of  building  a  synagogue.  The 
rival  ecclesiastics  are  indefatigable 
in  their  efforts ;  the  Rabbi  endea- 
vours to  have  the  Passover  kept  at 
Muriel,  while  the  Bishop  presses 
sausage  on  Lothair  at  break- 
fast, and  the  Cardinal  tries  to 
entrap  him  into  eating  ham-sand- 
wiches at  lunch.  A  domestic  cir- 
cumstance renders  the  triple  con- 
test more  exciting,  for  at  this  junc- 
ture the  Cynosure  of  the  Empyrean 
is  confined  of  twins,  and  how  they 
shall  be  baptised  is  a  matter  which 
is  rightly  judged  to  be  of  immense 
importance.  The  Bishop  is  per- 
petually dodging  about  the  nur- 
sery, followed  by  his  chaplain 
bearing  a  portable  font.  The  Mon- 
signores defeat  his  design  by  spread- 
ing a  scandalous  report  that  he  and 
the  chaplain  are  trying  to  make 
love  to  the  nurses.  The  eighth 
day,  so  important  in  the  rites  of  the 
Jewish  Church,  approaches.  On 
the  seventh  night  after  the  birth, 
the  Cardinal  seeks  Lothair  in  great 
agitation,  and  makes  the  most 


astonishing  revelation.  He  has 
discovered  in  the  family  archives 
absolute  proof  that  Lothair's  grand- 
father, who  is  buried  in  the  alabaster 
tomb,  was  his  (the  Cardinal's) 
father,  and  that,  moreover,  he  was 
a  Jew  of  the  purest  and  noblest 
blood.  Not  only  does  the  remorse- 
ful prelate  abandon  his  attempt  to 
convert  Lothair  to  Romanism,  but 
he  announces  his  own  intention 
to  embrace  the  religion  of  Moses, 
deferring  it  only  till  he  can  go  to 
Rome  and  try  to  bring  the  Pope 
over  with  him  to  the  new  creed. 
This  decides  the  wavering  Lothair, 
in  spite  of  the  tears  and  entreaties 
of  the  Lady  Corisande.  The  next 
morning  the  twins,  to  the  great 
disgust  of  the  Bishop  and  the 
Duke's  family,  are  duly  admitted 
into  the  Hebrew  community  with 
all  due  ceremonies,  and  receive  the 
names  of  Moses  and  Aaron.  Both 
are  also  called  Tussaud,  after  their 
grandmother.  Lord  Moses  Tus- 
saud Lothair,  as  he  grows  up, 
shows  a  princely  prodigality  of  dis- 
position, and  attests  the  purity  of 
his  race  by  an  early  leaning  towards 
Mosaic  jewellery,  and  further  by  a 
proposal  (which  greatly  exasperates 
his  noble  parent)  to  sell  the  gold 
railing  of  his  great-grandfather's 
tomb.  Lord  Aaron,  the  younger 
twin,  is  of  an  intellectual  and 
speculative  turn  of  mind,  and  de- 
votes himself  to  the  establishment 
of  one  Church  by  the  restoration, 
not  of  Christendom,  but  of  Israel, 
and  to  the  extrication  of  the  Aryan 
races  from  Semitism  by  means  of 
Art,  of  which  he  is  himself  a  dis- 
ciple, having  an  hereditary  talent 
for  modelling  in  wax.  We  will  not 
reveal  any  more  of  this  exciting 
work — the  demand  for  which  will 
doubtless  be  unparalleled — further 
than  to  note  that  it  contains  a  re- 
markable peculiarity  respecting  the 
doctrines  of  the  Hebrews ;  for,  in- 
stead of  treating  the  coming  of  the 
Jewish  Messiah  as  prospective,  it 
is  hinted  that  he  is  now  on  earth, 
and  has  been  for  about  sixty-five 
years. 


1870.] 


Lothair. 


793 


We  scarcely  know  whether  to 
congratulate  Mr  Disraeli  or  not  on 
the  circumstance  that  everybody 
has  read  his  work.  Such  popularity 
is  doubtless  gratifying,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  its  disadvantages. 
For  instance,  when  next,  in  rising 
to  address  the  House,  he  uncovers, 
the  audience  may  perhaps  fancy 
tl  ey  hear  a  faint  tinkle  as  of  bells. 
"We  dread,  too,  the  effect  of  a  mali- 
cious opponent  alluding  to  him  as 
tbe  right  honourable  member  for 
Muriel.  Perhaps  before  the  end  of 
the  session  it  will  be  well  for  him 
to  try  and  do  what  everybody  else 
will  by  that  time  have  done,  and 
forget  all  about  Lothair.  On  the 
whole,  we  would  rather  that  Mr 


Gladstone  had  written  it.  That 
gentleman's  sombre  genius  would 
bear  with  advantage  a  little  light 
edging  of  ridicule,  and  the  works  in 
which  he  has  hitherto  sought  to  re- 
lieve his  plethora  of  words  have 
been  very  far  from  amusing  any- 
body. Possibly,  however,  his  friends 
are  better  satisfied  that  the  author- 
ship should  be  where  it  is.  But, 
besides  the  adherents  of  these  emi- 
nent statesmen,  there  is  a  not  in- 
considerable third  class  in  the  coun- 
try who  believe  that  both  of  them 
are  much  more  harmlessly  employed 
in  writing  dull  or  foolish  books 
than  in  pelting  each  other  with 
fragments  of  the  Constitution. 


INDEX   TO    VOL.    CVIL 


Abdul  Ruhmau,  defeat  of,  by  Shir  All, 
62. 

Acornati,  the  Marquis  d',  698. 

ADMIRALTY,  THE,  763. 

Adulteration,  prevalence  of,  488. 

Afghanistan,  policy  of  Sir  John  Law- 
rence toward,  61  et  seq. 

Agricultural  labourers,  their  condition 
on  the  Continent  compared  with  that 
at  home,  23  et  seq. — measures  for  its 
improvement,  28  et  seq. 

Alexandria,  sketches  in,  374. 

AMERICA,  WHITE,  RED,  BLACK,  AND 
YELLOW  IN,  314. 

Ammergau,  the  Passion-play  at,  381. 

Animal  life,  picture  of  the  world  with- 
out, 531. 

Animals,  the  individualities  of,  532 — 
their  destruction  by  man,  536  el  seq. 
— growing  humanity  to  them,  546. 

ANTAGONISM  OF  RACE  AND  COLOUR, 

THE,  314. 

Arab  villages  in  Egypt,  the,  88,  368 — 
tournament,  102. 

Army,  threatened  changes  in  its  patron- 
age, &c.,  259. 

ARMY  REFORM,  THE  GOVERNMENT 
SCHEME  OF,  489. 

Artisans,  differences  between  their 
position  and  that  of  farm-labourers, 
28,  30. 

AUSTEN,  Miss,  AND  Miss  MITFORD,  290. 

Austen,  Miss,  sketch  of  her  life,  290  et 
seq.—  her  works,  295  et  seq.,  299. 

Australia,  Sir  C.  Dilke  on,  229. 

Austria,  wages,  &c.,  of  agricultural  la- 
bourers in,  26 — the  emperor  of,  at 
the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal,  86 — 
at  the  inauguration,  93 — difficulties 
of,  242. 

Babington  conspiracy,  Queen  Mary's 
connection  with,  117. 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne,  the  statement  of 
Lady  Byron  to  her,  130. 

Bauer,  M.,  his  speech  at  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  Suez  Canal,  94. 

BAVARIA,  THE  PASSION-PLAY  IN,  381. 


Belgium,  wages,  &c.,  of  agricultural 
labourers  in,  26 — results  of  the  sys- 
tem of  small  properties  in,  33  — 
sketches  in,  during  the  Waterloo 
campaign,  695. 

Berri,  the  Due  de,  697. 

Bitter  Lakes,  the,  on  the  Suez  Canal, 
182. 

BLUE  LAWS,  477— of  Connecticut,  the, 
478 — convictions  under  them,  481. 

Bracciano,  the  Duke  of,  416. 

Broughton,  Lord,  his  testimony  on  the 
Byron  case,  133. 

Burglary,  punishment  of,  by  the  Blue 
Laws,  480. 

BYRON,  LORD,  AND  HIS  CALUMNIATORS, 
123— postscript  to,  267. 

Byron,  Lady,  examination  of  her 
charges  against  her  husband,  124  et 
seq.—  her  letters  to  Mrs  Leigh,  129. 

Cail,  M. ,  the  farming  establishment  of, 
24. 

Cairo,  railway  from  Suez  to,  195— the 
Oriental  Hotel,  ib.— ball  at  the  Kasr 
el  Nilo,  196— sketches  in,  357  et  seq. 

Camerera  Mayor,  the,  in  Spain,  417. 

Cardwell,  Mr,  his  scheme  of  Army  Re- 
form, 489  et  seq. 

Chalais,  the  Prince  de,  416. 

Chalouf  cutting,  the,  on  the  Suez  Canal, 
183,  184,  186. 

Chartley  Manor,  the  removal  of  Queen 
Mary  to,  115. 

CHATTERTON,  453 — his  parentage,  ib. — 
early  life,  454  etseq. — his  first  produc- 
tions, 459 — Catcott  and  Burgum,  46  L 
— Barrett  the  antiquary,  462— ap- 
prenticed to  an  attorney,  465 — con- 
duct of  Horace  Wai  pole,  470 — his 
will,  472 — removes  to  London,  473 — 
his  last  days  and  death,  475. 

Child,  Mr,  his  evidence  on  the  Byron 
case,  136. 

Childers,  Mr,  as  First  Lord  of  the  Ad- 
miralty, 763  et  seq. 

Chinese,  their  position,  &c.,  in  the  Unit- 
ed States,  328  et  seq. 


Index. 


795 


Church  party,  their  position  on  the 
e  iucation  question,  656  et  seq. 

COMBES,  M.,  'LA  PRINCESSE  DES  UR- 
SLNS,'  BY,  reviewed,  415. 

COMEDY,      ON      THE     EMPLOYMENT      OF 

KHYMED  VERSE  IN,  264 — prose  the 

proper  vehicle  for,  75. 
COMING  SESSION,  THE,  250. 
Competitive  examination  system,  the, 

in  the  United  States,  22. 
Compulsory  education,  the  cry  for,  652 

et  seq. 

CONTINENT,  THE  FARMING  AND  PEA- 
SANTRY OF  THE,  23. 
Co-operation,  application  of,   to  land, 

36. 

Cottages   for  farm-labourers,  improve- 
ment of,  29. 
Criticism,  modern,  629. 
Da  icing  Dervishes,  180. 
Da  cent's  '  Annals  of  an  Eventful  Life,' 

649. 
DEMOCRACY  BEYOND  THE  SEAS,  220— 

results  of,  in  the  United  States,  225 

et  seq. 

Difficult  precept,  the  (O'Dowd),  603. 
Dii-KE,    SIR    C.  W.,    HIS    'GREATER 

BRITAIN'  reviewed,  220. 
Diplomatic  Service,  our  (O'Dowd),  599. 
DISRAELI'S  LOTHAIR,  reviewed,  773. 
Dissenters,   the,  their  demands  as  re- 
gards the  Universities,  143  et  seq. 
Dockyards,  the  reductions  in  the,  765 

it  seq. 

Dogs,  the  home  for,  550. 
Dross,  Blue  Laws  of  New  England  on, 

482. 
Drunkenness,   its  punishment  by  the 

Blue  Laws,  479. 

Dull  as  Ditchwater  (O'Dowd),  506. 
Diirer,  Recent  Lives,  &c.,  of,  reviewed, 

(>30. 
EARL'S  DENE,  Part  III.,  1— Part  IV., 

161— Part  V.,  331— Part  VI.,  397— 

Part  VI I. ,  569— Part  VIII.,  667. 
EDUCATION  DIFFICULTY,  THE,  652. 
Education,  how  it  may  advantage  the 

farm-labourer,  29  et  seq. 
Egypt,  enduring  interest  of,  90 — moon- 

light  in,  98. 

Egyptian  army,  the,  180. 
Elizabeth,  Mr  Froude's  picture  of,  105 

it  seq.,  108. 
Elizabeth,  Princess  of  Parma,  queen  of 

Philip  V.,  432. 
England,  the  agricultural  labourers  in, 

<  ompared  with  Continental,  23  etseq. 

-  -Blue  Laws  of  the  Puritans  in,  477. 
English  press,  their  tone  on  the  Suez 

Canal,  182. 
Enlistment,  proposed  change  in  mode 

( f,  493. 

Eslrees,  the  Cardinal  and  Abbg  d',  424. 
Etlal,  the  monastery  of,  382. 
VOL.  CVII. — NO.  DCLVI. 


Eugenie,  the  Empress,  her  arrival  and 
reception  in  Port  Said,  91  et  seq. — at 
the  inauguration  of  the  Canal,  93, 
99. 

Europe,  comparative  absence  of  anta- 
gonism of  race  in,  314. 

FARMING  AND  PEASANTRY  OF  THE  CON- 
TINENT, THE,  23. 

Farming,  foreign  and  English,  31 — ap- 
plication of  co-operation  to,  36. 

Forster,  Mr,  his  education  measure, 
654  et  seq. 

France,  condition  of  agricultural  la- 
bourers in,  24 — results  of  the  system 
of  small  properties  in,  33. 

Free-trade,  grounds  on  which  rejected 
by  the  United  States,  221. 

Fresh- water  canal  at  Ismailia,  the,  100. 

FROUDE,  MR,  AND  QUEEN  MARY,  105. 

Gifford,  Gilbert,  his  betrayal  of  Queen 
Mary,  115. 

Gladstone,  Mr,  and  the  prospects  of  the 
Session,  252  et  seq. 

GOVERNMENT  SCHEME  OF  ARMY  RE- 
FORM, THE,  489. 

Grant,  General,  and  the  Red  Indians, 
318. 

'  GREATER  BRITAIN,'  review  of,  220. 

Hainault,  agricultural  wages,  &c.,  in, 
26. 

Heaton,  Mrs,  her  '  Life,  &c.,  of  Diirer ' 
reviewed,  630. 

Hip,  hip,  hurrah !  origin  of,  186  note. 

Hobhouse,  Sir  J.  C.,  his  testimony  on 
the  Byron  case,  133,  137. 

HOWARD'S  '  FARMING  AND  PEASANTRY 
OF  THE  CONTINENT  '  reviewed,  23. 

India,  results  of  the  competitive  ex- 
amination system  in,  223 — sketches 
in,  by  Sir  C.  Dilke,  232  et  seq. 

Indus,  the  valley  of  the,  233. 

IN  FEBRUARY  1870,  376— A  Valentine, 
1570,  ib. 

Inquisition,  the  measures  of  the  Prin- 
cesse  des  Ursins  against,  424. 

Ireland,  the  policy  of  the  Government 
toward,  258  et  seq. 

Irish  Land  Bill,  prospects  of  the  Session 
regarding  it,  250. 

IRONCLAD  SHIPS,  OUR,  706. 

Ismailia,  sketches  at,  on  the  Suez 
Canal,  99,  100  et  seq.—  the  ball  at, 
102. 

JOHN,  Part  III.,  40— Part  IV.,  198— 
Part  V.,  269— Part  VI.,  434— Part 
VII.,  609— Part  VIII.,  725. 

Joseph's  Well  at  Cairo,  369. 

Khediv6,  the  reception  on  board  his 
yacht,  90 — his  garden  palace,  366. 

La  Briche,  farming  and  wages  at,  24. 

Lady  Grace,  review  of,  642. 

Lahore,  the  reception  of  Shir  Ali  at,  66. 

Lawrence,  Sir  John,  his  negotiations, 
&c.,  with  Shir  Ali,  61  et  seq. 
311 


796 


Index. 


Leigh,  Mr  Austen,  his  'Life,  &c.,  of 
Jane  Austen,'  291  et  seq. 

Leigh,  Mrs,  Mrs  Stowe's  calumnies 
against,  123  et  seq — her  history  and 
character,  127. 

Lesseps,  M.  de,  at  the  inauguration  of 
the  Canal,  93,  95  et  seq. 

Lindsay,  Lord,  on  the  Byron  case,  133. 

Lion  in  old  age,  the,  545. 

LOTHAIR,  review  of,  773. 

Louis  XIV.,  notices  of,  in  connection 
with  the  Princesse  des  Ursins,  417, 
418,  et  seq.  passim. 

Ludlow,  Koger,  the  Blue  Laws  com- 
piled by,  478. 

Lushington,  Dr,  and  the  Byron  case, 
131. 

Lying,  its  punishment  by  the  Blue 
Laws,  480. 

LYTTON,  LORD,  WALPOLE  by,  reviewed, 
74: — letter  from,  on  the  employment 
of  rhymed  verse  in  comedy,  264. 

Maintenon,  Madame  de,  417,  418,  419. 

Maories,  Sir  C.  Dilke  on  the,  229. 

Marie  Louise,  wife  of  Philip  V.,  con- 
nection of  the  Princesse  des  Ursins 
with,  419  et  seq. 

Mary,  Queen,  Mr  Froude's  picture  of, 
105  et  seq.  —  Walsingham's  plot 
against  her,  114  et  seq. — the  death- 
scene,  119. 

Mary's  sycamore  near  Cairo,  372. 

Massachusetts,  the  Blue  Laws  of,  481. 

MAYO,  LORI?,  AND  THE  UMBALLA  DUR- 
BAR, 61. 

Mehemet  Ali,  the  tomb  of,  369. 

Menzaleh,  Lake,  the  Suez  Canal  at,  89, 
97. 

MERCER'S  '  JOURNAL  OF  WATERLOO,  '  694. 

Message  of  Peace,  the  (O'Dowd),  594. 

Mill,  J.  S. ,  his  advocacy  of  peasant-pro- 
prietorship, 31. 

Milne,  Sir  A.,  at  the  opening  of  the 
Suez  Canal,  96. 

Ministerial  organs,  their  tone  as  to  the 
coming  session,  250. 

Mitford,  Miss,  her  parentage  and  early 
life,  290,  292  et  seq.  — her  works, 
296  et  seq.,  306. 

Moles  at  Port  Said,  their  construction, 
89. 

Monkeys,  the  peculiarities  of,  533. 

Montagu,  the  Marquise  de,  her  Memoirs 
reviewed,  635. 

MONTALEMBERT,    COUNT   CHARLES    DE, 

522. 

'  Morning  Post,'  the,  on  the  Suez  Canal, 

182  note. 
Morris's  'Earthly  Paradise,'  Part  III., 

review  of,  644.* 

Naturalists,  the  cruelties  of,  540. 
Negro,   the,   his  position,   &c.,   in  the 

United  States  as  regards  the  whites, 

320  et  seq. 


Negro  question,  Sir  C.  Dilke  on,  224. 

NEW  BOOKS,  628— Albrecht  Diirer,  630 
—the  Marquise  de  Montagu,  635— 
Smedley's  Poems,  640  —  Morris's 
'Earthly  Paradise,' 644— novels  and 
novelists,  647— '  Wenderholme,'  649. 

New  England,  the  Blue  Laws  of,  478. 

New  Measures  and  Old  Men  (O'Dowd), 

New  Zealand,  Sir  C.  Dilke  on,  228  et 
seq. 

Nile,  amount  of  its  rise,  372. 

Nile  ferry,  scene  at  a,  362. 

Noailles,  Madame  de,  418. 

Noailles,  the  Baroness  de,  '  Memoirs  of 
the  Marquise  de  Montagu'  by,  re- 
viewed, 635. 

Nonconformists,  the,  their  demands  as 
regards  the  Universities,  143  et  seq. — 
their  views  on  the  education  ques- 
tion, 656  et  seq. 

North  American  Indians,  how  regarded 
by  the  whites,  315  et  seq. — their  pre- 
sent condition,  &c.,  318  et  seq. 

Novels  and  novelists,  647. 

Ober  -  Ammergau,  the  Passion  -  play 
at,  381. 

O'DowD,  CORNELIUS— words  without 
music,  237— who's  afraid?  240 — new 
measures  and  old  men,  242— talk- 
gambits,  244— a  small  clerical  error, 
247 — re-constructing  the  edifice,  379 
— the  Tipperary  answer,  499 — on 
some  rash  investments,  501 — dull  as 
ditchwater,  504— a  Protestant  relief 
bill,  506  — on  sanding  the  sugar,  591 
— the  message  of  peace,  594— -the 
two  safe  careers,  596 — our  diplomatic 
service,  599 — the  difficult  precept, 
603 — personal  and  peculiar,  605. 

On  or  Hierapolis,  the  ruins  of,  371. 

OUR  IRON-CLAD  SHIPS,  706. 

OUR  POOR  RELATIONS,  531. 

Parliament,  the  coming  Session  of,  250 
et  seq. 

Parma,  the  Princess  of,  marriage  of 
Philip  V.  to,  431  et  seq. 

PASSION-PLAY  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF 
BAVARIA,  THE,  381. 

Paulet,  Sir  A.,  and  Queen  Mary,  115. 

Peasant  -  proprietors  of  Austria,  the, 
state  of  their  labourers,  26 — Mr  Mill 
and  others  on  them,  31. 

Personal  and  Peculiar  (O'Dowd),  605. 

Philip  V.  of  Spain,  connection  of  the 
Princesse  des  Ursins  with,  417  et  seq. 

Poor-law,  the,  its  advantages  to  the 
agricultural  labourers,  27. 

POOR  RELATIONS,  OUR,  531. 

Port  Said,  arrival  at,  and  sketches  in, 
85,  95— the  moles,  87. 

PROBLEM  SOLVED,  THE,  772. 

Protection,  the  system  of,  in  the  United 
States,  221. 


Index. 


797 


Protestant  Belief  Bill,  a  (O'Dowd),  506. 
Prussia,   wages,    &c.,    of    agricultural 

labourers  in,  25 — the  Crown  Prince 

of,  at  the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal, 

93 — strength  of  her  fleet,  and  danger 

from  it,  769. 
Puritans,   the,   their  sumptuary  laws, 

477. 
Pyramids,  a  visit  to  the,  361  et  seq., 

364. 
RACE  AND  COLOUR,  THE  ANTAGONISM 

OF,  314. 
Radcliffe,  Mr  Delme",  his  answer  to  the 

Stowe  calumnies,  128. 
Rash  Investments,  on  some  (O'Dowd), 

501. 

Reade,  Charles,  the  novels  of,  647. 
Reconstructing  the  Edifice  (O'Dowd), 

379. 
Red  Indians,    how    regarded    by  the 

whites,    315    et  seq. — their    present 

state,  &c.,  318  et  seq. 
Reed,  Mr,    his  work  on  our  ironclad 

ships  reviewed,  706. 
Reformation,  the,  its  effect  as  regards 

the  Universities,  141,  142. 
Religion,  the  demand  for  its  exclusion 

from  the  Universities,  142  et  seq. 
Religious  difficulty,  the,  in  the  educa- 
tion question,  655  et  seq. 
Rhymed  verse,  inapplicable  to  comedy, 

RHYMED  VERSE  IN  COMEDY,  ON  THE 
EMPLOYMENT  or,  264. 

Richmond,  the  cemetery  of,  224. 

Robinson,  Admiral,  as  member  of  the 
Admiralty  Board,  763. 

Rossa,  O'Donovan,  his  election  for  Tip- 
perary,  499. 

Sabbath  observance,  the  modern  agita- 
tion regarding,  483. 

Sanding  the  Sugar,  on  (O'Dowd),  591. 

*  Saturday  Review,'  the,  on  the  Suez 
Canal,  183  note. 

Scilla,  Ruffo,  the  swindling  scheme  of, 
501. 

Scott,  W.  B.,  his  'Life,  &c.,  of  Diirer' 
reviewed,  630. 

Secularists,  their  cry  for  compulsory 
education,  653  et  seq. — their  views  on 
the  subject,  655  et  seq. 

Shir  Ali,  Amir  of  Afghanistan,  his 
meeting  with  Lord  Mayo  at  Umballa, 
circumstances  which  led  to  it,  &c., 
61  et  seq. 

Slander,  punishment  of,  by  the  Blue 
Laws,  480. 

Small  Clerical  Error,  a  (O'Dowd),  247. 

Small  properties,  Stuart  Mill's  advo- 
cacy of,  31 — results  of  the  system  as 
shown  in  France,  33,  35 — and  in  Bel- 
gium, 33  et  seq. 

Small  tenancies,  advantages  and  dis- 
advantages of,  37  ct  seq. 


Smedley,  Miss,  the  Poems  of,  reviewed, 
640. 

Smoking,  punishment  of,  by  the  Blue 
Laws,  480. 

Sologne,  the,  agricultural  wages,  &c.,  in, 
24. 

Southern  States,  Sir  C.  Dilke  on,  224— 
on  their  present  position,  225. 

Spain,  influence  of  the  Princesse  des 
Ursins  in,  421  et  seq. 

'STATE,  THE,  THE  POOR,  AND  THE  COUN- 
TRY,' 509. 

Stowe,  Mrs,  examination  of  her  Byron 
calumnies,  123  et  seq. ,  267. 

Suez,  arrival  and  sketches  at,  187  et 
seq. 

SUEZ  CANAL,  THE  OPENING  OF  THE— 
arrival,  85 — Port  Sa'id,  87 — reception 
in  the  Khedive's  yacht,  90— interest 
of  Egypt,  ib.  et  seq.  —  arrival  of  the 
French  empress,  91 — inauguration  of 
the  canal,  92 — anticipations,  95 — en- 
trance into  the  canal,  97 — a  stoppage, 
98— Lake  Timseh  and  Ismailia,  99 
—the  fresh- water  canal,  100,  101— an 
Arab  tournament,  102 — the  Khedive's 
ball,  ib.  Part  II.—  Mental  effect  of 
Egypt,  179 — the  voyage  continued, 
180 — a  stoppage,  ib. — the  scenery,  181 
— tone  of  the  English  press,  182  and 
note — the  Bitter  Lakes,  182 — a  race, 
183 — forebodings,  184 — a  last  dinner 
on  board,  185— the  Chalouf  cutting, 
186— arrival  at  Suez,  187— the  works 
there,  188— the  railway  station,  189 
— prospects  of  the  canal,  192  et  seq. 
— approach  to  Cairo,  194 — arrival 
there,  195— ball  at  the  palace,  196. 
Part  III.— A  rude  awaking,  352— 
sketches  in  Cairo,  357— the  jewellers' 
quarters,  359 — illuminations,  360 — 
visit  to  the  Pyramids,  361— a  ferry 
on  the  Nile,  362— the  Great  Pyra- 
mid, 364— Cairo  races,  367— the  pop- 
ulation, 368  —  the  citadel,  ib.  —  the 
mosques,  370 — the  bazaars,  ib. — the 
ruins  of  Hierapolis,  371 — the  rise  of 
the  Nile,  372— sketches  of  Alexan- 
dria, 374 — departure,  375. 

Sunday  schools,  importance,  &c.,of,  661. 

Swearing,  punishment  of,  by  the  Blue 
Laws,  481 

Talk-Gambits  (O'Dowd),  244. 

Temple,  Dr,  on  the  upper  and  lower 
classes,  247. 

'Times,'  the,  on  the  Suez  Canal,  183 
note. 

Timseh,  Lake,  on  the  Suez  Canal,  99. 

Tipperary  Answer,  the  (O'Dowd),  499. 

Torcy,  minister  of  Louis  XIV.,  418. 

Total  abstinence,  the  agitation  regard- 
ing, 483,  484  et  seq. 

Touraine,  agricultural  wages,  &c.,  in, 
24. 


798 


Index. 


TRADE-UNIONS,  554— Part  II.,  744. 

Tremouille,  Mademoiselle  de  la,  after- 
wards Princesse  des  Ursins,  sketch  of 
her  career,  415  et  seq. 

Trollope,  A.,  the  novels  of,  647. 

Tussoum,  station  of,  on  the  Suez  Canal, 
181. 

Two  Safe  Careers,  the  (O'Dowd),  596. 

Umballa  Durbar,  history  of  it,  the  cir- 
cumstances which  led  to  it,  &c., 
61  et  seq. 

United  States,  supremacy  of  protection 
in,  221 — probabilities  as  to  their  con- 
tinued union,  228  et  seq.  — present 
state  of  relations  with  the,  260— the 
antagonism  of  race  and  colour  in, 
314  et  seq. 

Universities,  movement  within  them 
regarding  tests,  139  —  their  origin, 
&c. ,  141 — change  at  the  Reformation, 
142 — the  demand  for  excluding  re- 
ligion from  them,  ib.  et  seq. — views 
of  the  Nonconformists,  143  et  seq. 

UNIVERSITY  TESTS,  139. 

URSINS,  THE  PRINCESSE  DES,  415. 


VALENTINE,  A,  1570,  376. 
Vivisection,  the  cruelties  of,  539. 
Voelcker,   Dr,  on  Belgian  agriculture, 
o4. 

'  WALPOLE,'  BY  LORD  LYTTON,  review 
of,  74. 

Walsingham,  his  scheme  for  entrapping 
Queen  Mary,  114  et  seq. 

Waste  lands,  the  improvement  of,  by 
tenant-farmers  and  peasant-proprie- 
tors, 37. 

Water,  the  supply  of,  to  Port  Said,  87. 

WATERLOO  CAMPAIGN,  MERCER'S  JOUR- 
NAL or  THE,  reviewed,  694 — the  bat- 
tle of,  701. 

Wellington,  notices  of,  during  the 
Waterloo  campaign,  695. 

'  Wenderholme, '  review  of,  649. 

Who's  afraid?  (O'Dowd),  240. 

WILSON,  DANIEL,  '  CHATTERTON  '  by, 
reviewed,  453. 

Words  without  Music  (O'Dowd),  237. 

Working  classes,  their  present  condi- 
tion, &c. ,  259. 

Zin,  the  wilderness  of,  98. 


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